_Mr. Philip De Lancaster in his Hotel at Lisbon receives the News of his
Lady’s Death, and is visited by Sir David Ap Owen. The Consequences of
that Interview are related._
If this letter was read by our hero with mixed impressions of vexation
and disgust it is little to be wondered at, for certainly no character
less extravagantly absurd than that of Philip could have dictated such a
narrative in a serious mood and without varying from the truth of fact.
The intelligence of his wife’s decease was now gone to him at Lisbon,
and the consequences, that might ensue from the fatal weakness of his
intellect and the interested cunning of the widow Owen were very
seriously to be apprehended.
His natural indolence still kept him a voluntary prisoner in his hotel
at Buenos Ayres and under the hands of his surgeon, though he had no
longer any need of surgical assistance. When Cecilia’s letter reached
his hands he was sitting, in all the costuma of a wounded invalid, in a
bed-gown and night-cap, with his leg, that, having once been bruised,
had not forfeited its privilege, resting on a stool provided with an
easy cushion. Having perused the contents, he deliberately folded up the
letter, laid it on the table before him, and, reclining back in his
chair, surrendered himself to a kind of drowsy meditation on the solemn
nature of the event, now communicated to him: at length, being in the
habit talking more confidentially to himself than to any other person,
he murmured out the following reflections, as they presented themselves
to his mind without order or connection.
“I thought she had not long to live. I was prepared for the event. It
was naturally to be expected, and Llewellyn himself seemed to cherish
very feeble hopes. Death is common; she is dead, and all the medicines
she has taken have been of no avail; even music could not save her.
Well! I have done my duty; witness the incredible pains and trouble I
have taken to seek out a suitable climate and commodious house for her
to winter in: one of these after infinite labour I had happily
discovered, and the other I was using unabating diligence to provide for
her. As things have turned out I might have spared myself this voyage;
but no matter--It is some consolation to reflect that I have done what
I could; and if my travels have not proved serviceable to her, for whose
sake I undertook them, they have not been totally unprofitable or
unpleasurable to me; for, with the exception only of the surfeit I got
of salt-fish, and the bruises I suffered by shipwreck, I passed my time
very comfortably at sea, and if I have not seen any thing worth my
notice on shore, I have been at least where it was to be seen, and that
is something for a man of curiosity like mine to reflect upon with
satisfaction. Now that I am a widower, and only in the noon of life,
people will be saying to me--Why don’t you marry again? This I am to
expect, but who can judge for me so well as I can for myself? Nobody
knows what matrimony is but those who have undergone the trial. A man
may risque it once in the way of an experiment, but to repeat it is a
sacrifice to posterity and a compliment to the sex, which I am not
disposed to make. No, no; I must not come on there any more. Let me do
Mrs. De Lancaster the justice to confess, that there was an
accommodating lassitude in her, a hypochondriac inertness, a congelation
of all the volatile humours, harmonizing so entirely with my feelings,
that I despair of finding any second wife so happily endowed; I dare not
trust myself with the widow Ap Owen: she has indeed many excellent
endowments; and in spite of all my family can say against her I will
maintain my opinion of her as a very elegant engaging woman, aye, and
one, that in many respects is entirely to my taste, but then (oh Heaven
and earth!) her eyes are so quick, her voice so shrill, her spirit so
high and her health alas! so alarmingly good, that I could never promise
myself a life of ease with her--No, no; she will not suit.”
Just as he had struck upon this ante-hymeneal sentiment Sir David Ap
Owen came into his room--I am this instant arrived from Cintra, he said,
where in the loveliest spot upon the habitable globe I have been
entertained in a princely style by a gentleman of the factory, Devereux
by name, diamond contractor with the court of Portugal, and universally
looked up to as a man nobly descended and of great wealth. He has one
son, who jointly conducts his business, and one daughter, who to the
recommendation of a very handsome person adds that of a very
considerable fortune: In short, I have some thoughts of the girl, and in
consequence of that idea have a small favour to require of you.
Name it, Sir David.
Simply to take an opportunity of calling on Mr. Devereux, and in the
course of conversation naturally to say, that you know me to be what I
am--A man of honour, fortune and of high respectability on the score of
family. This is what I want from you, friend Philip, and all I want from
any man. You know it to be true and of course will have no difficulty in
averring it. I am a stranger in this country: impostors have assumed
names and titles, and Devereux, being a trader, is a cautious man. Come,
sir, put on your clothes, and accompany me directly: my carriage is in
waiting: as for your leg, it has been well these three weeks.
But if I were to put on my clothes, Philip replied, I could not go out
in them, for I have no mourning, and by a letter from my sister, just
now received, I am informed that Mrs. De Lancaster is no more.
Dead; defunct?
Even so.
That is an event indeed of great importance. In one respect it liberates
you; in another it enthrals, and binds you to your promise.
I don’t rightly understand to what promise you allude.
Is it possible, rejoined Sir David, (his fierce eyes flashing as his
fury kindled) is it possible you can feign to forget the engagement you
are under to a lady, whom I have the honour of being related to, and
whose natural protector I am? If your memory, Mr. Philip, is of that
deceitful unretentive texture, you are indeed a true De Lancaster. But
make good your engagement out of hand: a lady’s honour may not be
trifled with. The inveterate animosity of your rancorous son, so called,
and the injurious charges he has fostered, forged, and urged against me
in my absence, have this morning been reported to me by my agent at
Penruth. They are such as he must answer and atone for, unless you by
fulfilling your solemn promise to my mother, shall interpose your
fatherly mediation and heal the else irreparable breach between our
families.
It is not my fault, Philip calmly replied; for all the world knows me to
be a man of peace and quiet; but as to healing breaches in the manner
you prescribe, give me leave to observe, Sir David, that it is a very
early day for me to be thinking of a second wife before I have yet put
on mourning for my first.
Yet, sir, you must think of it, reiterated Sir David, (elevating his
voice) and seriously too, though I shall not hurry you in the execution
of it. You shall have time to mourn, if that be what you wish for; but
my spirit has been much too deeply galled by the son to bear any
aggravation from the gentleman, who allows himself to be called the
father--Therefore in one word--Your bond, sir, to my mother, or your
blood.--There is but this alternative: so take your choice.
You will give me time, Sir David, to deliberate upon this.
Just as much time, Mr. Philip De Lancaster, as it will cost my lawyer to
write out the bond. I will call upon you before two hours are past.
With these threatening words the loud-tongued bravo bolted out of the
room--Mercy on me, exclaimed the affrighted Philip, what shall I do now,
hedged in as I am between matrimony and murder?