_Our Hero imparts to Amelia Jones his Purpose of setting off for
Portugal._
When Mr. De Lancaster and the Wilsons had departed and left our hero
alone, his heart, which conversation and the flow of Major Wilson’s
spirits had upheld, now sunk within him, for it was not alone Cecilia’s
tender fears, Amelia’s sorrows threw a sadness over him. He knew that he
would find her with his aunt and Mrs. Jennings in their morning room;
but how to draw her from them and unburden his heart to her in private
was the question. He walked up to the gallery, with which their room
communicated, and in passing the door took care his steps upon the
dry-rubbed oaken floor should give a signal, that might reach the ear
of his beloved; it being now about the time for them to take their usual
walk together.
Hark! said Amelia; sure my ear deceives me, or that is Mr. John De
Lancaster, whom I hear in the gallery.
I believe your ear is very correct, said Cecilia; it is my nephew’s
step; but go out, my dear, and see: perhaps he wishes you to walk with
him this fine day. Mrs. Jennings and I will finish what we are about,
and postpone our walk till by-and-bye.
Amelia did not long delay to obey so pleasant an injunction. She sallied
from the room as quick as thought--I guessed that it was you, she cried,
as she went up to him, and held out her hand. Your aunt, who is all
kindness, sent me to you. If you like a walk, I am ready, ’Tis a
charming day.
Yes, and that voice is charming, he replied; that sweet inviting smile
enchants a heart, that fondly doats upon you: but we won’t walk, Amelia;
at least not yet; for I have news from Lisbon, from my father, not of a
pleasant sort I must confess: and if you will trust yourself with me in
this room, which is my study, and where nobody will interrupt us, I wish
to discourse with you upon it in private--They immediately entered the
room, and, being seated, John began as follows--
Amelia, it is my unhappy lot to have a father, who brings shame upon me,
and seems to feel none for himself; in whom, with sorrow I am forced to
say, I cannot trace one spark of manly resolution, or the sense of what
becomes a gentleman to feel. You, on the contrary, amongst the many
excellencies you possess, and I am wanting in, have the advantage also
to be born of parents, though now no more, of whom you may be justly
proud. Judge therefore, my Amelia, how incumbent it must be on me, whose
greatest ambition is to approve myself not quite unworthy of your
esteem, to support, as far as I am able, the credit of a name, which I
am presumptuous enough to hope you will one day condescend to share. My
father calls on me for my assistance; he conjures me to come and
extricate him from a disgraceful contract, fraudulent upon the face of
it, with those Ap Owens; which if I fail to do, he marries that detested
villain’s mother, insults the memory of your newly-buried friend, and
blasts a name, that never yet was stained.
Married! she cried; your father, and the son of that good man, whom
every one reveres, married so hastily, so rashly, so unworthily! It must
not be.
True, my Amelia. Look upon this relick, which gives the image of your
gallant father, and to which your piety allots that envied station
nearest to your heart; then, tell me, what would that brave hero say, if
I, aspiring to his daughter’s love, should scruple to obey the call of
honour: Would he not bid me go and save a father?
He was the friend, that upon such an errand would not have suffered you
to go forth alone.
And such a friend I have in Edward Wilson; he is resolved to bear me
company. Devereux returns with me, and in his house I find a family of
friends: Nay, my good fortune seems resolved to give me a host of
friends, for Henry, our old Colonel’s eldest son, whom in himself I may
account a host, is now upon his way to join his regiment in Lisbon, and
goes with us. Thus am I trebly furnished with companions. What has my
dear Amelia now to fear, if thus befriended, thus accompanied, and
sanctioned not by the consent alone, but the command of my good
grandfather, I go where duty calls me? Now, my angel!--And, saying this,
he clasped her in his arms. Where can thy gentle spirit apprehend one
distant chance of danger to alarm it? What can my lovely, my betrothed
Amelia, oppose to the necessity, painful although it is, of a short
absence from her?
Nothing; for the decree is absolute, and what am I but a devoted
creature whose heart is wholly your’s? Nothing remains for me to do, but
to return you my unbounded thanks for all your goodness, and especially
for condescending to impart these tidings, sad as they are, in this
considerate manner to me, who in your absence can expect to live but in
the hope that we shall meet again. I see, I know, I feel that we must
part.
Here her voice failing for a while she seemed quite overcome by sorrow,
till her tears relieved her; and at length, turning a look upon her
anxious lover, that spoke a conscious dignity of mind, she rose and
said--I am ashamed of this unworthy weakness. I know I ought not to
bewail, but greet, the opportunity, that does you honour. To deserve a
hero I must not show the softness of a child--Come, let us walk. I feel
assurance of a happy issue. When you go forth upon the summons of a
helpless father, I trust that Providence will be your guard: It were a
sin to doubt it--This said, she gave her hand to him, and smiled: He
pressed it to his heart, and thus, endeared each to the other in the
purest sense of virtue’s chaste affection, forth they went--
* * * * *
I am ill at these descriptions: I confess it. Seventy years and seven,
with clouds that hang upon my setting sun, will chill the brain, that
should devise scenes and descriptions warm with youthful love. Still the
chaste maiden and the prudent wife shall turn these leaves with no
revolting hand, nor blush for having read them. The friend of man will
find no fault with me for having given a dark shade here and there upon
my canvass to set off and contrast the brighter tints and nobler
attributes of human nature. Whether in novel, drama or in poem, I love
the mirror, that presents mankind in amiable lights; nor can I think
that frowns or wrinkles are a mark of wisdom; or that asperity becomes
the face of critic or philosopher.
Whilst I write this, my grandson, a brave youth, of six years service in
the royal navy, born, as I vainly hoped, to grace my name, and
recompense the cares, that I bestowed upon his education, lies (as
’twere before me) dead and as yet unburied: Whilst I not only mourn his
loss, but feel his wrongs, of which the world must hear, if the appeal,
that he had made to justice, is cut short by his untimely death.
Where then can a heart-wounded man, like me, find comfort but with that
beloved daughter, to whom I gave the memoirs of my life, and who still
lives to cheer its short remains? To her I dedicate this humble work;
for these repeated testimonies of my love, are all the inheritance I can
bequeath her, all my hard fortune hath not wrested from me.
END OF THE FIRST BOOK.
BOOK THE SECOND.
CHAPTER I.
_Morgan of Glen Morgan arrives at Kray Castle._
The preparations, requisite for John De Lancaster’s departure,
necessarily involved a delay of some two or three days, and every hand,
as well as every heart, was occupied in that interesting business. The
cheerfulness of Major Wilson kept up the spirits of the ladies, except
upon one occasion, when he launched out so vehemently in his description
of Miss Devereux’s charms, that, if he had not been so wholly taken up
with his subject, he might have discovered one countenance at least in
the circle of his hearers, that was not much enlivened by his raptures.
In the afternoon a messenger from Glen Morgan arrived with the following
letter addressed to Colonel Wilson--
“Dear Colonel,
“My gout has left me, and if he never troubles me with his company
again, he has my free leave to keep away. I meditate to take
advantage of his absence, and pay a visit to my good brother at the
castle before his dinner hour to-morrow, _Deo volente_. I shall
bring my live-lumber Mother Richards in the coach with me, as her
small wits just serve her to descant with due precision upon warm
nightcaps and a well-aired bed: she will pester the poor folks in
the castle with her clack, but I shall profit by her care; and you
know there is not a more selfish fellow living than your humble
servant. As my rascally passion for hoarding money has no longer
any object, since you won’t help me off with any of my savings, I
shall tack two more dog horses to my scurvy team, and come in state
like Sir Francis Wronghead, with Giles Joulter riding postillion:
the cattle will get a belly-full in De Lancaster’s stables, and
that is what they don’t often meet with in their own. I have bought
a flaming fine watch of a pedling Jew, which I dare say won’t go;
but it will do for Amelia Jones, if she behaves well, and does not
slight me for that puppy John, for whom I do not care a rush, as
you well know, having lived in solitude till I am unfit for
society, and as cold at heart as the top of a Welch mountain. I am
very glad my brother Lancaster has so much abated of his learned
dissertations, for I have no reading beyond that of a trumpery
story book, and am in as profound a state of blessed ignorance, as
any gentleman in Wales can boast of. Yet Robert surely is an
incomparable man; his honour is so nice, his nature so divine, that
I am almost ready to adore him till he talks Greek, and then it’s
over with me; I know no more of the matter than a blind man does of
colours.
“Your son Edward is the very _beauty of holiness_: he not only does
faithful service to religion by the strong reasoning powers of his
mind, but renders it lovely by the gracefulness of his manners. My
spiritual pastor and teacher takes quite as much care of his own
body, as he does of my soul: he is silent at his meals, but loud in
talk and positive in argument, when he has satisfied his craving:
He can’t keep his temper at backgammon, when the dice go against
him; yet if I ever slip out a hard word, as we soldiers are too apt
to do, he takes up their cause at once and sermonizes against
swearing. I don’t think this is quite fair; for he swallows his
oaths out of compliment to his cloth, and I from the habits of mine
make it a point of honour to say nothing behind a gentleman’s back
that I won’t say before his face. One day by chance he had not
dined with me, and I sent to him to come and read the evening
prayers to my crew of sinners as usual; for which, by the way, I
pay him an annual stipend: He sent for answer it was not his custom
to turn out after dinner; he has never had it in his power to make
that excuse again, and of course has regularly lulled dame Richards
and the old butler to sleep with his soporiferous homily as surely
as the evening comes. I do not think there is in existence a worse
enemy to edification than metheglin.
“Lord have mercy on me, what a household of idlers do I keep! I
would make a total reform in my family, if I could flatter myself
that I should live to reap the benefit of it; but that is not upon
the chances, and I am such a lazy blockhead, so mere a caput
mortuum, that I let them work their own will, and am content to lie
at my length, like Sampson’s lion, for the bees to make honey in my
carcase.
“You must be sure to lay me at the feet of the divine Cecilia; for,
if you don’t do it for me, I can’t do it for myself: I am quite as
inflexible as the wax-work in Fleet-street; attempt to bend me, and
I break asunder. I am absolutely good for nothing, and I dare say
the gout only left me because there was no credit to be got by
killing me: That same _podagra_ is a purse-proud sycophant, and if
he stoop to kiss your toe, were you the pope himself, he will make
you pay dear for the compliment.
“I suppose you wonder why I write to you so long a letter--so do I;
but though it wearies you with nonsense, it winds up with a truth,
when I profess myself your cordial friend
and faithful servant
JOHN MORGAN.”
When this letter had been read to De Lancaster, joy brightened in his
hospitable countenance: his orders circulated through the Castle for all
things and all people to be put in order to pay proper honours to his
expected visitor. He commented with great good humour upon some
passages in the letter, that seemed to strike his fancy--Though the good
man, he said, is so shy of what he calls my learned disquisitions, I
believe it is only a copy of his countenance, for in fact he is no mean
scholar; but we will muzzle the learned languages, and trust to nothing
but our mother tongue; so take notice, my good Colonel, you will incur
heavy penalties if you give us any of your heathen Greek, whilst my
brother Morgan is in the house.
And if I do when he is out of it, replied the Colonel, I’ll give you
leave to hang me.
The next morning when the sun turned out upon the mountain tops, so did
the whole Castle garrison from their sky-chambers on the turret tops,
and gave cheerful note of preparation--Not indeed by _the armourers
accomplishing the knights_, but by the warders and liverymen brushing
up their orange tawnies, and by the squeaking of the pigs and quacking
of ducks, that came unwillingly to be killed and roasted, whilst the
mute inhabitants of the waters resigned themselves to their fate without
a murmur.
When the family assembled in the breakfast-room, the Colonel appeared in
his uniform, not quite in its first bloom, nor altogether in the last
cut of the fashion; whilst Major Wilson, bright as bullion could make
him, was perfectly caparisoned for court or camp. This ceremonious kind
of etiquette, now thought troublesome and thrown by as obsolete, was
understood by the family of Kray Castle as an acceptable attention to
the good old lord of the soil upon certain gala days, when he was
anxious to receive a visitor with particular respect.
When the approach of Morgan of Glen Morgan was descried from the castle
windows, and the green and red liveries began to show their colours in
the sunbeams, the alarm bell sounded, the servants mustered in the
gothic hall, and David Williams seated himself on his tripod. Coaches
were not made, as they are now, to accommodate the horses that draw
them, but with due regard to the ease and safety of the company, who
were conveyed in them. Old Morgan of course made his landing good, and
found himself in the arms of his venerable host, surrounded by his
friends, all emulous to greet him with a welcome.
As he leant upon the arms of De Lancaster and his grandson in his
passage through the hall, he stopped and looked about him--This is
wonderful, he cried; this is above hope, that I should find myself once
more under the protection of these hospitable lares. Alas, when I had
the honour of your company at Glen-Morgan, I little thought of making
any other visit but to the place, from which no traveller returns.
Providence has decreed it otherwise--Well, well, well! a man must have a
stubborn heart, that could not find some cause to be thankful, when a
blessing, such as I am now enjoying is vouchsafed to him. Take notice,
brother De Lancaster, I understand my own unworthiness too well to
intrude upon Heaven’s mercy with many petitions, but I hope I am not
altogether deficient in my thanksgivings. He then addressed himself to
some of the old domestics, as he passed them, and particularly to David
Williams, whom he greeted cordially and with much respect.
When he entered the drawing-room he turned to Cecilia and said--I now
consider myself within the territory and under the command of the most
amiable lady living. I shall add no grace to you, madam, as a courtier,
but as a subject none can be more loyal. In this manner he paid his
compliments round the circle, reserving his last and most affectionate
address for his grandson, who, having risen from his seat, whilst his
grandfather was speaking to him, when he had concluded, went up to him,
and bending his knee, took his hand to kiss it. The action was
irresistably affecting, and the old man fell upon his neck and wept. The
stillness and silence of the company whilst this was passing made the
scene more awful and impressive: At length the good old man, rallying
his spirits, thus addressed his grandson--I know, my child, that you
are going out of England; therefore it is I am come to take my leave of
you; I also know your motive to be truly filial, and of course agree
entirely with your worthy grandfather in approving of your undertaking.
It is your duty, it is your point of honour, and you have no choice but
to obey. Being a selfish pitiful kind of fellow, perhaps I was a little
shaken, when I heard of it; so to put myself in heart again, I gave out
marching orders, and penned a pacquet to my old comrade the Colonel, in
which I did not treat him with one word of common sense. Now therefore,
John, I am come for other purposes than to whine and whimper, because
forsooth you are going to make a short excursion in good and gallant
company, where I wish I was going with you: but as I can’t do that, I
come to see you and your comrades start, and after you are gone drink to
your good voyage in a glass of old Madeira, and perhaps if my good
friend here is not tired of my dull company, I may intrude upon his
hospitality, and wait till you return.
Say you so? cried De Lancaster: then I pronounce you to be the kindest
friend and the noblest ancient Briton, that draws the breath of life on
this side of the Wye--Now tell old David to strike up a welcome in his
best bravura.
CHAPTER II.
_Treats of what passed at Kray Castle in the Evening of the Day before
John De Lancaster’s Departure._
The dinner was not only elegant but sumptuous. Sir Arthur Floyd and two
or three more neighbours of respectability had dropped in most
opportunely to complete the party and divert the conversation from
domestic topics.
When the ladies had retired, and the glass gone gaily round, Morgan
desired to be heard upon a matter of some consequence. Gentlemen, he
said, I reside as you well know, in the near neighbourhood of Denbigh,
and I have had notice given me by the corporation of that borough, that
their worthy representative is at the point of death. I never cultivated
any interest there, and have no great property either in or about the
place. Nevertheless in their free good will to me, (though for what one
merit on my part they bear me that good will neither they nor I can
guess) they offer to elect the friend, whom I shall recommend. They wish
my grandson De Lancaster was of age to represent them, as they hold him
high in honour for the generous part he took in poor Ap Rees’s
melancholy case. I thanked them, but had nobody in my view. As they were
anxious to mark their abhorrence of a certain young baronet, who had
been soliciting their support, this answer of mine did not satisfy them,
but they would needs have me refer myself to my brother-in-law Mr. De
Lancaster, now in the chair beside me; which of course I promised to do,
and now fulfil my word. This I stated to him in a few words before
dinner, and had his permission to call upon him, as I now do, for his
answer.
I have not a moment’s hesitation, De Lancaster replied, what to answer;
for in the person of my friend Sir Arthur Floyd, luckily here present, I
recognize every quality, that can constitute a character at all points
worthy of their choice--an active magistrate, an honourable gentleman, a
loyal subject, an able incorrupt and independent senator.
Before the baronet could reply, a joyous shout from our young hero John,
followed by a general plaudit of hands, seemed to leave Sir Arthur
without the power of recollection, or the privilege of choice.
At length he rose, and, after bowing to Mr. De Lancaster and the
company, he said--I have occasion to know, that the unworthy nephew,
(with whose name I will not stain my lips) of a worthy baronet lately
deceased, had pointed his ambition and directed all his resources to the
attainment of this object, now so unexpectedly and beyond my hopes
proposed to me, and seconded by an applause, that must ever follow what
that gentleman says, even when he deigns to take so humble an individual
as myself for his subject. But as I have hitherto been known as of the
party and politics of that person before alluded to, now become so
abandoned and so despicable, I will on no account accept the support of
any one voter for the borough of Denbigh, until it is clearly and
distinctly ascertained in the most public manner, that I offer myself
upon principles directly opposite to those of that expatriated villain,
(I can call him nothing less,) and that I put my honour and my pledge
into the hands of Mr. De Lancaster, as my friend, my sponsor and my
patron.
This handsome declaration produced a second and a louder applause, and
that called up Sir Arthur Floyd once more from his seat to return his
thanks to the company and at the same time to remind them of their duty
to the ladies, humbly proposing, with Mr. De Lancaster’s permission, an
adjournment to the drawing-room: upon which gallant and well-timed
appeal, the company with prompt obedience rose, and left the table.
This was the time when every one was solicitous to approach and pay
their homage to Cecilia De Lancaster; here, like Cato’s daughter, she
presided--
“Whilst winning mildness and attractive smiles
“Dwelt in her eyes, and with becoming grace
“Softened the rigor of her father’s virtue--”
On one side of her sate the sage preceptress of the young and blooming
Amelia, who, on the other side, assisted in the elegant ministration of
those lady-like offices, which it was not then the custom to transfer to
a domestic. The refreshments of the tea-table came recommended to our
lips from the fair hands of the lady president, who delicately
distinguished every person’s right, and without confusion of property
guarded his exclusive cup, and faithfully returned it to the owner: Now
some snuffy hectick house-keeper huddles all together, and
indiscriminately serves out the messes, hot or cold, strong or weak, as
chance directs, to be handed round the room for those, who chuse to try
their luck in a lottery of hot water, very little better than poor
Timon’s dinner to his disappointed parasites.
As soon as this ceremony was over the folding doors of the drawing-room
were thrown open, and David Williams, led by his son bearing his harp,
and in his habit of office, entered and took the post prepared for him:
he paused and reached out his hand to the seat beside him, as if waiting
for some one else. When immediately old Robin Ap Rees in a mourning vest
with black crape sleeves to the elbows only, and bound about his waist
with a sash of the same stuff, but without medal, or any professional
badge, that could mark him as the bard of the Ap Owens, approached and
made a profound obeisance in the door-way. Upon his appearing every
heart was touched: his tall spare figure, drooping head and shrivelled
arms, with the pale hue of his woe-stricken visage, might have softened
the iron heart of Gallia’s savage tyrant; can we then wonder if the
generous bosoms of those assembled felt that soft impression, which
Nature’s poet terms _the every dint of pity_?
John, who alone was in the secret of his coming, had whispered Amelia
and his aunt to prepare themselves for his appearance. He now rose, and
took the blind bard by the hand to lead him to his seat, when, upon his
grandfather beginning to speak, he stopped, and whilst Ap Rees turned
respectfully towards the voice that addressed him, Mr. De Lancaster
delivered himself as follows--
My good old friend, and favourite of the Muse, to whom I am beholden for
so many tuneful hours, it is now with mixed sensations of satisfaction
and sorrow, that I greet you with a welcome, and assure you that the
friendship and protection, which my grandson shows you, have my warmest
approbation and most cordial concurrence. Your worthiness, your genius,
your afflictions claim his compassionate regard and care. I take this
visit, that you pay us on the eve of his departure, as a tribute of your
esteem, which I am persuaded has cost you some painful efforts to pay,
and which I am not less satisfied is considered and appretiated by him
as it ought to be. I see you have brought your harp, and my minstrel
David Williams, who honours and admires you, will gladly either take a
part with you, where the strain allows of it, or listen to you with
delight, if you rather wish to treat us with some melody of your own.
Respected sir, Ap Rees replied, my natural wish would be to edify in
silence, whilst my superior (such I am conscious Mr. Williams is)
exhibited that excellence, which has no rival; in me at least that rival
is not found. But, Sir, there stands beside me one--would I could see
him!--an exalted being, endowed by nature with such blessed properties,
that, but to guess at what he wishes done and not to do it, would be in
me, who live upon his bounty, and may be said almost to breathe his air,
a sin of such ingratitude as yet no name is found for, and I hope no
instance ever will occur to put invention to that lamentable test. Your
grandson, Heaven preserve him, willed me to string my tuneless harp
afresh, and second Mr. Williams in a strain, melodiously adapted to the
words which he will chaunt.
To this of course the assent was universal. The sightless brethren put
their harps in time: Ap Rees enriched the strain with his harmonious
chords, whilst Williams led and sung, as here ensues--
“Fearless of danger, I prepare to roam
O’er seas, whose angry billows rage and foam;
An amulet there is, that guards my breast,
Whose power can charm the loudest storm to rest.
It is the image of my darling maid,
An image by no mortal hand pourtray’d;
Love, the great master, grav’d it on my heart,
And, ere time mars it, life and I must part.
Is it for loss of me that I descry
That tearful cherub in my fair-one’s eye?
Believe it, Love, we part to meet again,
And purchase years of bliss with hours of pain.
Full well I know what title he must prove,
Whose hope aspires to gain an angel’s love;
Therefore I go, though fond affection pleads,
Where duty warns me, and where honour leads.
Farewell to all that’s good and all that’s dear!
Vice hath no pow’r that Virtue ought to fear:
Link’d to my home, whatever course I take,
The chain may lengthen, but can never break.”
If our hero John was, as I suspect, the author of these lines, it is
plain he was more in love with his mistress, than his muse was with her
poet: But young men are very apt to scratch, when the itch of scribbling
is upon them.
CHAPTER III.
_Our Hero takes his Departure from Kray Castle._
Amelia, who had counted every hour during a sleepless melancholy night,
rose with the break of day, and light of foot, though with a heavy
heart, flitted along the gallery in the dusk, and gently tapping at the
chamber door, where John and she had mutually agreed to pass a parting
hour, was instantly admitted by her lover, accoutered for his journey.
Of this scene I must decline to attempt a description. I could say
nothing new to such of my readers, who know by experience how
exquisitely pure those feelings are, which virtuous love inspires; and
on such, as have not that experience, my labour would be lost. In short
it was an interview between two young persons, firmly affianced and
fondly attached to each other, and how delicately that must pass, which
honour conducts on one part, and innocence on the other, there needs no
ghost to tell us.
In the breakfast-room the whole family were assembled. In the
countenances of the several parties any man of common sagacity might
have read the several feelings. Old De Lancaster struggled hard to
maintain a firm and dignified tranquillity, and if he did at any time
betray symptoms of occasional embarrassment, it was only to show that
his philosophy did not absolutely desert him. The person, whose thoughts
seemed to be most disengaged, was the gallant Major, who just then had
the most to do; for the ordering and arranging of the whole cavalcade
had been assigned over to him, and the alacrity, with which he executed
his authority over men, horses and carriages, left him no time for those
tender sentiments and concerns, that seemed to occupy every body else.
Life and spirit animated him; silence and sadness dwelt on all the rest.
Here was an opportunity for an orator to avail himself of, and an
audience to his heart’s content most happily disposed to hear him: but
Mr. De Lancaster let it go by for reasons no doubt best known to
himself. He did indeed take occasion to impart a few words to Edward
Wilson when he came into the room; but they were only for his private
ear. The ladies kept their station in the back ground, and as much out
of sight as they could contrive. Devereux had very sensibly committed
his adieus to paper, and left them in the hands of Mr. De Lancaster’s
servant to be delivered to him at his better leisure. At length Major
Wilson in a sprightly tone announced all ready; Devereux’s travelling
coach was first at the door, and appointed to lead; himself with John
and the two Wilsons were by the major’s order billeted upon it; our hero
halted a few minutes, after his companions had taken leave, to bid
farewell to the beloved objects of his duty and affection; after which,
having presented himself at the door of the coach, where his three
friends were already seated, he made his parting acknowledgments to the
crowd, who were invoking blessings in his behalf; and passed the outward
gate of the castle with those sensations and in that kind of triumph,
which only virtue can deserve, and gratitude alone bestow.
When Colonel Wilson, who had gone to the hall-door with his sons,
returned to the breakfast-room, the ladies had departed, and he found
the two grandfathers left in silent sadness to themselves. De Lancaster
was in a meditative posture, with his elbow rested on the arm of his
chair, and his head reclined upon his hand. Poor old Morgan was wetting
a crust of bread with his tears, whilst he was mumbling it with his
teeth. When he had pretty nearly settled the controversy between
swallowing, coughing and choaking, he turned a look upon Wilson, and
said--
Brother soldier, there is nothing in this world, for which I so much
envy you as for that piece of wood, that you wear as a supplement to
your composition, and is one part of you at least, which is totally
devoid of feeling. I always knew you were what we call heart of oak, but
I did not till now know that you had an oaken heart. Look at me. Did you
ever see such a blubbering beast as I have made of myself? By the life
of me, Wilson, you are a fine gay fellow, and can have neither water in
your head, nor water at your heart, else methinks you would have pumped
up some of it upon this occasion. May I perish, if I don’t suspect you
have got an hydrophobia in your eyes: at least, I am sure you will
never die of Niobe’s disease--all tears.
I hope not, Colonel Wilson replied; yet to such tears as you shed I
cannot object, forasmuch as they convince me I was not mistaken, when I
set you down as a very tender-hearted man, though you was pleased to
represent yourself as something without any heart at all. When I now
find you weeping without cause; what would you do, if you had cause?
Why, man, you would drown yourself in tears. Old fellows like me rarely
out-live old habits, let them live as long as they may. I have been a
poor soldier at the command of other people, and bandied up and down,
all my life long. If I had wit enough to understand my duty, I never
wanted will to undertake it; in this light I look upon this trip of your
grandson’s as a call of duty made upon him by his father, who according
to the laws of nature is properly his commanding officer, though Heaven
know he is as little proper for a command as any non-effective officer
can be, though you rummaged the whole shelf to search for him. And now
give me leave, my good friend, to ask you, whether you lament over his
absence because he is out upon his duty, or because he can’t go there
and stay here at one and the same time. Convince me only that he went
away from us when he might honourably have staid at home, and I will own
you have good reason to lament his absence. In the mean time I confess
to you that I do not conceive our dear John De Lancaster to be more in
the way of danger upon this expedition, and with those friends, than he
would be on his horse’s back on a chace after a paltry fox, which it is
no part of his duty to pursue, nor any proof of his merit to overtake.
Whilst the Colonel had been thus haranguing, Mr. De Lancaster had
shifted his meditative posture, and paid attention to what was passing:
He now took up the argument, and replied--Enough said, my good Colonel,
enough said! You have a right to argue for duty, having yourself
uniformly obeyed and fulfilled it, as an officer and a gentleman. My
brother Morgan does not want to be convinced that his grandson is gone
upon an honourable errand; but you are well aware, that the painful and
enfeebling illness, with which he has been visited, will naturally shake
even the firmest and the bravest spirit.
In my own particular I am not a man prone to shed tears: If I were, I
confess to you, Colonel Wilson, I should be sooner thrown into the
melting mood by the contemplation of a generous act, or noble sentiment,
than by the pathos of a tragedy, or the pity-moving lamentations of a
desponding lover, or a whining mendicant.
A servant now delivered the letter Devereux had left for Mr. De
Lancaster, who read as follows.--
“Sir,
“The hospitality and kindness I have experienced at Kray-Castle
have made an impression on my mind, that can never be obliterated.
The purposes of my coming to England have been completely obtained,
and I am now returning to my family fully armed with evidence, not
only to rescue them from any chance of a disgraceful connection,
but also prepared to co-operate with your amiable grandson and his
friends in their measures for averting the like disgrace from you
and your respectable and ancient house. Believe me, Sir, this will
be a task, that can involve no representative of your’s in either
difficulty or danger; for I can confidently assure you that upon my
father’s statement of the case to the minister of Portugal, that
court will not permit a fugitive from the laws of his country, more
especially a British subject, to avail himself of its protection
for escaping with impunity; much less will it be allowed him to
enforce a bond illegally obtained for purposes the most
inadmissible and outrageously unfair.
“As I have sent letters to announce our coming, I am sure my father
and friends will be on the shore to receive Mr. John De Lancaster
upon his landing, and will immediately conduct him and his whole
party to our house in Lisbon, where no attention will be omitted,
that can mark their sensibility of the abundant favours I have
received from you and your’s, which must ever be remembered with
the utmost gratitude by him, who is with profound respect, Sir,
your much obliged and
most devoted servant,
GEORGE FREDERICK DEVEREUX.”
CHAPTER IV.
_Our Hero arrives at Lisbon. Is hospitably received by the Father of
young Devereux; accompanies him to his House: What there occurs is
related._
We must now attend upon the travellers, to whom no circumstance occurred
upon their journey worth relating, and who, after an expeditious and
safe voyage, with fair wind and favourable weather, dropped anchor in
the Tagus, and were quickly visited by Mr. Devereux the father, who came
on board, whilst his barge and rowers, handsomely appointed, waited
alongside.
Upon the first sight of this gentleman, John De Lancaster eagerly
enquired for his father, and why he did not come off from the shore: the
answer was that his situation just then did not admit of it.
He is ill, said De Lancaster.
Indeed he is far from well, rejoined the other.
May I not go off to him directly?
The officers of health are on board, said Mr. Devereux; but I have
obtained leave to bring you on shore directly: Your friends however and
servants must put up with a short detention, till certain forms are
dispensed with. John De Lancaster, conducted by Mr. Devereux,
immediately went over the ship’s side, and the barge pushed off for the
landing-place.
Tell me, I conjure you, sir, said our hero, the truth without reserve,
in what situation I am to find my father, and believe me, Mr. Devereux,
whatever that may be, though I have a heart to feel it as a son, I trust
I have a proper sense of my duty to meet the dispensation as I ought.
Your father is not dead, Devereux replied, although I must not disguise
from you that his life is despaired of. He has been infamously treated,
and, as it is presumed, unfairly wounded, either by some hired assassin
or by Sir David Ap Owen, with whom the unhappy gentleman, it seems, had
been induced to trust himself, and turn out alone to settle their
differences by a duel. This is all we can at present collect of an
affair, that has a very black appearance. Suspicion is strong against Ap
Owen, who has absconded, and the ministers of justice are sent out in
all directions after him. He is not yet discovered; and your poor
father, who is now attended by his surgeons in my house, I am sorry to
say, is in no capacity of giving us any information, his senses being
totally deranged.
To this De Lancaster for a few minutes was in no condition to make
answer, but put up his hand to his eyes, and suffered grief to overpower
him. The barge now approached the landing place, where Devereux’s
carriage was in waiting. Our hero rallied his spirits, landed from the
barge with an assumed composure, took his seat in the coach, and soon
found himself at the door of a magnificent house in the great square,
that opens to the river.
Ushered by his friendly host through a noble hall, John De Lancaster
ascended the stairs, and cautiously entered the chamber, where his
father was lying on a couch, at the side of which a young lady was
standing, who made a sign for him to stop. It was the daughter of Mr.
Devereux, and by the faint light, that was admitted into the chamber,
the elegance of her form struck on the instant with such a resemblance
to the image ever present to his mind, that in the agitation of the
moment the words involuntarily escaped him in a murmur loud enough for
her to hear--Heaven defend me, is it my Amelia, or some sister angel,
that I see?--Alas, she said, ’twould be an angel’s office to afford you
comfort; for human help I fear is all in vain--He bowed, and approached
the couch.
A death-like insensibility, though not death itself, seemed to have
locked up all the vital powers of the unhappy object, which to behold,
now chilled the filial heart of our afflicted hero. He took his father’s
hand, and turning to the lady by his side--It is not absolutely cold, he
said, nor is his pulse quite gone. If I could waken him from this morbid
trance, and get him once to turn his eyes upon me, I think that he would
know me.
Try it, she said; and speak to him. Perhaps your voice may rouse him:
Our’s have no effect.
Father! he cried, my father, do you hear me? I am your son. I am come
to visit you; to comfort you, to avenge you. Look on me; recollect me!
it is I; ’tis John De Lancaster, who speaks to you.
The filial voice awakened him; the animating call stayed the emancipated
spirit, even in the act of parting on its flight, and Death, at Nature’s
privileged appeal still to be heard, forbore to stop the pulses of the
heart, and gave the reinstated senses once more use of their suspended
functions.
When Maria Devereux saw this, she exclaimed--He lives; he stirs! Let in
more light, that he may see his son.
The dying father had now unclosed his eyes, and the wild ghastly stare,
with which at first he fixed them on his son, as his mind gained its
recollecting power, softened, and by degrees assumed a look, indicative
of that intelligence, that gleam of satisfaction and delight, which in
his mercy God sometimes vouchsafes, when he releases his afflicted
creatures, and calls them to his peace from persecution and a world of
woe.
At length a voice, yet audible, exclaimed--My son, my son! I see you,
hear you: You are come to close your father’s eyes--May Heaven reward
you for it! Ah John, John, I am murdered, basely murdered.--Here he
checked, and straggled hard for words. At length he faintly cried, Reach
me a cordial; let me wet my throat, and I’ll relate it to you.
Maria, who stood ready on the watch, quickly presented him the cordial
draught. He made signs to be raised up in his couch: It was providently
so constructed as to effect what he wished for without disturbance of
his person, or alteration of his posture. The fair hand, that brought
it, lifted it to his lips; (it is to female feeling and compassion that
we must look for offices like these in our last moments.) Philip felt
the kindness--Bless you! he cried, and drank what she bestowed to the
last drop: the comfort, that it gave him, was immediate: his eyes, which
now he turned upon his son, appeared to brighten, and he thus addressed
him--
Oh! now I see you clearly and distinctly: now I perceive that power is
mercifully granted me to recollect and tell you my sad story. I will be
brief however, for I feel that this reprieve is only for a time: Now
listen therefore, and record my words--When that Ap-Owen, that atrocious
villain, heard you were coming over, he called upon me, and with furious
threats demanded of me instantly to wed the base-born woman, whom he
calls his mother, or satisfy the bond. ’Twas then, though much too late,
I recollected what was due from a De Lancaster, and shortly told him
that his threats were vain; I would do neither: I abhorred a duel, as he
well knew, but I would sooner die than stain my name, and stoop to such
extortion and disgrace. He raved; he swore, and foamed like one
possessed: he sprung upon me, and aimed to seize my throat; I grappled
with him, and hurled him on the floor. He rose, and drew his sword; I
had drawn mine the whilst in my defence, and my blood boiled within me.
Coward, I cried, assassin, I defy you! Here, or elsewhere, I am ready on
the moment.--Then follow me, he said, and in a spot, where I’ll conduct
you, not two furlongs off, we’ll settle our dispute. I followed him,
unthinking as I was; for he had galled me past my power to bear; and in
a grove, as I was entering it, some one from behind gave me a blow, that
felled me to the ground: There as I lay, but not deprived of sense, the
inhuman monster, the unmanly coward, rushed on me as I was in act to
rise; and thrust me through the body with his sword: he fled, and left
the murderous weapon in me: I bled profusely; could not call for help,
nor raise myself from off the ground; I fainted, and thenceforward
cannot account how time has passed, till now that I revive to see you
and that beauteous form, that sweet benevolence, that gave me drink; and
I suppose, is she, whom my dead wife wished you to marry; and, if you
are married, may Heaven confirm my blessing on you both.--Ah, I relapse
again; all, all is past--farewell for ever.--
This said, his head collapsed upon his shoulder; his eye-lids dropped;
he strove convulsively to grasp the clothes that were upon him; his
bosom heaved as if about to burst, and one deep sigh, the last he drew,
released his struggling spirit, and left him outstretched at his utmost
length, a lifeless corpse.
CHAPTER V.
_A further Account of what occurred at Lisbon after John De Lancaster’s
Arrival at that Place._
Such was the melancholy end of Philip, son of old De Lancaster, and
father of our hero. Heaven endowed him with moderate faculties, and
indolence conspired to make that little less. The place, which he left
vacant in the list of the De Lancasters from earliest time, was scarcely
less a chasm whilst he lived, than now when he was dead. Yet weak and
dormant as his spirit was, repeated aggravations from Ap Owen roused him
at last, and in the moment of his unguarded courage he fell into an
artful villain’s snare and was destroyed.
The memoirs of poor Philip’s life would hardly fill a page; but the
reflections, that might be deduced from his untimely death would be a
lesson of useful warning to those listless idlers, those noneffectives
in creation’s roll, who seem destined to live for no worthier purpose,
except to turn that vital air to waste, which might have fed the lungs
of nobler beings, who either patiently employ their hours over the
midnight lamp in learned toil; or, by their country called to
unwholesome climes, where the extremes of heat or cold are fatal, go
forth and die by thousands.
Still nature pleaded to the filial heart of John De Lancaster--That
mangled corpse, on which you look, gave life to you, and was your
father--Keenly he felt the appeal, and, whilst his eyes dwelt on the
piteous object, the big tears rolled down his cheeks: nor could he quite
abstain from exclamation, or keep his fiery spirit in command, whilst
the last words his dying father uttered still sounded in his
ears--Never, he cried, bear witness for me, Nature! will I revisit my
beloved home, till I have obtained, or executed, justice on the villain,
the out-lawed enemy of God and man, who did this murderous deed. This is
the second corpse, that he has made, and sent the immortal spirit to
arraign him at Heaven’s tribunal. Dreadful wretch, what must the torment
of his conscience be.
Whilst these or words like these, burst from his lips, as still he
stood, alone, contemplating the dismal scene, Edward, the younger
Wilson, came behind him, and embracing him, whilst he spake--Bear up, he
cried: remember God allows these trials to improve and exercise our
virtue: every sorrow, that may fall on us by his dispensation, may be
converted to our use and profit. And now, if what I say required a proof
how prompt his justice is, I have it for you--The criminal is seized and
in your hands--Aye! that is right: address your praise to Heaven! there
fix your thoughts, and cease to mourn for him, whose cause is heard,
whose injuries are redressed--But you shall have the matter as it
passed.
After you left the ship Devereux obtained intelligence that Owen had
been traced, and was suspected to have got on board a certain vessel,
which he pointed out, then lying near us, bound to the Western Isles,
and ready for a start. The man, who told him this, came from the shore,
and was apprised, that orders had been out to search for him, and seize
him on suspicion of murder. Upon this information instantly Devereux
with Henry and myself, well armed, took to the boat (the master of the
pacquet freely granting it) and in a few minutes, claiming our right of
search, we were admitted; and rushing to the cabin, there discovered
Owen, who, though disguised in the apparel of a common sailor, made no
attempt to contradict our charge, such was his terror on the sight of
us, and his surprise exceeding all description. We told him that our
errand was to seize him--What had he done?--What you must answer for
with your life, we replied. Murdered a noble gentleman, your countryman,
your friend, Philip De Lancaster.--Is he then dead? he cried, and
started with horror, trembling and ghastly pale.--Two or three of the
by-standers instantly exclaimed--He’s guilty, he confesses it: Away with
him! He sunk down on his chair, and hid his eyes. My brother now
addressed him by his name, and said--Sir David Owen, you must come with
us. The laws demand you. You know both who I am, and what I am: A Major
in the King of England’s army serving in Portugal; and in the right of
that commission I arrest you as his subject, on the charge of murder;
and I am sure, none in this vessel will attempt to stop me in the due
execution of my duty.
None, cried the Captain; pass! Let all stand clear! ’Twas then we saw,
in the behaviour of that wretched man, how abject guilt can be: That
insolence, which I have witnessed, now was sunk into despondency, and
but that pity would in me have been almost a crime, I could have pitied
him, when in a melancholy tone, he said--I am your prisoner. Misery
beyond mine, man cannot suffer. You have known me, Major Wilson, in
better days: I am a gentleman; at least I have been such: Don’t let your
people use me ill, I pray you--He was at this time in so helpless a
state, that we were obliged to have him lifted into the boat. Henry
gave orders to be rowed to the shore: A considerable party of his
officers and men were there discovered waiting for his landing: When we
approached, they cheered him, and as soon as he had set his foot on
shore, the air again rang with their shouts--Comrades! he cried, as they
were crowding round us, you will stifle us with your kindness: Form a
circle, and give us air; don’t you perceive the prisoner is fainting? He
caused his soldiers instantly to make a kind of military litter by
taking hands, and in this manner they bore off the wretched criminal by
his order to the guard-house. Whilst this was passing I had taken notice
of an officer in the same uniform with the others, who had separated
himself from his comrades, and stood apart from the circle, not
interfering, but much interested, as it seemed, in what was going on.
When my brother had given orders for his men to take Ap Owen to the
guard-house, he called this young officer to him, and bade him take a
party with him to Mr. Devereux’s house in the square, for the purpose of
escorting us through the streets, where a crowd was now collecting. This
young gentleman is now on guard upon the house, waiting till my brother
shall come, and dismiss him: Mr. Devereux invited him to accept of some
refreshment; but he declined it on the plea of duty to the special
orders of his commanding officer.
Here Edward Wilson concluded his narrative, and John De Lancaster, who
had heard him with the most profound attention, now took his hand, and
pressing it to his bosom--Worthiest and best of men, he said, I see with
humblest thankfulness the hand of Heaven in these events, which you
have faithfully related to me; for, wonderful although they are, yet I
am sure nothing but truth can issue from your lips. The cause no longer
is with me; nor ought I to indulge a fruitless grief, much less an angry
and revengeful spirit. ’Tis henceforth only these unburied reliques,
this breathless piece of clay that I must guard. But in that duty I must
be alert, for decency requires, that with our quickest forecast and
dispatch we must provide for this corruptible, and take such instant
means, as may secure it from these melting heats till our departure: In
the mean time we must look out to find a proper house, respectably
appointed for the purpose of paying all those honours to the dead, which
must not be omitted on my part.
Having said this, he declared himself ready and sufficiently composed
to pay his respects to the family, which had so hospitably received him
and so highly merited his thanks for their benevolent attentions to the
unfortunate deceased.
At the foot of the great stair-case, which landed in the hall, he was
met by Mr. Devereux and his son, who ushered him into an elegant and
spacious room: Here he had an opportunity of returning his
acknowledgements to the amiable and compassionate Maria in a better
manner, than he was in a capacity for doing, when she was present with
them, whilst his father expired.
At her solicitation he drank some wine and partook of some refreshments;
and as the delicate consideration of his worthy host had allowed no
stranger to intrude unseasonably upon him, he found no other calls to
satisfy but those of gratitude, and whilst he saw a tender sympathy and
sweet benevolence in all around him, his spirits brightened, and his
youthful heart glowed with devotion, thankfulness and love of that pure
quality, that sacred character, which, springing up from earth, reaches
to heaven, and man partakes of in its way to God.
CHAPTER VI.
_There are Secrets in all Families._
After an hour thus passed had calmed our orphan hero’s agitated mind, a
word was given out at the hall door, and the centinels were heard to
salute, when immediately Major Wilson was announced, and young Devereux
hastened to give him welcome, and usher him into the room, where the
family were assembled. The gallant soldier entered, and was followed by
the officer who had received him at the door. In the act of paying his
devoirs to Maria Devereux, and in the manner of her receiving him, there
was an expression of surprise; and a certain instant change of
countenance on both sides, which probably did not escape the notice of
any one there present. It struck her father in particular so strongly,
that when the blood, that had rushed into, and overspread her
countenance, had now given place to an alarming paleness, he anxiously
enquired if she was not suddenly taken ill. She confessed being a little
sensible just then of the extraordinary heat upon letting in the
outward air from the door, but that she was quite as suddenly relieved,
and her looks soon testified to the truth, or, more properly speaking,
the plausibility of her excuse.
The Major in the mean time was not wholly unembarrassed, neither did he
give the directest answers to the many speeches, compliments and
enquiries, that were successively addressed to him. As soon however as
he obtained a respite, anxious to turn the general attention to some
other object, than the lady, who had so lately engrossed it, he
addressed himself to the young officer, whom he had introduced, and in
an under-tone, that was not quite a whisper, said in his ear, familiarly
laying his hand upon his shoulders--Roberts, my dear boy, I would wish
you to step to the guard-house--The obedient subaltern was instantly on
his legs--Nay, said the Major, I don’t want to hurry you out of this
company, to which, above all others, I should be most happy and most
proud to have you known, but I sincerely think it would be right for you
to visit a certain person there, who earnestly solicited to see you; and
being sure that what you ought to do you ever will do, I promised in
your name, that you should come. Go then, and tell the officer on duty,
you have my leave to be admitted to the prisoner under his charge--The
young man bowed respectfully, and asked if he had any further orders.
The Major upon referring to Mr. Devereux if he had any commands for the
party, having received for answer that he had none, said--Take off your
centinels; march them with your party to the barracks, and there
dismiss them--This was answered by a second military obeisance to his
commanding officer, and whilst Mr. Devereux was politely saying, that he
hoped to have a better opportunity of being known to him, he made his
acknowledgements with great respect, and departed.
I should guess, said Edward Wilson, from what I observed of that very
interesting youth, that there is something in his mind of a melancholy
nature, that oppresses him.
There is every thing in his mind, the Major replied, that does honour to
his feelings. You perhaps observed him stand aloof whilst we were busy
with the prisoner. That young man, by the death of his father Colonel
Roberts, is at this very time next heir to the entire estate of the
Ap-Owens under strict entail. Knowing this to be his situation, I
remarked the delicacy of his conduct with peculiar satisfaction, and I
also happen to know that he purchased into the regiment with money
supplied for that purpose by the unhappy man, whom he is gone to visit.
There was a trace of human kindness in that act, and therefore I record
it. There are packages and trunks belonging to the criminal, which we
brought ashore and have in safe keeping; these are most likely of
considerable value, and in the situation which this young man stands
towards the present owner of those effects, I think it right for his
sake that I should be present at the opening of them.
With these words he rose to take his leave; Maria’s eyes followed him to
the door; the glance was not unobserved by him; he bowed to her, and
having beckoned to his brother, Edward instantly obeyed the signal, and
they passed the windows arm in arm hastening to overtake young Roberts
and his party.
Well! cried the elder Devereux, that is indeed a soldier and a
gentleman. Never did I contemplate courage, honour and benevolence more
strongly charactered in the human form and countenance. I am enchanted
with Major Wilson, and I hope he will allow me to cultivate his
friendship.
A nobler being does not breathe the air, De Lancaster exclaimed. He is
the true son of the best of fathers, and full brother to my best of
friends.
He is the preserver of my life, Maria said, and the tears glistened in
her eyes, as she uttered it.
Astonishment seized the father and the brother upon this sudden and
extraordinary declaration. De Lancaster started from his seat, and
offered to withdraw. The generous Maria immediately interposed to
prevent him--Stay, sir, I conjure you, she exclaimed, and as you must
have noticed my agitation upon seeing Major Wilson, I beg you will be
pleased to hear me state the circumstance that caused it.
Right! cried the father, ’tis expected of you. Every thing that is
honourable, said the brother, may be expected from a character like
Major Wilson’s. I’ll pledge myself that nothing can be told of him,
which my sister may not repeat without a blush.
I thank you for that handsome testimony, rejoined De Lancaster. Miss
Devereux has said, that my friend Wilson is the preserver of her life;
every body of course, that has the honour to know her, must feel an
obligation to respect and honour him.
You may recollect, said Maria, addressing herself to her father, when
Count La Lippe had his grand review at Cintra about this time last year,
you permitted me to be present at that brilliant spectacle: upon a
charge made by the cavalry my horse became unquiet, and, rearing,
dislodged me from my saddle, whilst, my foot being entangled in the
stirrup, rendered my situation that of the most imminent danger: in this
perilous moment, as I was in the very act of falling, I found myself in
the arms of an officer, who at the same time that he was supporting me,
found means by an extraordinary exertion to stop my horse, and rescue me
in the very instant, when my life would have been at the mercy of the
terrified animal. When my alarm and agitation had so far subsided as to
enable me to speak, I did not fail, as you may well believe, to render
those acknowledgements and thanks, that were so justly due: I told the
stranger who I was, and that I had a father, who would be most anxious
to express to him his grateful sense of the service he had rendered to
me: perceiving him to be a British officer, I also besought him to
inform me by what name you, sir, were to discover and address the
preserver of my life. When I looked to him for his answer, he seemed to
be at that moment in even greater agitation than I was myself, and I had
reason to apprehend he had received some hurt by the violence of my
horse: he hastily replied, that he was to leave Lisbon the next morning,
and probably might not return to it again: after a short pause,
seemingly to recover breath, or perhaps from the effect of pain, he
added (and I well remember the very words he used, and the expressive
manner of his uttering them)--Alas, madam, I am a mere soldier of
fortune, and the only happy fortune, that has hitherto befallen me, is
this, which I now enjoy, of having rendered you some little service:
With the joy this gives me I am so abundantly rewarded, that I cannot
think of receiving any other acknowledgements, than those, which you
have honoured me with already--Whereupon, seeing my party come to me,
and that I was safe and unhurt, he apologized for the necessity of his
abrupt departure, and hastened to recover his charger and rejoin his
regiment. Judge now, my dear father, when I recognized my preserver in
the person of Major Wilson, whether I had not cause to be affected by
the conscious grateful sense of my unspeakable obligations to him.
Surely, my beloved child, replied the father of the beautiful and
ingenuous Maria, you had just and ample cause for the sensibility of
your feelings on the sight of Major Wilson; and I and your brother, and
every one, that values and esteems you, are bound for ever to esteem and
value him. Had he been the poorest private in the army, I would have
made him affluent for life: it would have been my duty: But when I find
myself indebted for every thing that is dear and precious, to a man of
Major Wilson’s amiable and engaging character, what can I say less, in
the warmth of my paternal feelings, than that if he were to claim my
daughter herself as a recompence for my daughter’s life, I, as far as
my authority extends, should have no scruple to confirm his title?
Upon hearing these words, young Devereux eagerly started from his seat,
and in the enthusiasm of his friendship for Wilson, exclaimed--That is
nobly said! that, my dear father, that is like yourself: I second it
with my whole heart.
What our delighted and approving hero felt, he properly and
considerately kept to himself, as far as his expressive countenance
would suffer him to conceal it; in the mean time, Maria (the sensitive
and interesting Maria) covered with blushes, and dissolving into tears
which had every grateful, every virtuous affection for their source,
took her father’s hand, tenderly pressed it to her lips, and hastened
out of the room.
You have allowed me, Mr. Devereux, said our hero, to witness a domestic
scene, revealing secrets, which my honour never will permit me to
violate, and inspiring me with an admiration of your lovely daughter,
and a respect for you and my friend your son, which nothing can exceed.
CHAPTER VII.
_A Chapter, which disposes of one of the principal Characters in the
History, and concludes the second Book of the third and last Volume._
The next morning early, as soon as John De Lancaster had risen and was
dressed, a note from Cornet Roberts signified, that he was waiting, and
requested leave to be admitted to him in private for a very few minutes.
This was instantly granted, and his visitor introduced the business he
was upon by premising, that it concerned a guilty but repentant object,
whom he was sensible it did not become him even to name in Mr. De
Lancaster’s hearing, unless he had his free permission so to do.
Assure me only, said De Lancaster, that the person you allude to is
really penitent, and I shall then think it my duty to hear and attend to
any thing, you have to tell me of Sir David Ap Owen, or from Sir David.
That he is truly penitent, replied Roberts, I most seriously believe,
and, as one proof of it, I have received from his hands this bond, which
with contrition he returns to you by mine.
He considers himself as a dying man, and from what he hinted at
respecting his avoidance of a public execution, I cannot but suspect
that he has taken means to intercept that punishment. I understand from
my kind friend Major Wilson, that you are apprised of my connection and
peculiar situation with respect to this unhappy man. I therefore flatter
myself you will not be displeased when I inform you, that I have here in
my hand a full confession, every word of which was dictated by him, and
signed in his own hand-writing with his name, of the dreadful crime,
which has made you fatherless, and also of another infamous proceeding
of a complicated nature, respecting a much-injured young woman, daughter
of his uncle’s bard Ap Rees, and now deceased. Under the dreadful
consciousness of these atrocious deeds he is now approaching to his last
hour. Condition more calamitous than this, is not in mortal man to
suffer or conceive.--In a trunk, of which I have the key, there is a
considerable sum of money, raised and amassed by him before and since
his leaving England, as a resource I should suppose against events,
which he had reason to foresee and dread. Out of this money he has
directed me to purchase an annuity for the joint lives of the father and
brother of the poor girl, who was the victim of his cruel and flagitious
passions. Of his mother he speaks with bitterest abhorrence, accusing
her as the incendiary, who inflamed his animosity against you, and
spurred him on to the late horrid act to satisfy her malice and revenge.
She has thrown herself into the convent of Saint Barbara, and by a
letter I am charged with he solemnly adjures her to devote the remnant
of her days to repentance and atonement. This sir, is the sum of what I
am commissioned to report to you, except the last most anxious wish of
his heart, a wish however, which he justly fears you cannot be induced
to grant, though he credits you for charity of the sublimest sort;
namely, that you would condescend to look upon him in his extreme
distress, and suffer him to humble himself before you, though despairing
of forgiveness.
Sir, replied De Lancaster, with the lessons and example of our Heavenly
Master ever before me, it is not in my heart, wounded although it be, to
turn away from this repentant criminal, and not comply with his request,
however painful it must be to grant it. Tell him I’ll come to him within
this hour; nay, if you rather wish it, I am ready at this very minute to
go with you. Perhaps what you conjecture may be true; and, if it be, no
time is to be lost.
This said, the generous youth, without a moment’s loss, took his visitor
by the arm, and with a ready mind, prepared for every trial, hastened to
the melancholy abode, where, upon giving in his name to the officer upon
guard, he was admitted to the wretch, who had been his unrelenting enemy
through life, and had at length completed the full measure of his malice
and atrocity by the murder of his father.
Upon entering the room, John De Lancaster had no sooner come within the
centinels, than he stopped, and, addressing himself to the prisoner,
said--Sir David Ap Owen, I am come at your desire to convince you that I
am incapable of withholding from you any thing on my part, that can
facilitate and further your repentance, which I truly hope may be so
perfect and sincere, as to atone for your offences, grievous as they
have been, and, through the intercession of your Redeemer, recommend you
to the mercy and forgiveness of your God.
The prisoner had been reading; he raised his eyes from the book, and
fixing them with wild amazement upon the person of the man he had so
deeply injured, now beyond all his hopes presenting himself at his call,
and addressing him with these solemn and impressive words, when struck
on a sudden to the heart (the mortal dose conspiring with his conscience
to arrest and stop its pulses) he gave a hideous shriek and fell into a
swoon.
There were two centinels within the room; the officer upon guard had
entered with De Lancaster, and his relation Mr. Roberts was also
present to assist him. By their efforts, and the medical assistance
within their call, the prisoner after a time was brought out of his fit;
De Lancaster in the mean while never stirring from the spot where he
stood.
There was evidently a change and some derangement of features observable
in the prisoner after this attack: his mouth was in a degree drawn
aside, and he seemed to speak with difficulty: he made himself however
understood, and asked if he might be permitted to be in private with the
gentleman, who had condescended to visit him--I am struck with death, he
said, and if the door was opened to me, I could not walk out of it.--To
this the officer made answer, that his orders did not allow him in any
case to take off the centinels, and of course his suit could not be
granted.--I submit, replied the dying suicide, and now when I am
hastening to the presence of that awful Judge, from whom nothing that I
have done, nothing that I have meditated, can be hidden or concealed,
what avails it who is present to hear and to attest my full and free
confession that I am guilty of the heinous crime, for which I justly
suffer this imprisonment, so rigidly, but so deservedly, enforced? It
was because the early virtue of that excellent youth, whom I have now
made fatherless, overshadowed my unworthiness, that my envious spirit
rose against him; it was the praise, which he obtained and merited from
all who spoke of him, that galled my pride, and fostered that malignity
of mind, which hurried me along from step to step to the commission of
the direst acts that ever weighed on a departing soul. To all my sins I
now have added suicide, and defrauded public justice of its rightful
punishment by being my own executioner. I have been long provided with a
poisonous and tasteless mixture, which, (with horror I confess it) was
destined to be made my instrument of vengeance upon the only woman, that
ever touched my savage heart--the innocent and beautiful Maria Devereux;
and what was it inspired me, monster as I am, with such a horrid
purpose? it was because she honourably withstood my splendid offers, and
candidly avowed that her affections were fixed upon an unknown gallant
officer, who had saved her life, and by that action won her grateful
heart.--Blessed be Heaven, that hath prevented this!--I had more to say,
much more, but it is lost; my memory wanders, and I feel the deadly
drug within me now in operation--I know, I know that there is joy
reserved for that benevolent, that blessed youth, who even now with
eyes, that beam divinity, looks on me whilst imploring pardon with my
dying breath, and pities even the murderer of his father.
Here his voice failed; the deleterious dose rushed to the seat of life;
another spasm seized him; his senses vanished; death was in his visage,
horrible to behold; the medical assistants came about him, pronounced
him gone; the poison had prevailed. The awful consummation was complete.
END OF BOOK THE SECOND.
BOOK THE THIRD.
CHAPTER I.
_Our Hero meets Major Wilson, and a Conference takes place, which to
some of my Readers may perhaps be interesting._
As John De Lancaster was crossing the barrack-yard on his return from
the guard-house, he was met by Major Wilson, to whom he imparted the
tragical event, which he had so lately witnessed. When the Major had
given directions for the measures necessary to be taken in consequence
of the prisoner’s death by suicide upon his own confession, he expressed
his wish to De Lancaster, that he would step aside with him into his
private room, having something on his mind, that he was anxious to
communicate to him.
As soon as they had seated themselves the Major said--Though the sudden
exit of this wretched man naturally takes up your thoughts, and must
also occupy my attention, yet I seize a few minutes, my dear John, to
inform you of something that has passed between Mr. Devereux and me this
morning; and I am persuaded you will pardon the intrusion, though it is
a matter, that relates entirely to myself. I had not long parted from
that gentleman, when I met you, and his business with me was to request,
that I would change my quarters, and accept of the accommodation of his
house, whilst you and Edward took up your abode with him. When I
declined this polite invitation on the plea of regimental duties, his
kindness led him to urge it upon me with a degree of earnestness, that
seemed very particular, and embarrassed me not a little; for in fact I
had more reasons for withstanding his importunity than were convenient
for me to disclose to him. To you, my dear John, I can tell all the
truth, and the truth is, that like a silly puppy as I am, I have
something more than a weak side towards his fair daughter, and don’t
choose to expose my folly in either his or her company. You must know,
my friend, that yesterday was not the first time of my seeing her. In a
situation of some danger from an unruly horse at a review, it was my
fortune to be of service to her; by which adventure I dislocated my
wrist, and have felt a pain in a certain part under my left ribs ever
since: It occurred to me that her father had been let into the secret of
this piece of service, on my part, and was seeking an opportunity for
making me some sort of return, which you can well believe I am too proud
to allow of; besides which--
Besides what? said John (availing himself of a pause in the Major’s
narrative) can’t you go on with your story, and fairly own that you are
not one whit more in love with Maria Devereux than Maria Devereux is
with you? do you suppose that I have no eyes, no observation to discover
that?