Twm’s return to Wales. The death of Sir George Devereux. The loves of
Twm Shôn Catti and the lady of Ystrad Fîn. Their joys converted into
sorrows. Their parting.
IT was soon known at Ystrad Fîn that our hero had fulfilled his
commission by delivering the money with which he was intrusted, at the
place of its destination; and great anxiety was expressed by Sir George
and his lady for his return to Wales. The baronet, however, was not
destined to put his benevolent intentions in his favor into execution,
for, about two months after Twm’s departure, on riding home an ill-broken
horse, which he had purchased at Brecon, he was thrown, and killed by the
fall. His widow, of course, appeared in weeds; but as the last like her
former union with the high pedigreed Thomas ap Rhys ap William Thomas
Goch, the former proprietor of Ystrad Fîn, was a marriage of interest
planned by her father, Sir John Price, of the Priory, Brecon, it was
thought her grief on the occasion was not excessive: at least, such
appeared to be the general opinion among the gallants of Brecon, many of
whom waited anxiously for the throwing off of her mourning, to declare
themselves candidates for her heart and hand.
Month after month passed away without Twm’s return; and when a whole year
had run its course, the lady of Ystrad Fîn, who had frequently expressed
her alarms for his safety, at length concluded that he certainly was no
longer on the records of the living. The young widow speaking of him one
day to a female friend, described him as very beautiful of person, and
one who deserved the favors of fortune; the greatest of which, in her
estimation, would be his acquirement of rank and station by marriage—by
an union with a liberal fair, who could overlook his humbleness of birth
in consideration of his personal merit. “But the generous young man,”
said she, while the tears started in her fine eyes, “is doubtless dead.
I feel for him as an amiable unfriended stranger who deserved a better
fate than to die in obscurity, as Nature had formed him for distinction,
if not renown.”
The conversation then changed, when the widow’s fair friend jocularly
alluded to the probability of her again doffing her weeds for bridal
robes. “Never!” exclaimed Lady Devereux, “twice have I been a wife and
widow, and can safely assert that, love never had a share in the disposal
of my hand. Twice have I been bartered to suit the capricious views and
family pride of a father; but were it possible for me to utter ‘love,
honor, and obey,’ again, within sacred walls, it should be to one whom I
love indeed—love, honor, and obey!—and not to the contemporary of my
grandfather, or my father’s schoolfellow.”
It was about two months after this conversation took place, that our hero
appeared, well mounted on a goodly steed, and entered the court yard of
Ystrad Fîn. In a moment, the circumstance was told to Lady Devereux, who
almost leaped from her seat, and hurried to meet him, as he reached the
entrance of the hall. Twm had heard of the decease of Sir George, and
prepared himself with the tone and manner of a condoler, but found it
quite unnecessary when he noticed the brisk advance and gay countenance
of the handsome widow. “My dear Mr. Jones, welcome, most welcome, back
to Wales, and trebly welcome to me and the lonely walls of Ystrad Fîn!”
was her first salutation, as with her natural cordiality she stretched
out her right hand, which our hero eagerly seized, ardently pressed, and
held to his lips. She was not long in discovering the change for the
better which had taken place in his address; his former ungainly
diffidence and indecision of manner being supplanted by easy confidence,
supported by high animal spirits.
The widow, in conversing with her friend Miss Meredith, declared herself
delighted with him, and our hero appeared no less pleased with the lady.
At her invitation, he became an inmate of the house, until, as she said,
he could put himself to rights. The sum of money left to her care, was
delivered up to him with considerable additions, in return for his
services by the journey to London, and from her own private bounty.
When the youth, beauty, and frank good nature of the lady are taken into
account, it will be no matter of surprize that our hero was soon very
deeply infatuated with the lady of Ystrad Fîn; or that he should,
agreeably to his matured character, very energetically protest himself
her sincere admirer, friend, and even lover! If the lady chided him, it
was with that gentleness that seemed to say, “Pray do so again.” If she
turned aside her head to conceal her blushes, smiles ever accompanied
them, in coming and retreating; or if she frowned, it was so equivocally,
that for the life of him, our hero could not help considering each
transient bend of the brow as so many invitations to kiss them away,
which the gallant Twm never failed to accept and obey. These golden days
were too rich in delight to last long. As the _good-natured and most
virtuous world_ discovered that they were very happy and pleased with
each other, it breathed forth its malignant spirit, and doubted whether
they had a legitimate right to be so; of course deciding that they had
not, and consequently awarding to the lovers the pains and penalties of
persecution and mutual banishment. When they had become, for some time,
undivided companions, and walked, rode, danced at Brecon balls, and
resided under the same roof together, although under the strict guidance
of moral propriety, as daily witnessed by the lady’s female friends: it
will be no wonder that scandal at last became busy with the lady’s fame.
An additional incentive for raising these evil reports was, that she had
rejected the attentions of several of the rural nobles, who had
endeavoured to recommend themselves to her good graces. All at once,
like the inmates of a hornet’s nest, the various members of her family,
the proud Prices of Breconshire, buzzed about her ears, and stung her
with their reproaches. She bore all with determined patience, until
assured that her fame had been vilified, and that she had been described
as living a life of profligacy and dishonour. Conscious of rectitude,
however indiscreet she might have been, the haughtiness of her spirit now
rose, as she indignantly repelled the infamous charges; in the end,
requesting her _dear friends and relatives_ to dismiss their tender fears
for her reputation, and keep to their own domains for the future, or at
least not trouble hers.
Notwithstanding this rough reception of her generous advisers, and
reporters of the world’s slanders, others came, almost daily, buzzing
still the same tale, till at length tired and wore down in spirits, she
consented to send away her deliverer and friend, as she called him, from
the protection of her roof. Our hero, however, could never be brought to
distinguish between her real kind feelings towards him, and the
constrained appearance which her altered conduct made in his sight. Free
as the air, as he felt himself, he could not understand why a great and
wealthy lady could not at least be equally unshackled and independent.
Explanations and excuses were entirely thrown away upon him, as he could
not, or would not, understand aught so opposed to his happiness and
preconceived notions. When at length it was made known to him that the
separation was inevitable, and the season of it arrived, he received the
astounding intelligence like a severe blow of fortune, that struck him at
once both sorrowful and meditative. Pride and resentment, from a sense
of injury, at last supplanted every other feeling; and, starting up with
a frenzied effort, he ordered his horse to be got ready, and gave
directions for his things to be forwarded to Llandovery; after which he
wrote a note, and sent it to the lady’s room, requesting a momentary
interview with her alone, before he took his departure. She came down
with a slow languid step, and met him in the parlour. Her eyes were red
with weeping; and before she could utter a syllable, our hero’s much
altered looks affected her so much, that she burst out into heavy
sobbing. “Do not think hardly—do not feel unkindly towards me, Jones,”
were her first words; “I entreat you to give me the credit due to my
sincerity, when I assure you that the sacrifice I made on consenting to
part with you, was—yes! although I have buried two husbands who loved me
tenderly, it was the heaviest of my life.” Twm replied in a tone and
manner that evinced both his pride and sufferings: “I have but few words,
madam, and they shall not long intrude upon your leisure. I came here a
stranger, and had some trifling claims, perhaps, on your attention.—Those
claims have been more than satisfied—noble has been your remuneration of
my humble services, your beneficence generous and princely. A change
took place in your destiny; you honoured me beyond my merits, and bade me
stand to the world in a new character. You called me friend, your sole
true friend in a faithless world.—Nay, lady, your lover. I loved, and
love you, with a pure but unconquerable flame. Blame me not if I am
presumptuous—it was your own condescension, your own encouragement, that
made me so, and elevated me to a stand of equality with yourself. You
gave me hopes to be the future, the only husband of your choice. You
stretched forth your hand to aid my efforts, as I eagerly climbed towards
the darling object of my aim; but before I attained the summit, you,
madam, in a spirit of caprice or treachery, dashed me headlong downward,
to perish in despair. Your great and wealthy friends will praise you for
this, while mincing madams and insipid misses shall learn a noble lesson
by your conduct, and emulating you, become in their day as arrant
coquettes and tramplers on manly hearts, as their more limited powers and
vanity will permit. But enough! you shall have your generous
triumph,—and from this hour I tread the world without an aim, a wanderer
in a wilderness, reckless of all that can either better or worsen my
state in life. Advancement, estimation, the pride of generous and
applauded deeds, I here abjure; nor from this hour would I raise my hand
to save from annihilation the being I am—for life is henceforth hateful
to me. Lady, farewell—never will I cross your path; but you may hear of
my wayward steps,—and if in me you are told of a wretched idiot, a being
whose mind had perished while his frame was strong, let it strike
strongly to your heart that it was yourself that wrought that mental
desolation. Or if they name me as a lawless being, plunged headlong into
deeds of guilt and madness, remember it is you, you, madam! you are the
authoress of my crimes and sorrows, and may be, of an ignominious death
to follow my career of guilt. And now madam, farewell indeed!” On which
he darted out, mounted his horse, and rode off; while the unhappy lady of
Ystrad Fîn, whose agitation choked the utterance of replies, caught a
last glimpse of him, and fell on the parlour floor in a swoon.