Chapter VII

_Events consequential of the Meeting at Sir Arthur Floyd’s. The last Chapter of the Second Book._

As soon as the convicted baronet had made his hasty exit, the parties present in their court of honour on the spot unanimously adjudged him infamous, and with one voice voted him unworthy of their acquaintance. The question was stirred if any notice should be taken of the ring, produced by Davis in his own defence. To this it was objected, that as it had no concern with the case immediately before them, it was conceived advisable to pass it over, and leave Mr. De Lancaster to act as he saw fit. They had heard with indignation the insolent menace, which Owen had thrown out as he was leaving the room, and they unanimously besought our hero to treat it with its due contempt; Sir Arthur Floyd in particular insisted upon his right, as master of the house, to take all such affronts upon himself: John made his acknowledgment to the speaker with a respectful bow, but offered no reply.

When he called for his horse to return to the castle, they were six in number, all principal supporters of the Owen interest, who mounted at the same time, and having escorted him every step of the way to his home, rode with him into the castle court, where the venerable host, summoned by the tolling of his porter’s bell, presented himself to bid them welcome at the great hall door: his orange-tawney livery-men stood behind him in their files, and he ushered them into the saloon, where they were received in form by Cecilia, who was there attending with Colonel Wilson and his son Edward, the preceptor of their companion John.

When all introductory ceremonials were over, Sir Arthur Floyd, their spokesman as before, recounted briefly what had passed, and the resolution they had taken of abandoning an unworthy connection, and for the future giving their support decidedly in favour of the house of Lancaster, whenever opportunity presented itself of demonstrating their attachment.

To this De Lancaster made answer, that the honour they conferred upon him, was at once so unexpected and so unmerited, that he felt himself ill prepared to find expressions, that might do justice to his feelings.--My holdings, he said, in this county, it is well known are not of yesterday; they have devolved upon me through a series of ancestors, in whose steps I have endeavoured to tread, and to whose politics and opinions, (as far as I could guess what they would have been in these times by what they appear to have been in their own) I have steadily adhered. Little as I know of the secrets of government, I may have been in error; but if I have been pertinacious in opinion, I trust I have never been found illiberal or unneighbourly to those honourable gentlemen, who differed from me. I lived in friendship with Sir Owen, and we never suffered politics to damp the harmony of our social hours. I lamented his death; but the disgrace, that has fallen on his family in the person of his successor, is to me extremely grievous: I fear it has gone too far to be entirely remedied, but some alleviation may perhaps be thought of, if in addition to the honour you have already shewn me, you will be pleased to confirm our friendly contract by consenting to partake my homely meal.

The hospitality of Kray Castle was in no danger of being put out of countenance by any want of preparation; the guests sate down to a plenteous board, and the genius of Cecilia added elegance to abundance. What the benevolence of De Lancaster could obtain for Sir David Owen amounted only to a general promise, that the affair should be allowed to sleep, and no further notice taken of any thing, that passed during the discussion at Sir Arthur Floyd’s.

It is to be presumed that De Lancaster was punctilious in returning the visit of every gentleman, who had dined with him at the castle. On these occasions he was constantly accompanied by his grandson, so that the old state coach and fat horses were for a time in more than ordinary requisition.

Whilst they were upon a visit at Sir Arthur Floyd’s a very beautiful horse, which was purposely led out of the stable, attracted every body’s notice, and particularly that of our young hero, who ran out of doors to have a nearer view of him. A little stable-boy was mounted on his back, and put him through his paces on the lawn before the house: the gentleness of the fine animal was as much to be admired as the beauty. John was asked if he would back him; the proposal was immediately accepted, and as there was a fine expanse of lawn for John’s equestrian performances, he took a considerable circuit, and having given a very handsome specimen of his jockeyship, returned in perfect raptures with the horse, pronouncing him to be incomparably the best he had ever mounted, his lamented favourite Glendowr alone excepted. The horse was put into the stable, and nothing more passed upon the subject at that time.

In the evening John returned with his grandfather to the castle, when upon stepping out of the coach, a letter was put into his hand, that had the signature of the several gentlemen of the new coalition, and was to the following purport--

“Dear Sir,

As you seemed pleased with the horse, which we invited you to make
trial of, we have taken the liberty of putting him into your
stable, and jointly request that you will not refuse to gratify us
by your acceptance of him. When we tell you he is full brother to
Glendowr, we flatter ourselves we cannot better recommend him to
you, and when we assure you, that we can no otherwise be reconciled
to the disgrace of our late connection with Sir David Owen, except
by your allowing us to present you with this token of our esteem,
we trust you will not mortify us by a refusal.

We have the honour to be,
&c. &c.”

Though John was highly delighted with this present, he did not consider himself secure in the possession of it, till he had submitted the letter to his grandfather. The good old man was under no difficulty as to his decision, for luckily this was one of the few questions, that in his contemplation did not wear two faces; so that he said at once, applying himself to his friend Colonel Wilson--I see no reason why my grandson should decline this very handsome compliment.

There is no reason, said the colonel.

And why is there none? rejoined the other: why, but because a horse, or a sword, is by all the rules of chivalry, a present of honour, which it is no degradation to accept, though it were tendered to a general or a prince?

I conceive it degrades no man to accept a present from a friend.

I am not sure of that. Friendship can sanctify many things, but not all. An equipoise of favours is essential to friendship, but an overweight throws it out of its balance: it then becomes patronage, and the party obliged incurs a debt, which although it be the debt of gratitude, entails a duty upon him, and is not of the true spirit of friendship. Therefore it is that a king can hardly have a real friend--“Gods, how I should love Augustus, said a certain Roman, if he were not Cæsar.” The anecdote is to the point of my remark.

I dare say it is, said the Colonel, but I cannot exactly understand how it applies to the point in question.

If you allude to the question whether my grandson John should accept the horse, that is settled; there cannot be two opinions in that case: favours of that sort are not to be refused.

I rejoice to hear it, rejoined the colonel, for I consider it as an earnest of future favours, when my friend John shall be of age to take the duties of our county member on himself, unanimously chosen.

Ah my good friend, said the old man and sighed, that day is distant, and that chance is doubtful: in the meantime my all depends upon a single stake, and though your worthy son is he of all mankind, in whom I can repose the fullest trust, yet in the life of that beloved youth, on whom I rest my hopes, there is a period yet to pass full of alarm and danger. John has an ardent spirit, and I fear is much more likely to resent affronts than treat them with contempt. If this malicious Owen is to live amongst us, and persist in his unworthy practices, I can foresee the time must come, when my brave boy will bring him to account. Who can prevent it? not the donors of his horse; their handsome present may repair his loss, but will it make atonement for the insult he has received? What can I do? I am not the man to talk to him: young as he is, he has possessed himself of my sentiments, and I cannot retract what I have said. Talk to him yourself; you are a soldier, and upon a point of honour no man can speak with more authority: try if you can persuade him to think as you do.

Were I to do that, my good sir, replied the colonel, I fear your grandson would not derive security of person from the rules of practice, that men of my profession are compelled to follow; but I can hold my tongue, and that is quite as much as I will undertake for in any case, where the honour of your family is brought into question. I love your gallant boy; every body loves him; but what I would not say to my own son, I could not say to him. I am however inclined to believe that Sir David Owen will in no future time find resolution to insult your grandson; but, if he does, I cannot find resolution to dissuade him from taking proper notice of it.

Well! let it pass, resumed De Lancaster. My boy must take his fate. I had no right to look for other sentiments from you, and if they are, as I suspect, irreconcilable to reason and religion, we are both of us I fear in the same condemnation.

* * * * *

If in the long course of my literary labours I had been less studious to adhere to nature and simplicity, I am perfectly convinced I should have stood higher in estimation with the purchasers of copy rights, and probably been read and patronized by my contemporaries in the proportion of ten to one. To acquire a popularity of name, which might set the speculating publishers upon out-bidding one another for an embryo work (perhaps in meditation only) seems to be as proud and enviable a pre-eminence as human genius can arrive at: but if that pre-eminence has been acquired by a fashion of writing, that luckily falls in with the prevailing taste for the romantic and unnatural, that writer, whosoever he may be, has only made his advantage of the present hour, and forfeited his claim, upon the time to come: having paid this tribute to popularity, he certainly may enjoy the profits of deception, and take his chance for being marked out by posterity (whenever a true taste for nature shall revive) as the misleader and impostor of the age he lived in.

The circulation of a work is propagated by the cry of the many; its perpetuity is established by the fiat of the few. If we have no concern for our good name after we have left this world, how do we greatly differ from the robber and assassin?--But this is nothing but an old man’s prattle. Nobody regards it--We will return to our history.

END OF THE SECOND BOOK.