Chapter I

_The Mother of our Hero, being at the Point of Death, takes her last Farewell of her Father-in-law._

The order of our history requires us to attend upon the worthy grandfather of our hero to the death-bed of his daughter-in-law, who had expressed a wish to see him. She took his hand, and pressing it to her heart, said--I thank you, sir, for this and all the proofs of kindness, which you have uniformly been pleased to show me, though I am conscious it has never been my happy lot to contribute to your comforts, or to reflect either grace or ornament upon your family, even in the slightest degree. Of your son my husband I forbear to speak; when he took his departure, and left me on the plea of providing a retreat for me upon the continent, I was too well apprised of my situation not to know that we should meet no more, and under that impression I took leave of him for ever. I have given an heir to your name and family, for whose dear sake, from his birth to the present moment, my agitated heart, though I have laboured to appear composed, has secretly been racked with sad forebodings. I am a woman, sir, and those presentiments, which your strong sense would spurn, sink deep in my weak mind--

Here her speech failed her; her breath fluttered, and quitting the hand of De Lancaster, she snatched at the sheet, as if convulsion had began to seize her. Cecilia was at hand, but tears had furnished the relief, which she was advancing to administer, and the subject, which this short alarm had interrupted, was resumed as follows--

My seeming dereliction of that darling child must have degraded me in your opinion; you could not fail to think me void of those affections, which are natural to a mother, and despised me for my seeming insensibility. Alas, how very different was the state of my too fond, too feeling heart! But there were reasons, over-ruling reasons--I cannot tell them now--They will come to your knowledge--Let the charge lie by, till the defence can meet it. It would have blessed me to have seen my father; but he cannot come to me, and when I go to him, it will be only in my body’s passage to its grave. He has kindly anticipated my wishes, by leaving my dear son sole heir of his estate. Though it is but little that I have to devise, yet I have made a will; for so much in it as concerns my son, I trust he will fulfil the obligations I impose upon him. If he shall live to be of age, and you survive, (which Heaven in mercy grant) to see that day, all may be well: I leave him in your care; I have done so always, and have kept my word; I have not made him that disgustful thing, a mother’s favourite son. Ah sir, correct the errors of his youth, but control not the affections of his heart. If, overlooking rank and fortune, they should honourably and worthily be fixt on merit in obscurity, do not I implore you--it is my last, my dying petition--do not oppose his choice. There is an humble being in the world, lovely and full of promise--oh, if she--if she should--

Whilst these words were yet upon her lips, she sunk down upon her bed as one, whose life had left her in that moment. Whilst Cecilia and the women in attendance were busied in assisting her, De Lancaster stood in deep and pensive meditation with his eyes fixed upon her pallid countenance, and as the tear dropt upon his aged cheek, he said to his daughter--Your endeavours to restore her will be fruitless: and, if an easy death is what we helpless mortals ought to wish for, ’tis hardly to be hoped you may.

This said, he withdrew, and turning into the gallery discovered John alone, and intent upon the perusal of a paper, which upon seeing his grandfather he hastily folded up and thrust into his pocket.

John, I would speak to you, said the old gentleman, and bidding him sit down, addressed him in these words--Young as you are, you are not now to learn what a precarious tenure we frail mortals hold in any thing on this side death, to which we all must come.

I understand you, sir; you come to tell me of my mother’s death.

Not altogether so; but if I did, I can believe your excellent preceptor has prepared you to meet misfortune as becomes you. Methinks you hardly can have glanced your eye upon a single page in any moral book, that does not give you lessons of that sort. Even your pagan poets, whilst with idle levity they counsel you to devote your time to pleasure, give you at least fair warning of its shortness.

True, sir, but we have better masters than they are, to whom we may apply. I am aware that there are no hopes for my poor mother; and it is nothing strange that she should die, who for years past can hardly have been said to live: but that my father, seeing her condition, could leave her almost in the article of death, is matter of astonishment to me.

Such is his nature, John; and whether we must call it the defect of head or heart is more than I can tell. He is gone however, whither I know not, and she, poor soul, who has known little happiness on earth, is going where alone it can be sought. Her last care was for you.--Something there was, some wish that seemed to weigh upon her heart; but in her effort to express it, nature failed her, and she fainted.

That--that indeed--cried John, was most unfortunate. Did she let fall no words to guide conjecture?

Her words, De Lancaster replied, I am perfect in--“There was an humble being in the world, lovely and full of promise--Oh, if she--if she should”--There she stopt.

It is enough! John cried. I’ll wait here with your leave till I am permitted to pay my last sad duty to a parent, whom I have known but at the close of life.

As Mr. De Lancaster was rising to depart, it occurred to him to enquire about the paper, which John had so hastily thrust into his pocket--Let me know, he said, what you were reading so attentively when I entered the gallery. It seemed a letter, and by the eagerness with which you put it up, I suspect it may contain some interesting matter: If so, John, you hardly will conceal it from me.

Certainly not, replied the youth, if you command me to produce it; but I am sorry that you noticed it, for it will only bring to your recollection a subject totally unworthy of your thoughts at any time, especially in a moment like the present. It is, as you supposed, a letter; an insolent one you may well believe, for it comes from Sir David Owen; but as he has quitted the country, I hope you will not ask to see the favour he has bestowed on me at parting.

Grandson, resumed De Lancaster, I am become too much a party in the subject you allude to, not to be interested in whatever correspondence you may hold with that dishonourable young man; therefore let me see what he has written to you.

This authoritative order was instantly obeyed; the letter was delivered, and De Lancaster read as follows--

“You have begun very early in life, young gentleman, to take a
decided part against me and my family, and you are not to wonder,
if henceforward and for ever I shall be found to act with
reciprocal hostility towards you and your’s.

“You have arraigned my character in the matter of the horse, and
the oldest and firmest friends of my house have been spirited away
by your grandfather to desert me, and attach themselves to him--Do
you flatter yourself I can forget this? Are you weak enough to
suppose I will forgive it?

“By the right I have over the cattle in my keeping I turned that
horse out of my stables, and I am free to own it was no
recommendation to me, that you assumed to have a claim to him,
which claim you neglected, or was ashamed, to make.

“As for the ring, which your attorney was instructed to demand, my
mother, who is not obliged, nor expected to recognise what she
never saw, has nothing to do with the charge: she has nevertheless
given it up to your said attorney, and your aunt is at liberty to
wear it; my consolation is, she can wear no ring of my uncle’s
giving but as a legatee.

“As I am not a native of your island, I am leaving it without
regret. Don’t persuade yourself however that I shall forget what
has passed, or forfeit any opportunity of avenging my injured
honour.

David ap Owen.”