Chapter VII

_Our Hero accompanies Amelia and Mrs. Jennings to Denbigh. Past Mistakes are set to rights in a very natural and agreeable Manner._

The fine and valuable horse, which Sir Arthur Floyd and his friends had so handsomely presented to young John De Lancaster, and in whose noble veins ran the full blood of the mal-treated massacred Glendowr, was in constant attendance upon our hero, wherever he went, and no other hero was in the habit of riding him. When the ladies had set off for Denbigh, this favourite animal was by John’s order led out to the great hall-door for him to mount: The beauty of his form, the spirit of his eye and the elegance of his action having drawn a party of admirers, male and female about him, the poor old gouty grandfather at the instigation and by the advice of Madam Richards, whose voice was as an oracle in Glen Morgan, was wheeled into the hall and drawn out upon the landing-place before the portal to see his grandson in the saddle. It was indeed a spectacle well worth a lame man’s trouble to contemplate. The consciousness, which the fine animal seemed to entertain of his own dignity, and the sensibility with which he appeared to feel the caresses of his master, were noticed by the grandfather, who had been a famous sportsman in his time, and gave him great delight. John put his horse into graceful action, bowed respectfully to the old gentleman and rode off.

At about two miles distance from Denbigh he overtook the chariot. The light and nimble tread of his horse upon the mossy turf gave no notice of his approach: the ladies were engaged upon an interesting topick, and his name was on the lips of Amelia in the very moment when he rode up to the window, and, as it happened, on the side where she was seated: In the sudden emotion, which the sight of him occasioned, the start she gave, and the action that accompanied it, covered her with blushes; for she was conscious of having betrayed more joy and transport on the occasion than it is required of prudent young ladies to discover when they meet young men of their acquaintance on the road. Her’s was not the age however nor yet the nature, that could counterfeit tranquillity and indifference; so that when her eyes were directed towards him, they gave him clearly to perceive and know how welcome to her sight he was. He himself also was too much enraptured with what he contemplated to be either very able or very eager to help her out of her embarrassment; in a short time however she had recollected herself quite sufficiently to be extremely charmed with the beauty of his horse, extremely apprehensive of his danger when he came too near, and extremely happy when he came so very close to the window, that her fair hand could reach not only to caress and fondle that fine animal, but to display its own fair self to the owner of the animal, who, probably, was not so devoid of common sense, and incapable of observation, as not to know pretty nearly what proportion of those endearments were properly addressed to the horse, what virtually bestowed upon himself.

Upon his arrival at Mrs. Jennings’s house, the reception which John now met was very unlike what he had before experienced. The cases containing the miniature picture and the gold chain were delivered to him. Mrs. Jennings quitted the room, and upon his finding himself alone with Amelia, he began as follows--

I confess to you, Miss Jones, I feel myself very highly gratified by the handsome manner, in which you have declined taking this pledge of my poor mother’s affection and regard for you, till I could have an opportunity of delivering it into your hands agreeably to her particular instruction and desire. I am sensible it is a refinement, that very many people would not feel, but happily for me you did, and the melancholy event, that has since occurred, naturally makes me the more desirous of adhering strictly to what she gave me in command: this I now do, when I have the honour of presenting to you, as a token of her very sincere esteem, this miniature of your father; what the other case contains is simply a chain, which I hope you will accept from me, though it has neither the same intrinsic value as a relick, nor the same ideal value as a memorial of the donor.

Pardon me, exclaimed Amelia, eagerly interposing, what the other case contains is a gift not only very beautiful in itself, but infinitely valuable to me for the giver’s sake.

Oh! that I might believe you, cried the enraptured youth.

Indeed you may, she naturally replied. I prize it as your gift above all computation.

Nay, now, enchantress, he exclaimed, if your beauty and your kindness overcome my reason, you must either pardon my transports, or escape out of my company. To be told that you will prize this trifle, because it is my gift, is such a favour as can only be repaid by tendering to you my heart--my life--myself--my every thing--and, saying this, he pressed the unreluctant damsel to his bosom, accompanying each fond endearing phrase with tender but respectful delicate caresses.

As soon as he had released her from his arms he led her to a chair, kept her hand in his, and seated himself by her: she was not in the least abashed, did not betray any extraordinary agitation, nor studied to avoid his eyes; for real purity is not suspicious--Amelia, he cried, I know the sacred nature of the responsibility I have incurred by giving way to the raptures, which your charms inspired. Your father’s picture hangs before me; I well remember the apostrophe I made to it; you do not want the presence of Mrs. Jennings to guarantee my good behaviour; your very best duenna is my honour. That mother, who is scarcely cold in her shrowd, with her dying breath bequeathed you to my honour, my protection and my constant care through life. These are my duties; they are such as a brother, as a guardian or a father might engage in: I don’t commence my execution of them after the way of either of these, but, availing myself of the first favourable opportunity, and snatching at the first kind expression, which your politeness prompts you to address to me, I instantly throw my unprivileged arms about your chaste and beauteous person with all the ardour of a lover--All this is true: I felt that ardour, and I feel that love--Let me now ask you, Does the declaration of that love offend you?

Oh, no, no, no.

And may I hope in time to merit a return of love?

You merit it already, and you have it--But hold! restrain yourself. Don’t make it such a wonder that I speak the truth; but as I have answered fairly, hear me now in my turn, calmly, patiently, I pray you; for I verily believe, that upon the candour, with which you shall treat the sincere confession and appeal I am now about to make to you, the happiness of my life in future will depend.

Speak freely; I am all attention. I will not deceive you.

What I have said is true: I have full cause to love you: such as you are in every early excellence of mind and person, it would be out of nature if I did not. I can well believe it to be against rule for a young girl like me to make this frank confession: It seems so; and perhaps it was not quite in rule for me to suffer you to embrace me, whilst you uttered those emphatic, tender words; I could not help it: you embraced me once before; I could not help it then. The arms of no man since my father died ever embraced me, yours alone excepted. The delight, which those endearments gave me in both cases, I am not ashamed to own; for it was pure: but I should be sorry to indulge in that delight, however pure, which cannot be permanent; and would not wish to hear those fond rapturous words repeated, to which if I affixed a serious meaning, I must be the vainest and the weakest of all human beings. In one word, my dear sir, you, who are destined to so high a lot, must show some pity for a lowly creature that looks up to you with love and admiration, and must absolutely promise me to fill up your time at Glen Morgan, whilst I in obedience to Mr. De Lancaster’s commands pay a short visit of respect at Kray Castle.

If you think that I ought to be at Glen Morgan when you are at Kray Castle, John replied, I much doubt if I ought to be where I am at this moment; but why my lovely Amelia should mistrust either her own power, or my principle, I cannot tell.

You must not disappoint the expectation of your friends; you must not do what is unbecoming of your situation.

That’s true, my sweet Amelia; that is very true: I must not disgrace myself by any mean and infamous action: you would not like me if I did that; would you, Amelia?

Surely not.

I must not, for instance, make vehement protestations to an ingenuous, honourable, accomplished girl, draw her on to confess that I am not disagreeable to her, prevail upon her to endure my hypocritical caresses, and then turn my back upon her, and forsake her; would not that be scandalous?

It would not be right.

It would be rascally: for suppose I was to say to her thus--because I abound in money myself, I won’t marry you unless you abound also; what sort of a reason would that be? Or again, because I am a plain gentleman, and you are quite as well born as myself, in short, in every respect my equal, therefore I must seek for something higher--_I must not disappoint the expectation of my friends; I must not do what is unbecoming of my situation_--How would that sound? What kind of opinion would you form of a man, who should act and argue in that way? You would despise him, Amelia; you would say to him in earnest what you say to me in jest--Don’t let us meet, if it be possible to avoid it: should I come to visit your family, take care not to be at home--Ah Amelia, Amelia, if so you wished to have disposed of me, why did not you contrive to make your visit to Kray Castle, as my aunt proposed to you, when you knew I could not be there?

Nay, that is not a fair question, she replied: why do I think these minutes happier than any I have passed, since last we met in this room together?--Here the conversation no longer turned upon interrogatories: it was not of the nature of argumentation or discussion; it would elude short-hand; for the pauses, when no words were interchanged, were employed in contemplating the miniature, affixing it to the chain, and adjusting it to the pearly neck of the fair possessor, which, with other businesses of not less moment, occupied the thoughts of the parties, till Mrs. Jennings made her entrance, and announced to John De Lancaster that a young man, who called himself the son of Ap Rees, the minstrel of Penruth, was waiting and extremely urgent to be admitted; a wish, that was immediately complied with.

The agony of the young man’s mind was visible in his countenance. It was with some difficulty that our hero recognized him; but in the same moment that he recalled him to his memory, he received him in the kindest manner, put him at his ease and made him sit down--I saw you ride into town, said the poor fellow, and I traced you to this house: I was a long time doubtful about venturing to ask for you; but you have an excellent character for kindness and benevolence to your inferiors, and the story of the poor soldier, who died in your house, encouraged me to believe, that the pity you bestowed upon a traveller and a stranger, you would not withhold from an ancient Briton and a neighbour: Besides, sir, I remember when my father Robin Ap Rees performed at Kray Castle, and sister and I came upon the platform in the great hall with him--Yes, sure enough, I remember how good you was to my poor Nancy, when shame overcame her, and she was like to faint--Ah, sir, worse shame has overcome her now: the direst villain breathing has undone her: she is crazed; she has attempted her own life; she is dying: that Jew David Owen is her murderer: but I’ll follow him through the world; he is out of the law’s reach, but not out of mine: as soon as I have laid poor Nancy in her grave, I’ll after him across the seas, and when, or wheresoever I can light upon him, that moment shall be his last.

Stop, friend, said John De Lancaster, you let your passion run away with you, and don’t know what you are saying. I can guess the injury, that has been done to your sister, but what are the facts, that so particularly criminate Sir David Owen? Recite them simply, if you please; give me nothing but the truth exactly stated; no invective, Mr. Ap Rees, no aggravation.

Why, you must know, sir, said the appellant, that after the old baronet’s death father wished for Nancy to go out to service; so there came a lady to the Abbey to visit Sir David, or Sir David’s mother, I can’t say which: she seemed to be mightily taken with Nancy, and being a single lady hired her to be about her person, promising to educate and take care of her. She seemed a motherly kind of person, sure enough, and very affable. So when the lady’s own chariot drove up to the door, and Nancy was told to step into it with her mistress, father thought, and so did I, that it was a famous thing for his daughter--Alas, a-day! There is no looking into people’s hearts. Little did we think, that it was all a deep-laid plot to ruin a poor Innocent.

Proceed with your narrative, John repeated, and don’t digress into comments and remarks, that, if you want my assistance, only prevent me from tendering it to you by taking up my time unprofitably, and puzzling my understanding.

I ask your pardon, sir, Ap Rees replied; I should have gone on to say, that after two days travelling my sister was set down at a lone cottage, where she believed herself at a considerable distance from the Abbey, when in fact the tour she had taken was projected purposely to deceive her into that persuasion. After a few days passed in perfect solitude Sir David Owen appeared as a visitor to the lady of the cottage, when by their joint contrivances, too horrible to relate, they first succeeded in depriving my unhappy sister of her reason, and then accomplished their infernal triumph over her innocence. In this state of mental derangement she was kept for some time, not totally devoid of short intervals of recollection, in one of which she thinks she saw you, sir; but probably it was only her fancy, for there is no road, that could have led you to the house.

I have reason to believe she is not mistaken, John replied! but no matter. I can now anticipate in some degree the tragic end of your afflicting narrative. Sir David Owen has left the kingdom, and made no provision for your sister’s comfort--she is destitute, distracted, dying--your father is old, blind and broken-hearted, and you are young, torn with rage, burning for revenge, and perhaps not in a capacity to furnish those medical and immediate aids, which the pitiable situation of your suffering sister unintermittingly demands. I take all that upon myself: I’ll do it instantly without delay: The victim of man’s villainy shall not want a friend. Nancy Ap Rees, the blushing Innocent, whom I supported in my arms, and was insulted for my officiousness, shall now, in the last stage of her distress, and to the last moment of her life, find my unqualified and full support: therefore lead me to her directly wheresoever she is--If in town, let us hasten to her on foot; if out of town, I have horses ready for myself and you--set out at once!