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.