Chapter VI

_Familiar Anecdotes of the Family at Kray Castle: Comments on the Events, which occurred at Lisbon._

It will be a very saving compromise for our readers to refer John De Lancaster’s narrative to their recollection rather than to tire their patience with a recapitulation of what they have heard before. Let it therefore be understood that the eventful narrative has been minutely given; that Mr. De Lancaster with philosophical resignation has acquiesced in the dispensation of poor Philip’s death; that he has acknowledged the hand of Providence in the seizure of his murderer, and in the consummation of his dreadful doom; and that the happy return of our beloved hero, now sole heir of the De Lancasters and Morgans, with the brilliant prospect of Major Wilson’s fortunate connection, leave impressions on the hearers only tinged, not obscured, by sorrow and regret.

When we reflect, said Robert De Lancaster, upon occurrences in all respects, save one, so prosperously, so providentially disposed, it would be an unpardonable offence in us, who have been listening to the narrative, were we to suffer one ingrateful murmur to escape us, because the general blessing, though beyond our hopes, and far above our merits, defeats our wishes in one single point. Cecilia will recollect how ill we jointly augured of the idle expedition, that has now proved fatal to the unhappy object, who obstinately would set out upon it, and returns a corpse. Fate has now struck him down, who would not wait to witness, as in duty bound, and to console, as by humanity it was required of him, a wife, who languished on the bed of death. Can we complain of this? Is there not justice in the dispensation? If then it behoves me, his father, to submit in silence, who amongst you will give way to lamentation? We will consign his body to the grave with suitable respect, and his memory to oblivion with as much philosophy as we can muster, for in the journal of his days, if every action was set down, there will be found not one, on which we can engraft a single word of praise to grace him with an epitaph. Therefore, my good and worthy brother Morgan, you, who by law, and I, who by nature, fathered this poor man, will pray for life, that we may see the hour, which but for this event, had joined the hands of those affianced lovers, now in our sight, destined, as I trust, to keep our names alive and lay our grey heads in a peaceful grave.

I’ll tell you what, brother of mine, said old Morgan; if I live to see that happy day, I don’t believe I shall be content to lay my grey head in any grave at all, let it be as peaceful as it may. I hope those fatal spinsters won’t cut my thread, just when I want to wind up my bottom, and be merry: why, I’ve a cellar full of wine, that I hope will be drank out before I die; I have a locker full of money to scatter amongst the poor, and a subterranean of strong beer to set the antient Britons a-dancing on their heads. I know I am an old gouty good-for-nothing blockhead; but what then? ’Tis other people’s wit, not our own, that makes us merry; and let death stand at the door, I’ll have my laugh out, so long as he does not come in, and spoil the company: Here’s my old friend Wilson, who has literally one leg in the grave, why he makes battle still, like a stout fellow, and fights upon his stumps, as Whittington did in Chevy Chase. Was there ever in the annals of good fortune such a happy father as he is? ’Tis not in the order of things probable, that a fellow, like his son Henry, with all the disadvantages of modest merit, refined high principle and rigid unrelenting honour, should find himself invited, nay, compelled, to be one of the happiest and most prosperous gentlemen, that beauty, wealth and virtue ever joined to bless. How, in the name of all that’s wonderful, did it come to pass, that Devereux, a trader in diamonds, should have the good sense to discover, and the good heart to reward, the merits of Major Wilson? What shall I say of him? Why, I will say, that he is worthy to enjoy the friendship of De Lancaster, and his daughter to share the affection and esteem of Cecilia and Amelia; and if any body can suggest how I may do him and her greater honours, I shall be glad to hear it. As for myself, if some kind spirit, that is friendly to good fellowship, will graciously keep from me pain and sickness for a while, I shall be profoundly thankful; but I must not be importunate; if he gives me to the full as much as I deserve, and gives no more, my allowance will be nothing: still if I may be suffered to hang, as I do, like a ragged remnant, on the skirts of society, I shall be well content, for I would fain shake honest Devereux by the hand before I die; aye, and poor Anderton before he dies, because he loved the dear white man, whom I loved and lamented, and because he dandled on his knee my pretty Amelia, who is sweeter than all his sugar-canes, though she does not care a rush for such a rascally old negro as I am.

Oh sir, sir, cried Amelia, don’t say that, even in jest--And rising from her seat, devoutly put her arms about his neck, and pressed her lips upon his forehead.

Child, child, he cried; don’t overthrow me. I am a weak old fool with a watery head, and you, who are the fair nymph of the fountain, can make it stream at pleasure.

Brother Morgan, said De Lancaster, whilst you think fit to rally yourself with pleasantry, you shall be as pleasant as you like, and we won’t quarrel with you; but if you pique us upon the serious point of affection and respect, we may chance to defend ourselves in the same manner, that Amelia has done; I think therefore you will do well to be contented with the salute you have got; for the rough beard of Menelaus won’t do after the sweet lips of Helen.

In the mean time, said the Colonel, if it will be any gratification to see Maria Devereux, I’ll introduce her to you. It is an elegant compliment, that her father has made in sending me her picture; and though Henry tells me in his letter that it is not half so handsome as the original, that may be an opinion very natural for him to give, but we are not absolutely bound to take the lover’s word against the painter’s art. Saying this, he gave the picture to Morgan; the ladies eagerly rose, and even De Lancaster was impatient to satisfy his curiosity with a sight of it: The ladies were in raptures with the beauty, De Lancaster with the character of the countenance; Morgan declared at once, that he had seen enough to understand why she preferred one of the finest fellows in the British service to all the yellow-faced nobles in the court of Portugal--There is discernment, said he, in those eyes, brother De Lancaster--Yes, yes; replied the other--

“Oculi loquuntur male pertinaces.”