Chapter VIII

_John De Lancaster confers with his Grandfather upon the Purport of the Letter, he had received from Lisbon._

When Devereux had taken his departure from the cottage of the Minstrel, following the steps of De Lancaster, as he led the way towards Kray Castle, after long silence and much meditation, he thus addressed his companion--The insult, which this outlawed villain has put upon my family by audaciously attempting to ensnare my sister, calls on me to expose him in the most public manner, and he shall not escape the disgrace he merits. My presence will be required without delay, and as I can now see full cause why you should be as deeply interested to rescue your father from his engagement as I am to save my sister from all chance of so horrible a connection, what prevents our setting off together? I cannot promise you a reception so noble and so elegant as you give me, for we have no Kray Castles in Portugal, but a sincere and cordial welcome I can truly assure you of. You will find comforts at least with us, that are not every where to be met with in that country.

John was about to make answer, when being now near the castle, they were met by Cecilia and Amelia, whom they joined, and of course nothing more was said upon the subject in their company.

There could be no doubt in the mind of young De Lancaster as to the necessity he was under of communicating to his grandfather the letter he had received from Lisbon, and he resolved to do it in the first instance without consulting even his friend Edward Wilson.

He found the good man alone in his library, and immediately began by requesting him to give order that they should not be interrupted, as he had something of a private nature to impart to him. This was soon done, and John, having briefly stated the purport of the letter, delivered it to his grandfather. It required all the philosophy of old De Lancaster to restrain his anger and astonishment within any bounds--Is this disgrace, he cried, to fall upon my name and family? It must not be; it shall not.

You will suffer me then, said John, to go over and prevent it. You see, my dear sir, I am called upon by my father: it is my duty to obey him: he is in distress, and expects me.

Let him expect. ’Tis the sluggard’s fate to expect. Am I to sacrifice the beloved of my heart; am I to extinguish the last spark of my hope, the only relique of my ancient family, to redeem a coward from his ignominious bond!

If my unhappy father is a coward, the youth replied, and reddened as he spake, let me at least convince the world, that the disgrace stops at me, and that there is but one coward in existence, that bears the name of De Lancaster.

I’ll go myself: I am his father; the disgrace is mine.

Sir!--exclaimed the youth--You’ll go yourself?--You, you to Portugal? Forbid it, Heaven! my aunt, myself, your whole united family and friends will be upon our knees to turn your mind from such a desperate thought. What can be the objection to my going? where is the danger? what have I to fear? you won’t suppose that I would condescend to turn out with that outlaw, that convicted murderer, who dare not set his foot on British land: and if you think, that I could need protection, I have it in the family of Devereux; nay, Devereux himself solicits to go with me; for he has business not less urgent than mine is to adjust with that wretch, who has had the effrontery to offer at a marriage with his sister. He comes to England and goes back at once to save his sister, and shall I do less to save a father? If Devereux thinks his name dishonoured by that vile connection, have I not equal right to be as zealous to rescue yours from that nefarious bond, and the disgraceful marriage that hangs to it?--De Lancaster paused: He turned an approving look upon his grandson: his cheek flushed, and the tear glistened in his eyes--Your reasoning is unanswerable, he cried; your motive most commendable, my child! but alas! I am too old to accompany you, and whilst you demonstrate to me, that I ought to part from you, you convince me that I could not live without you, and show me all the danger and the dread of losing you. Besides, it is not me alone, whom the parting from you will make wretched: there are hearts as weak, as tender and as fond as mine--Think of our dear Cecilia, of your aunt! what will you say to her? what to Amelia?

What I have said to you--To every one, that feels for my departure, my honour and my duty form the plea, that I must urge for giving pain to them, who are so dear to me: And surely, sir, there’s nothing so alluring in the task, that I should covet it for other reasons, than I’ve assigned to you. There must be something stronger than self-indulgence, more imperious than the repugnance, which I feel at heart, when I must force a sigh from you and them; and you of all men living best can tell what that compulsion is--We must not be dishonoured.

You have said it, De Lancaster replied; and now, my dear John, before we proceed any further I hold it right and proper to send for our friend Edward Wilson, and let him read your father’s letter without saying any thing on the subject to bias his opinion. We shall then have his sentiments upon the matter, and either be confirmed in our own judgment, or perhaps hear from him what may induce us to reconsider it.

To this John of course most readily assented, and the message instantly produced the man. De Lancaster put the letter into his hand, simply desiring him to read it. Edward’s expressive countenance, whilst perusing the contents, bespoke his sovereign contempt of the writer, and was such a comment on the text as no one could mistake--Wretched, wretched man! he cried. This is a degradation and disgrace not to him only, but to human nature. We may pity weakness; we may find some plea in the construction of a man for want of spirit and of manly feelings; but this is such an act as even folly would not own, insanity would blush for. Ah venerable sir, is this your son? ah my beloved John, is this your father? sorry I am to speak with such contempt of one so near to those, whom I respect and love. Forgive me, my good sir, it is my zeal for you my patron, and for this my pupil, that has betrayed me into this intemperance--But I’ll offend no further. This only you will suffer me to say--He is De Lancaster, and must be saved. By whom, you’ll ask: by whom but by his son? nature demands it; duty calls him forth; honour imperiously compels him to it. But whilst the sacred trust that I still hold, the solemn obligation, that still binds me to this beloved youth, whose life is dearer to me than my own, gives me authority to speak thus freely, I must insist upon my right to say, that wheresoever duty carries him, it carries me. I know his virtues, sir; I know his ardour: those I have nourished; that I have repressed, and studied to confine within due bounds. If John embarks upon this filial errand, I throw these clerical equipments off, and embark with him as my father’s son, the son of Colonel Wilson; and if you consent to part from him, no power on earth, your own excepted, shall withhold me from him.

Robert De Lancaster, who had kept his eyes fixed upon Wilson, whilst thus descanting in a higher tone and with a vehemence, that till this moment he never had given way to, now perceiving that he had brought his speech to a conclusion, rose from his seat, and, taking him by the hand, with great emotion said--Edward, I now with gratitude acknowledge, that Heaven in you hath raised me up a friend to be the comforter of my old age, and the upholder of my family in the person of my grandson, whose mind you have enlightened by your precepts, and whose life you are resolute to guard by your fortitude and friendship. When you had said of my unhappy son--_He is De Lancaster and must be saved_, you had said all. John must obey his duty; he must go, and I resign him to you.

Here he paused, for Colonel Wilson, entering the room, presented to him his son Henry, now promoted to a majority of dragoons and under orders to join his regiment. A finer person, and of more martial bearing, could not greet the eyes of man or woman. His address to the De Lancaster of ancient days was noble and respectful in the extreme: his brother he dismissed with that kind of soldierly embrace, which is warmly bestowed, but quickly dispatched. To John he turned, and measuring him with his eye from heel to head, as if he had been surveying a recruit, he exclaimed--May I believe my eyes? can this be John De Lancaster, whom I have the honour to address?

“Now in the name of all the gods at once,
“Upon what food hath this our Cæsar fed,
“That he is grown thus great?”

Here’s a De Lancaster, that shows fair promise to be a man indeed. Sir, I entreat you; give me your hand, and give me, what I have an hereditary right to ask, your friendship with it!

There it is, said John: I give it cordially with both my hands, and hope to have your friendship in return.

This salutation being over, Henry Wilson addressed himself again to the grandfather, and said--I felicitate you, honoured sir, upon this noble scyon to your ancient stock. Look, if he does not over-top us all! Edward and I are hardly fit to stand in the same file with him: we are but summer soldiers: He may let the tempest blow, and bid defiance to it.

I hope so, old De Lancaster replied, for he may chance to hear the tempest blow where he is going. John and your brother Edward are for Lisbon.

For Lisbon! cried the major; that is lucky: for Lisbon is my very destination. If they are bound thither, and will let me join them, I warrant I’ll keep pace upon the march to the sea side, and when we land at Lisbon, I’ll engage that they shall find a welcome from some as worthy and as gallant fellows, as ever yet drew breath.

Major, the good old man replied, I cannot tell you how I am delighted to hear that you are going, who have served so long and with so much honour in Portugal. You must be well acquainted with the country, and perhaps may know a gentleman, who is returning with them to his friends at Cintra, Devereux by name.

Devereux of Cintra! Henry exclaimed. Who knows not him, that ever passed but half a day at Lisbon? I know him well, and have good cause to know and honour him for his noble entertainment of me and many of my army-friends. Devereux is rich in money, richer still in a good name, and happy in a son, whom all men praise, and in a lovely daughter, whom every body admires, but no one has presumption to address.

Yes, there is one, De Lancaster replied, who is as full of presumption as he is void of merit. He now detailed not only the affair, that brought young Devereux over to England, but the business, that called his grandson out of it; and as he did this circumstantially and minutely, after his manner, the old Colonel also listened to the long but interesting narrative, though not without frequent grunts and growlings of displeasure against poor Philip; till when the story closed--Heaven have mercy on us, he exclaimed, that any man alive will let himself be scared out of his small wits by a knavish rascal, a pettifogging bragadocio fellow, half Jew and half attorney, and forsooth because he comes with parchment and with pistol--’Sdeath, had I been Philip, and six feet high as he is, I would have made the attorney eat the parchment, and given the Jew the pistol for his breakfast: ’sblood, I would have laid the bond and baggage both upon the fire and myself after them, or ever I would turn and nestle in a den with that hyæna.

Never fear that, good father, Henry cried; there is a way of dealing with hyænas, that makes them wondrous tame. If we three, and young Devereux fourth fellow, are not enough for Madam Rachel and her Jewish kindred, I have at hand a batch of special pleaders, who, without judge or jury, will soon settle her business by a process of their own.

Come then, my friends, rejoined the good old man; let us dismiss the subject for the present, and leave my grandson to discuss the point with others of the family, who perhaps may scan this enterprize with more alarm, than you, whose hearts no danger can appall. Our guest, young Devereux, has been employed upon his letters; we’ll call him out, and take a turn or two upon the terrace. The sun is pleasant, and though mother nature begins to put her winter garments on, yet she looks cheerful, and invites us forth.