“‘It is only me, searching for my pony,’ I knew my danger, and my terror changed to savage ferocity against the vile informer, who had ruined so many of my friends and neighbours. I darted on him, grasped his collar with one hand, and with the other stabbed him to the heart.”
Watt’s tale was now ended, and he seemed to be terribly agitated at the recollection of old Simon’s murder, and of the dreadful position into which his crime had brought him.
“O God! what shall I do; where shall I fly?” he exclaimed, “I cannot return, for that road leads straight to the gallows, and in London I should be in hourly danger of being seen by somebody from the country. Since the perpetration of this deed of blood, I have not known an hour’s peace. Heaven is my witness, I could be content with slavery, and smile beneath the man-driver’s whip—could strip myself and wander the world in nakedness, or herd with beasts, to regain my former peace and innocence! Oh, I could labour till my bones ached, and my exhausted body dropped to the earth with fatigue, to be once more free from the keen stings of a guilty conscience!”
Twm was but a poor comforter; for his strict ideas of justice and retribution made him look upon Watt’s terrible agony as part of the punishment which he was called upon to pay for the awful crime of murder.
After all, Watt’s distress was due quite as much to the fear of the gallows, which he now saw to be in closeproximity to him, as to regret and repentance for his unwarrantable deed.
Twm hardly recognized Watt as he sat there, his face blanched with fear, large drops of sweat rolling down his pale checks, with quivering lips and staring eyes, all showing the effect which his knowledge of the dreadful penalty which, from every prospect, speedily awaited him.
A grey-coated man now approaching the tavern, brought dreadful associations to Watt’s terrified conscience, and, in the utmost trepidation, he darted out at the back door of the inn, and ran across the fields with the speed of a pursued murderer.
Twmencounters Tom Dorbell. The quick encounter of their wits, in which our hero has the advantage. Twm rescues a high dignitary of the church. Twm’s triumphal entry into London in a bishop’s carriage.
It was yet only four o’clock the following morning, when our hero was once more upon the road. The stars were bright as at midnight, and the fine bracing frost, the glory of our northern clime, seemed to have purified his blood, and at the same time excited his fancy, so that both mind and body were sweetly attuned, and in the full glow of enjoyment. It might be thought the knowledge he had gained of Gwenny’s coquettings would have disheartened him; but his residence at Ystrad Feen, with his communion with the “lady of his vision,” had a little tinged his mind with something of romantic forebodings, that overshone the rusticity of earlier impressions.
Elastic and lusty were his healthy limbs, as they bounded to the music of his heart, while he strode forward on the highway, exulting in the thought that the day had at length arrived on which his eyes wereto be regaled with a sight of the far-famed city of London.
In this happy spirit, he successively passed through Langley Broom and Colnbrook, anxiously hoping to reach Hounslow by mid-day. Thus, light of heart, and full of brilliant anticipations, he continued to bound along the road.
In this overweening fit of enthusiasm, he considered danger of every sort entirely out of the question; and this, too, if he knew the truth, while he wandered over the very hot-bed of robbers, both foot-pads and equestrians! Deluded by such a course of cogitation, he began to jeer himself on his simplicity in keeping his pistols loaded, and considered whether he had best fire them off for amusement or not.
Before he had formed his resolution, he was startled to hear a rude and heavy tread close at his heels. Sudden as the thought, he turned round, and reeled some steps backward at the sight that presented itself! In the advanced light of the morning, he beheld a villainous-looking powerful man, with a long black-beard, who might have passed for the high-priest of a Jewish synagogue. He grasped a pistol that was levelled at his head, while his forefinger seemed actually pressing on the trigger. By his ominous silence, and the fierce glare of his eye, Twm conceived that murder and not robbery was his object, till the ruffian roared, “Garnish or die!”
“Wha—what is garnish?” stuttered Twm.
“Money, and be d—d to you, or here goes!” replied the bearded man, without the slightest touch of the dialect of the people whose chin-trimmings he had assumed. Our hero saw at once that this prepared ruffian was not to be trifled with, and that an instant’s delay might cost him his existence; therefore, he immediately produced from his bosom the packet entrusted to him by Sir George Devereaux.
As the robber reached to snatch it, Twm’s wits were at work; assuming the dialect and foolery which he knew passed among the English for Welsh, “Herewass the money, look you now, but God tam! it wass not mine, but you shall haf it in the tifel’s name, only let master see I wass praave, and show fight for it, look you, and not gif it up like a craaven.” With that he gave it into the fellow’s hand, saying, “Now, her begs, and solicits, and entreats you to be so kind ass to shoot some holes in hur cott lappets, just a pounce or two, look you, to prove hur hard fight and praavery.”
“Aye, with the greatest pleasure in life!” cried the ruffian, laughing. Here Twm put off his coat in an instant, and threw it over a bush on the roadside. When the robber fired at it, Twm leapt up, laughing with idiotic glee, crying, “Got pless hur for a praave marksman! that was a noble pounce, look you! But now another pounce for tother lappet, and I wass have great praise for praavery!”
So the foot-pad, apparently amused, fired again, and Twm leapt and laughed as before, exclaiming, “That was another nople pounce, look!” He now ran to the bush, and snatching up his coat, put it on, seemingly as delighted with its perforations as a warrior of his vaunted scars. “Now, one pounce more through my hat, look you, and all will be right!” added he, appealingly.
“Why, as to that!” replied the robber, commencing to break open the parcel with great eagerness, “I have no more pounces, as you call them, to give you.”
“But I have!” thundered our hero, holding a pistol in each hand to the robber’s breast, “return the packet and garnish!” continued he, “or I will pounce your rascal prains apout the road, look you—and that wass not goot for your health, look you, this fine morning.”
The robber was no bad judge of circumstances, so immediately returned the packet. “Garnish!” roared Twm, laughing, and holding the pistols nearer to his head; “I must have a new suit for the one you pounced for me, look you now!” The robber handed him a heavy purse, with a couple of splendid watches, exclaiming “the devil’s luck to you with them!” onwhich Twm snatched off his false beard, as he laughingly said, “So much for a shallow knave whose length of beard is greater than his brains!” No sooner was the beard removed, than Twm saw a deep scar on his left jaw, which cleared all doubt as to the identity of his antagonist.
“Never was Tom Dorbell so humbugged before!” cried the baffled ruffian, as he tore his hair up by the roots in resentment against Fortune, that allowed such an inauspicious day to dawn on him.
“What! Tom Dorbell, the Gallant Glover?” queried Twm, with amazement. “The same,” growled the knight of the road, “till my luck turned; but now I am nobody.”
“By that blushing witness on your jaw-bone, I perceive we once met before,” quoth Twm, jeeringly; “I think, on the other side of Reading. I think, too, that, in token of friendship, we exchanged horses on that occasion, a Welsh pony for a gallant grey; and, I think, also, but perhaps I am mistaken, that I threw thee a long purse full of somethingthat uncle Timothy gave I to market for him at Reading.”
By the well mimicked simplicity of the latter words, the freebooter knew him at once, and laughing in his turn, vowing that he was now satisfied that he was outdone by no common ’un, “but a d—ned clever fellow, whoever thee bee’st” Quick as the fox who hears the hounds and hunters long before the sound can reach indifferent ears, Tom Dorbell started—gave a hasty farewell, dashed through the hedge, over a field, and was soon out of sight.
The Gallant Glover’s well-trained ears had heard the sound of horses’ feet, and, taking all things into consideration, he had thought it best to decline any fresh interview with travelling humanity until he had recovered his serenity of mind, and was in a position to enforce any demands it might please him to make.
As the approaching horse and rider neared him, Twm perceived the latter to be a wounded man, evidently so much disabled as to be scarcely capableof sitting on his horse. With courteous but hurried accents, the stranger addressed our hero, lifting his hat as he spoke.
“Your pardon, sir; if you are armed and inclined to act a brave and generous part, you have now an opportunity of doing so.” Twm declared his readiness. The stranger dismounted, with pain; “Take this horse,” cried he, “ride forward as fast as you can, and a quarter of a mile on you will find a couple of robbers rifling a coach. Other assistance may arrive—on! on, sir! in heaven’s name! the party assaulted are of no common rank or estimation—profit and reputation will attend their liberator, and”—Twm was out of hearing before he could finish his sentence.
Never did a young medical practitioner, called on an emergency to the bedside of a wealthy patient, whom he never thought to have the honour to approach, ride forth with a more excited imagination. Fire flashed from the stones, ground to powder by his horse’s hoofs, and brief was the gallop that brought him in sight of the scene of villainy.
The first object that struck his view were three or four horses, with their harness cut, one dead, and the others struggling on the road-side, while the centre was occupied by an un-horsed coach. As he came nearer, he distinctly made out a man at each door of the vehicle, their feet resting on the steps, while their heads, and the greater portion of their bodies, were invisible, implying their activity in the work of depredation. So intently devoted were they to this grand undertaking, that Twm’s approach seemed either unnoticed or mistaken, perhaps, for the wounded and unharmed gentleman’s, who had apprised him of this nefarious business. With that happy forethought given by indulgent Providence to the self-dependent, and which forms one of the grand ingredients in the chalice of success, our hero turned his horse from the thundering road to the soundless green beside it, and silently gained upon his object.
He arrived within twenty paces of the coach, whenthe green altogether ceased. Dismounting with the alacrity of the occasion, silent as the mole, and swift as the greyhound, he made a rush forward, and, contrary to his expectation, he found himself, unchallenged or unnoticed, close to the coach. He heard one of the amiable threatening instant death to his “Lordship’s reverence” unless his watch accompanied his purse into the hands of his “solicitors.”
The opposite worthy was equally polite to a lady, after his own fashion, declaring that he had shot one of her sex lately for less provocation than she had shown, in withholding his fair demands, which was merely all her cash and jewels.
Twm’s instantaneous action was to catch the nearest gentleman by the ankles. With a powerful drag backwards, his feet were jerked off the coach-steps, and his full face literallyscrapedan ungentle acquaintance with their iron edges, in its rapid descent to the frosty road, which was flooded with his blood.
“Hollo! where are you, Bill?” enquired his active partner, thinking that he had merely lost his footing and falling accidentally.
“Here!” cried Twm, firing at the word, when the robber fell backward from his perch, a lifeless corpse. Before he could recover himself, our hero was grappled at the throat by the powerful hands of the first robber. In the struggle, Twm managed to strike him twice with his discharged pistol on his blood-covered face; but the strong ruffian’s tenacious grip tightened notwithstanding; and our tale must have terminated here, with the death of its hero, but for an unexpected relief.
The venerable and aged gentleman in the coach with his daughter, looking out on this deadly struggle with intense anxiety, snatched up a pistol which had been dropped in the carriage, seized a critical moment, and discharged it at the ear of the freebooter, whose head was perforated by the bullet, so that his grasp relaxed, and he fell backward, with his eyes glaring on hisintended victim, and, with a ferocious oath in his mouth, he expired.
The aged gentleman now called to the lady, who sprang from the coach, declaring he feared that the villain had succeeded in destroying their deliverer. Well, indeed, might he have thought so, as Twm had sunk senseless on the road, the stagnant blood blackening in his face, and his eyes projecting from their sockets.
On recovering a little, he found a young lady bathing his temples, and applying her scent-bottle, while the venerable old gentleman was busied in rubbing his neck to restore the circulation of the blood, which now happily took place.
On his recovery, our hero learnt that the party whom he had succoured were the venerable Doctor Morgan, Bishop of St. Asaph, translator of the Scriptures into Welsh, and his only daughter; and that the wounded gentleman who sent Twm to their rescue, and who had now rejoined the party, was his lordship’s chaplain.
This spirited clergyman had manfully opposed the depredators, when they first attacked the coach, but was sadly wounded by a bullet in the right arm. In the midst of the congratulations, compliments, and explanations that followed, the spirit of the scene became suddenly changed to one that is patronized by the comic muse.
Alarmed by the report of the bishop’s servants, who liberated themselves, having been tied to a tree by the thieves, the town of Hounslow evinced its heroism by sending forth its constabulary force, with the principal inn-keeper, who was also a farmer, and his farm-servants.
A motley assemblage, in truth, it proved! Some were on foot, and some on horse or ass-back, and one fellow was seen bestriding a large horned ox, that reluctantly yielded the speed required of him; while each and all were as whimsically armed as mounted. The valiant joskin on the ox, flourished a flail, threatening annihilation to the rogues of the road, but lucklesslystruck his own sconce by exercising the weapon. The ostler and waiter, who was also the plough-boy, was mounted on a superannuated blind mare, and grasped a dung-fork with the consequence of a Neptune’s trident. Among the others were seen bill-hooks, a scythe, three spades, an awfully long spit, and a ponderous wooden beetle.
But the most amusing figure in the group was the old landlady and farm-wife, who had hastily mounted a donkey, and was riding it in a more masculine style than is usual to the fair sex, and thumping the restive brute with a vast wooden ladle, with which, for she led the van, she was prepared to battle with the highwaymen. Finding them already conquered, her heroic spirit vented itself in discontent, that she had had no hand in the great event.
“Dang un!” quoth the doughty dame, “I would ha baisted the chops o’un noicely!”
“Shame on thee, dame! cover thy garters—whoy dusten roide like a christen woman,” cried her lord and master, who rode a high horse, and bore a huge cavalry sword.
At this rebuke, the bishop’s daughter, his lordship, and the chaplain, laughed most heartily; while our hero, now pretty well recovered, joined in their glee.
The fallen being consigned to the care of the landlord, and the coach somewhat righted, our hero was seated by the chaplain, and facing his lordship, who, with his amiable daughter, cordially acknowledged his services; which the worthy prelate declared were not to be requited with mere words.
Twm, with truth, averred he was indebted for his life to the promptitude with which his lordship brought the ruffian down; and therefore the services he received, he said, far over-balanced any that he had rendered. The modest position in which he had thus placed himself, worked well in his favour, and was fully estimated. After having refreshed at Hounslow, and the chaplain’s arm dressed, depositions having been made, before the judicial authorities, of the attack and rescue, the partyfilled his lordship’s carnage again, and all were driven off towards London, well guarded by a rustic patrol sent from Hounslow.
On the way, Twm explained that he was an agent of Sir George Devereaux’s to a Mr. Martyn’s in Holborn, and the bearer of a sum of money to him. The bishop seemed surprised, and declared that Mr. Martyn was his very good friend, and chosen by him to be an umpire on the following day, in a matter of great importance.
“To-morrow, then,” added the bishop, “I shall see you at my friend’s house, and learn from you in what manner I can serve your interests.”
Our hero bowed.
“Your lordship will have your long deferred explanation with the fiery old baronet, Sir John Wynn, then, to-morrow?” asked the chaplain.
“Yes,” replied the old bishop, “and heaven send me scatheless from a contest with that self-willed man! In our interview I can only repeat what I have objected in my letters; and right well I know, he can only reiterate his former ill-grounded assertions.”
Our hero was thunderstruck with these observations and became silent and thoughtful.
Many were the villages and suburbs through which they passed, before the lady, breaking a silence which had endured some time, exclaimed, “The stones of London, at last, my Lord.”
The worthy prelate directed his coachman to drive to Mr. Martyn’s; and, in a brief space, the carriage stopped at a large, lofty, and many gabled house, opposite to St. Andrew’s Church, in Holborn, where Twm was put down, and kindly received by Mr. Martyn, who helped him from the bishop’s coach. His lordship observed that he was waited for by his brother, the Bishop of London, at Lambeth Palace; briefly referred to the business of the morrow, kindly shook hands with our hero, as did the young lady and the chaplain, each repeating their acknowledgments, and when thecarriage drove off, Twm Shon Catty was ceremoniously ushered into the fine town-house of Mr. Martyn.
Twm, at last, face to face with his paternal parent. A little scene between a Baronet and a Bishop. Twm’s particular star brightens.
When it became known that Twm was the bearer of money from the baronet to Mr. Martyn, that he had rescued the bishop of St. Asaph and party, and that he was the hero of many other encounters with daring highwaymen, he became quite a lion in the house, was regarded as a fine specimen of a Welshman, and, in homely language, was “made much of.”
Previous to the sound slumber that soon overcame his softly-pillow’d head, he pondered much on what he had heard of his reputed father, and felt his mind strongly impressed with the idea that the coming morrow teemed with events that would cast their shade or sunshine on his future days.
In a dream that followed, he found himself in the presence of a passionate little gentleman who threatened him with terrible vengeance, unless he returned to the house of Morris Greeg, and gave his hand in marriage to the amiable daughter Shaan; and he thought he discovered in a murky recess, a parrot-nosed sprite, resembling Moses, who was grinning at his dilemma; when the lady of his former dream appeared suddenly, and smiled like an angel on the churlish old man, who forthwith smiled again, when Ianto Gwyn stood forth with his harp; on which he joined her in a Welsh jig. Then came a long and dreamless sleep, which at length was broken by the numerous clocks of London, clamorously informing its citizens of the seventh hour of a new day.
The letters borne by our hero to Mr. Martyn from Sir George Devereaux spoke most highly of his abilities and good qualities; and the trust reposed in him by the baronet was fully evinced by his being trusted with such an important pecuniary mission as that which had brought him to London.
In addition, his introduction by the Bishop of St. Asaph, with the details of his acknowledged services to that venerable prelate, insured our hero the most marked consideration among his present friends, who vied with each other in their attentions to him. The whole family expressed their hope that his stay would be long in town; and Mrs. Martyn insisted that he would make their house his home the while.
After breakfast, Twm requested a private conversation with his host; when he explained, with straightforward candour, that, although unlooked-for circumstances had placed him in his present favourable position, he was, in reality, the most friendless of human beings; inasmuch that he was a natural son, unacknowledged by his father.
Mr. Martyn kindly commiserated him; and our hero continued,—“I learnt yesterday evening that the Bishop of St. Asaph is to-day engaged to meet the man, who, of all others, I wish, yet dread to see—my father, Sir John Wynn of Gwydir.”
“Sir John Wynn, your father!” exclaimed Mr. Martyn, in great astonishment. “The same,” replied Twm, “yet he knows me not, nor have I a single document or a witness to prove it. Yet did I hope, ardently hope, that some chance would turn up in my favour, to avail myself of the meeting of this day, between Sir John and the good bishop.” Mr. Martyn said, with much concern, that, although their mutual friend, he saw great difficulties to oppose the introduction of such a matter.
“This conference,” continued he, “cannot end amicably; one party is bent on urging a claim, while the other is resolved to reject it, and they will part bad friends at last; while I, their umpire, cannot preventit. Sir John, ruffled by disappointment, will be in no cue to listen to any claims on his kindness, especially one of a nature so serious, more especially as the very existence of such a complaint, criminates his past conduct.”
It struck our hero, that it would be well to make the benevolent bishop acquainted with his tale, and take his advice; with which suggestion, Mr. Martyn entirely agreed.
“The Bishop,” observed the latter, “is an early man, generally, and will, no doubt, be the first to call this morning.” While they were yet speaking, a servant announced Sir John Wynn’s carriage; and before Mr. Martyn could reply, or rise from his chair, Sir John Wynn entered. Martyn, rising with a bland countenance, met the Baronet’s advances with courtesy, if not cordiality. Our hero having retired to the window, was unseen by Sir John, although Twm seized the opportunity of exercising all his powers of observation.
“Well, I am the first in the field, I see,” observed the Baronet; “and now, my dear Mr. Martyn, let me again impress you with the sense of the wrongs I endured from this ungrateful Priest, this Bishop of my own making.” “My dear Sir John,” replied Martyn, “he may arrive this instant, and then see how unseemly it will be to find you touching on the case before his arrival, and me your unbiassed umpire.”
“Oh, Martyn, Martyn!” replied the Baronet, disregarding the delicacy of the appeal, “there is no grief like the grief of unkindness; he rewarded me with evil for good, to the great discomfort of my soul. I may well say so, and justly complain to you of my Lord of St. Asaph, who, besides what his ancestors received of mine, is in many matters beholden to me. My mind is eased by opening to you his hard dealings with me, and my benefits towards him;—but who is that?”
Our hero, feeling the awkwardness of his situation, had coughed gently, to inform the gentleman of his presence, and while making towards the door, was notungracefully apologizing for his presence. He stopped as Mr. Martyn took his hand, and replied, “A young countryman of yours, Sir John; or, I should say, a South Walian, whom I beg leave to introduce to you as my friend.”
“Ha, ha!” cried Sir John, with his constitutional heartiness, “a young Welshman, a countryman of my own; your hand, Sir!” and the old gentleman shook it with a friendly feeling towards his country, if not the individual. “I could have sworn,” continued Sir John, “he was a native of our glorious mountain land, by his frank open countenance, and healthy look, unlike your suet-pudding-faced cockneys here.”
A servant answering the bell, Mr. Martyn desired that his son should show his guest to the picture gallery, on which our hero withdrew, with a tear in his eye which he found it impossible to suppress, when he felt the pressure of his father’s hand.
The parlour door being closed, Martyn recounted briefly our hero’s adventures, in bringing him a considerable sum of money, from Carmarthenshire. Sir John gave one of his most loud and hearty laughs, when he heard how he outwitted the notorious Tom Dorbell. But when he related his part in the rescue of the Bishop, at the imminent peril of his life, the Baronet grew serious; but giving way to his spleen against the prelate, he replied, “I wish he had saved some one more worthy of his bravery!—but, Martyn, I must be better acquainted with this gallant. A brave young Welshman like this, should be known, noted, and patronized! but perhaps he has abundance of friends without my thought of him.”
“Not so, Sir John, he is a stranger in London, and almost friendless anywhere,—he is a natural son; but you may hear his history hereafter,” replied Mr. Martyn, almost pointedly, as he fixed his eyes on the Baronet.
This was not unobserved by him, as he smiled, and said, “You mean something, Martyn; but let it passfor the present; so let us proceed with this matter of mine.”
“In honour and truth, I can hear no more till his lordship arrives,” was the reply.
“Well, why doesn’t he come, then,” said Sir John, with the unamiable frown that at times distinguished him; adding, rather superciliously, “is it fitting Mr. Martyn, that the head of the house of Gwydir should be waiting the leisure of this parson lord,—I shall drive out a little, and let him wait for me in his turn.”
Sir John took a quick turn towards the door, but, stopping suddenly, said he would join the young men in the picture gallery, where, accompanied by Mr. Martyn, he went. With the younger Martyn, the Baronet was well enough acquainted; and now his aim was to chat with our hero.
Twm became a little agitated as he found himself in close contact with his father, and a something like an equality in society, since they were both friends in the same family. True, this was really owing to the accident of circumstances, but Twm was there fairly upon his own merits, and not by imposition. Sir John asked him particulars concerning his adventures on the highway, and Twm, throwing all his natural wit into the account, made a favourable impression on his father.
The Martyns, father and son, being summoned down stairs, the stately baronet was left alone with his humble and unknown son. Twm looked towards the walls, with some feelings of awkwardness. The old-fashioned gallery was hung with numerous paintings: portraits by Holbein and Vandyke, with interesting and humorous pieces by foreign masters. Sir John pointed out and warmly expatiated on the merits and peculiarities of the various schools, fixing his eyes more on our hero’s face than on the paintings, to measure the extent of his taste and intellect by the effect they might produce on him; for the Baronet was quite an enthusiast in the fine arts, and would be quick in discovering whether or not hewas throwing away his observations on a blockhead. He was not slow in observing the evidence of mind in his auditor, from the deep interest which he took in his details; but he especially remarked that his fancy was principally taken by the drolleries and homeliness of the Dutch and Flemish pictures, in one of which Twm fancied he saw a resemblance to Carmarthen Jack, his aunt Juggy, of hump-backed peculiarity, and even a counterpart to the starveling Moses. Apologizing for the rusticity of his taste, he owned his admiration of the boors and the lowly damsels, as they reminded him of some such, the familiars of his childhood in Wales.
“And where might that be passed?” enquired the Baronet, smilingly.
“In the humble town of Tregaron, in Cardiganshire,” replied Twm.
“Who are the principal gentry in that neighbourhood?” enquired the Baronet. When Twm mentioned Squire Graspacre and his late lady, Sir John looked him hard in the face; then, silently fixing his eyes on the floor, he recollected a certain passage in his life, that prevented him visiting Graspacre-Hall, from the dread he entertained of the censures and lectures of his decorous and straight-laced sister, Mrs. Graspacre.
“Did you know the lady you mentioned, Mrs. Graspacre?” enquired the baronet. “Very well, Sir John,” was Twm’s reply, “I have great reason, for, to that lady’s benevolence I am indebted for the little education I have received.”
Now, Sir John knew very well that his sister was anything but benevolent, so that by this assertion our hero lost a little in his opinion, and he suspected him of a little cant.
“If she sent you to school, she had some motive; what was it?” “I am a natural son, Sir John, which, perhaps Mr. Martyn informed you of: the lady sent me to school, because one of her great relations was said to be my father,” replied Twm, fixing his eyes on thebaronet’s face, which he had the satisfaction of seeing quail beneath his riveting gaze.
Recovering himself, however, he cast a severe look on our hero, and, in a harsh tone and manner, said, “Now must I doubt all your assertions, as one falsehood is apparent to me. The lady you named was my sister, and certain it is that no relation of hers could be your father.”
Here the lion in our hero’s heart was roused, and he indignantly repelled the charge of falsehood, saying that he expected neither truth nor honour from his father, since he was known to him.
“And what may be your father’s name then?” asked the Baronet, biting his lip, to prevent the laughter that seemed ready to burst out. “Sir John Wynn of Gwydir!” exclaimed Twm in a dare-devil strain, that made the Baronet start at his vehemence. Admiring the fire that flashed in his eyes, his honest, fearless, and energetic behaviour, Sir John opened his arms, and received him in his embrace!
When Mr. Martyn came to announce the arrival of the bishop, he found our hero sobbing on his father’s neck, who soothed him by promises, that the neglect of years should now be remedied, and that he was glad and proud of the original, which he found in Mr. Martyn’s picture gallery.
The interview had ended very differently to what Twm and Mr. Martyn had expected, and our hero felt grateful to a protecting Providence which had so ordered events.
Sir John and Mr. Martyn descended, and our hero was left alone in the picture gallery. They joined the worthy Bishop at the table in the old-fashioned saloon, which, being overlooked from the rails of the gallery, Twm saw and heard all that passed, by the particular invitation of his worthy host.
The Bishop commenced addressing Mr. Martyn:—
“We are here met to-day, Mr. Martyn,” said he, “to submit to your arbitration, a matter in dispute between Sir John and myself. Sir John has expressedhimself to you with reference to me, in an unfriendly manner, yet I have every confidence in your impartial judgment.” Here Mr. Martyn bowed, and Sir John, coughing to keep down his choler, of which he had as good a share as ever fell to the lot of a Cambro Briton, flourished his laced cambric handkerchief about his face, as he added, “His lordship cannot be more glad of an unbiassed umpire than I am myself, Mr. Martyn.”
The Bishop continued:—“Sir John’s request to me, was, that I would confirm a lease for three lives, upon the rectory of Llanrwst, at the yearly rent of fifty pounds; the same being worth one hundred and forty pounds, and is of my patronage. This request much perplexed my mind, for it grieved me to deny Sir John anything, yet my conscience cried aloud against such a grant, so prejudicial to the church itself, and especially to the next incumbent, whom I should have grievously wronged by beggaring the See, and injuring the living for future Clergymen.”
Here the Bishop resumed his seat, and the Baronet with great assumption of stateliness, rose and spoke in a slow and acrimonious strain.
“The sower went out to sow; and some of his seed fell in stony ground, where it withered, because it took not root; the seed was good, but the land nought. I may justly say so by you, my lord. I have in all things showed myself a friend, my lord; inasmuch that if I had not pointed the way with my finger, whereof I have yet good testimony, your lordship would have been still humble vicar of Llaurhaiader.”
The Bishop, without rising, mildly replied, “You have done me much kindness, Sir John, but no dishonest kindness; nor do I mean to deny you any of your fair requests.”
“I am really much obliged to your lordship, for your present good opinion,” replied the Baronet, with sneering courtesy, “more particularly that you express your opinion before Mr. Martyn. But the words youhave just uttered agree only indifferently with others you have at various times used in reference to me.”
“Good Sir John,” replied the Bishop, “you do wrong me very much to say so.”
Sir John replied with much warmth, “I have good proof, my lord, that you protested to your late servant, Thomas Vaughan, that all the good I ever did you, when vicar of Llaurhaiader, was to go to Llandda Church, and with my family add so much to your scanty congregation there; and, forsooth! that I had once on a time sent you a fat ox, on your installation in the See of Asaph; truly, my lord, this is to strain at a gnat, and swallow a camel.”
The good Bishop’s reply was mild and conciliating. “Good Sir John, you wrong yourself as much as me, to believe such idle sayings. If this were not a case of conscience, you should not need to ask me twice; remembering ancient kindness, your request is of great force to me.”
“You plead conscience when you should give, and make no pains to receive courtesy of your friends,” replied Sir John. Then, changing from the sarcastic tone in which this was uttered to one of vehemence, he proceeded. “But I appeal to Him who searches the consciences of all men, whether you have used me well; and whether conscience, which you have ever in your mouth, be the sole hindrance of my request. I will avow and justify it before the greatest divines in England, that has always been the usage, now is, and ever will be, that a man may with a safe conscience be a farmer of a living, paying in effect for the same as much as it is worth. I stand on your word, my lord of St. Asaph, your sacred word of promise, the confirmation of my lease and the advowson.”
Temperate and patient still was the Prelate’s reply. “I made no such promise; my words were ‘that I would be very loath to confirm any lease upon any presentative benefice; that I would do as much, and more for you, than for any other; that if I would confirm anylease, yours would be the first.’ In conclusion, I never did confirm any, nor do I mean so to do; therefore is such conditional promise void, and my honour and word sufficiently vindicated.”
The Baronet tenaciously urged,—“It is well known that your Lordship has favoured others in such a matter.”
“Not so,” replied the Bishop, rather more impatiently; “you well know there is a difference between granting a lease of our own, and confirming the lease of another; between a presentative benefice and an impropriation; between a public usage and a private one: still you refuse to note these distinctions, and exclaim that I have confirmed the lease, and will not, according to my promise, confirm yours.”
The last remark of the Bishop’s appeared to be unanswerable, and Sir John seemed to think so too, as, instead of replying to the argument directly, he began to beg the question, and give way to the overbearing petulance of a spoiled child of fortune.
“It is not,” replied he, “the loss of the thing that I regard a dobkin, but your unkind dealing; it shall lessen me hereafter to expect no sweet fruit from so sour a stock. But my lord of St. Asaph, you know my stand in the world. I never have been a man to make requests and be denied; therefore having never failed before in my requests, my grief is the greater.”
“Pray Heaven, Sir John, that your grief of missing be not like Ahab’s grief for Naboth’s vineyard,” was the Bishop’s pithy and characteristic reply.
Here Sir John sprang to his feet, exclaiming almost fiercely, “My lord, my lord, I am not of a nature to put up with wrongs; for as I have studied for your good, and wrought the same, so be assured of me as bitter an enemy as ever I was a steadfast friend!”
“A fiery little father have I found to-day,” thought Twm, as he noticed the vehemence of the baronet.
“I am ashamed of you,” continued he, “almost forgetting the courtesy of a gentleman, and the firm,but mild and patriachal character of the Bishop. I am ashamed for you, that you have hereby given cause to your enemies and mine to descant on the ingrate disposition. You have made use of gentlemen when they serve you, and afterwards discard them, on the pretence of conscience, forsooth! I laboured in your cause, my lord, as if it had been to save the life of one of my children.”
These hard uncompromising words did not exasperate the venerable prelate, whose command of temper under trying circumstances, and unjust aspersions, was worthy of his reputation. He rose with dignified demeanour, and said, “Amongst other kindnesses, Sir John you gave good testimony of me; I pray you let me continue worthy of it; so many chips have been already hewed from the church, that it is ready to fall; you ought rather to help than to despoil it. Thus it stands with us, Sir John, which I pray you Mr. Martyn note. You ask of me certain leases—you ask me to injure my successor in my diocese, to benefit you! you urge the favours I have received at your hands, and claim from me rewards that are not mine to give. Were I to grant your desires I should prove myself a dishonest, unconscionable, irreligious man, a sacrilegious robber of the church, a perfidious spoiler of my diocese, and an unnatural foe to preachers and scholars. I do verily think it were better to rob on the highway than to do the thing you request. However hard you may take my denial, be it known to you, if the father and mother whom I loved and honoured were alive and made such requests, I should have the grace to say nay.”
The Bishop took his seat, and began to repeat his regrets, when the Baronet started from the table, and in a furious mood began to pace the saloon to and fro; but stopping suddenly he exclaimed, “Your verbal love I esteem as nothing! I have ten sons—(eleven interrupted the Bishop, with quite jocoseness;) I say I have ten sons,” repeated the Baronet; and “ifever they forget this,”—“Eleven sons and the last as good as the best;” interrupted the Bishop again. “But where is this gallant deliverer?”
Mr. Martyn beckoned our hero down, while Sir John suddenly resumed his seat at the table. On the good Prelate’s pressing Twm to name in what manner he could reward his services, he at last replied, “By yielding to Sir John’s request as far as your Lordship sees right.”
The whole party stared with amazement at the unexpected reply. The Baronet was softened to tears, and but for compromising his dignity, would have embraced him before them all. The Bishop smiled, and shaking his hand very cordially replied, “The request is as graceful in you to make as in me, to deny; that question is disposed of. In a few days I will call again, when you may decide in what I can be of service to you.”
He then took a courteous leave of Mr. Martyn and of our hero, with a ceremonious bow to Sir John, and departed. Right glad was Martyn to be relieved, by the temper of the Baronet, from the unpleasant office of an arbitrator of their differences.
Twmmeets one of his best friends from Wales. Death of Sir George Devereaux. Hopes and fears. Interruption of happy hours. Lady Devereaux’s forced return to Wales. Twm follows her.
Our hero was now living amongst theeliteof the metropolis, and his daily communion with men of taste, feeling, and education, produced a quick and remarkable change for the better in his manners and personal appearance. His new-found father assisted him largely in his finances, and a handsome pecuniary present from the worthy bishop, accompanied with acomplimentary letter, which was doubly gratifying to him, as emanating from so respectable a source.
When he had been eight months in London, he was sitting alone one morning in Mr. Martyn’s picture gallery, intently pondering on his future plans of life, considering whether to return to his friends at Ystrad Feen, or seek employment in town. His reverie was disturbed by a servant’s informing him that a gentleman was waiting to see him.
On his descent to the parlour, great and gratifying was his surprise to meet there his old friend Rhys. The cordiality of their mutual greetings but faintly echoed the ardour of their feelings. News from the country was our hero’s first inquiry, and Rhys assured him he had an abundance to relate. Gwenny Cadwgan is married, and living with her husband and father on a fine farm at Kevencoer-Cummer, near Merthyr. Walt the mole-catcher is transported, having narrowly escaped the gallows. Your mother and step-father are well. “So much for Tregaron news,” said Rhys; “and now for Ystrad Feen and Llandovery. A singular coincidence,—in the same week we lost the venerable Vicar Prichard, and your friend Sir George Devereaux.”
“The last is a climax indeed to your budget; but is it really a fact that Sir George is no more?” enquired Twm, looking hard in his friend’s face.
“Fact as deeth! as the Scotchman says,” replied Rhys; “He threw his life away in one of his foolish fox-hunting leaps.”
“Well, well! I am truly sorry,” exclaimed Twm, “for he was a kind being.” “He was so; but tell me truly,” said Rhys, looking archly in his friend’s eyes, “is it for death, or his lady’s being left so young a widow, that your sorrow is most intense?” Twm looked grave, but finally smiled, as Rhys, with great archness, added, “It somewhat strikes me that this is a sorrow which you will soon get over; and, if I mistake not, so will the widow too.”
Here Twm took his hand, and said, “You look deeper into the hearts of men than I thought; but listen to amystery and expound the dream that has so long haunted me.”
Here he related the particulars of the “glorious vision” in the hay-loft of Morris Greeg, and of its repetition since he came to London; “and strange to say,” added he, “it was in widow’s weeds the fair spirit each time appeared. What can be the meaning or end of such dreams?” “I’ll tell thee,” answered Rhys, leaning on his shoulder and looking in his face; “Dreams long nursed, especially waking dreams, in time become realities—so will yours; you will marry this young widow, Twm!”
“Me! impossible!” cried Twm, blushing from the chin to the forehead. “Oh, very well, I’ll court her myself, then!” cried Rhys; on which they both burst into a most hearty laugh.
Our hero was growing silent and meditative, when Rhys, striking him a hearty smack on the shoulder, asked, “What would you say now, if the fair widow was herself in town at this moment?”
“What!” cried Twm, starting up, with an expression of interest that nothing could repress. Rhys in a most serious strain, assured him that her father, being chosen a knight of the shire for the ancient county of Brecon, was now in town with his widowed daughter. That he had ridden to town in their company, by which he had availed himself of a safe escort from the dangers of the road. Rhys added, that he had frequently conversed with the Lady Devereaux, both at home and on the journey, and that he, Master Thomas Jones, had always been the subject of her conversation and eulogy.
Very shortly after this conversation, in fact as shortly after as sufficed to take Twm and his friend Rhys to the town-house of Sir John Price, which was situated in Derby-street, Westminster, our hero was shaking hands and exchanging hearty good-wishes and congratulations with the “lady of his dream.” His recollection of his dearly-cherished vision was nowstronger than ever, in consequence of the widows’ cap which she had lately assumed.
On the part of Sir John, our hero’s reception was more ceremonious than friendly, but the feeling evinced in his daughter’s eyes, and the speaking pressure of her hand, made ample amends for the baronet’s stately coldness.
Having dined together, Sir John retired early on a more ceremonial visit, and the three friends were left together; for Lady Devereaux held Rhys in great esteem for his high professional character, and unassuming manners; and, in truth, we must add, more than all, for the friendship evinced by him for our hero, and the friendly way in which he spoke of him in his absence. It was with surprise and regret they heard the announcement of Rhys’ intention (being now superceded in his curacy by the new incumbent,) of quitting his country and entering a foreign university, to seek in a far land that consideration and advancement not attainable in his own.
Lady Devereaux being only in the fifth month of her widowhood, the conversation, although kindly in the extreme, was of a melancholy cast. Rhys having to embark in the morning, urged the necessity of retiring early, and took his final leave of the fair widow, who expressed the kindest wishes for his prosperity and success in all undertakings.
Accompanying his friend, Twm bade her adieu for the evening, and gained her leave to repeat his visit on the morrow. The permission to repeat his visits was eagerly seized by Twm, and not once a day only, but many times did he trouble Sir John’s stately domestic to open the door to him. That he was welcome by the fair enchantress, he could not doubt, and pleasant were the mid-day walks in the Park or Mall, their indoor conferences, and the evening parties at which they shone as twin-stars; but trebly pleasant to our hero was the hour in which he ventured to break to her his tender feelings and his darling hopes.
With the utmost candour, and without the least reservation, he told the humbleness of his origin, the blemish in his birth, his wretched bringing-up, and withal, the mysterious matter of his glorious vision. The assertion that the moment he beheld her, on rescuing her from the robber, he identified her face and figure with the lady of his dream, called forth her deepest blushes, and she audibly whispered “Incredible!” His repeated assertions, passionately urged, of the truth of his assertion, silenced and perhaps convinced her.
Certain it is that, like the gentle Desdemona, “She gave him for his pains a world of sighs;” and time evinced to him that the lady had a tale to tell also, which proved that although highly born, and affluent as she was, her lot had not been entire sunshine.
“I am yet hardly twenty-one,” replied she, “although I have been twice married. To neither of these husbands have I been able to give my entire heart. My first union was at my father’scommand, when solicitations proved useless, to his contemporary and old schoolfellow, who was old-fashioned enough to restore the long-explodedabsin his name, vaunting himself as Thomas ab Rhys ab Thomas Gock, of Ystrad Feen; who could carry on the antique and rusty chain ofabs, without a broken link, through several centuries up to the patriarch of his tribe, Elystan Glodrydd.
“Poor old gentleman! I fed him with a pap-spoon, in his large gothic arm-chair, when a stroke of paralysis had withered his right hand; but in six months after our marriage (marriage!) he fell a victim to his ruling passion, which I will not name to his disparagement, and died of apoplexy. My year’s mourning for him had barely expired, when my mother claimed her right of choosing my next husband; and, in the course of time, poor Sir George (peace to the memory of a harmless man!) became my second husband. Had I lived to these days unwedded,” said she, with a look and tone of resolute firmness, almost foreign to her usual gentleness, “it is more than probable that Ishould not have become the victim of either of my parents’ whims.”
“My poor mother has been long deceased; but well I know my father’s future aim respecting me—to have me united to some other choice of his own; but no! the sapling may bend to the storm, but, springing up again, who shall re-bend the youthful oak that time matures? If my good father inclines to play the tyrant with me, he will find some difference between the woman and the child.” Applauding her resolution, Twm, kissed her hand with rapture; and, she added in a tone of gaiety, “if ever I change my state, I shall become the votary of a different shrine to any that I have yet bowed to;”
“The little god shall shoot the porch,Ere faithful Hymen waves his torch.”
“The little god shall shoot the porch,Ere faithful Hymen waves his torch.”
With that expressive couplet, she rose, and our hero, with enlarged hopes, took a tender, but restrained and respectful leave of her.
If Twm was heartily welcomed by Lady Devereaux, he was no less heartily disliked by her father. Sir John had learnt that he was a natural son of Sir John Wynn of Gwydir’s, and no earthly merit could compensate, in his estimation, the bar of bastardy in his escutcheon. He sternly desired his daughter to break off all intercourse with our hero, as he had discovered, he said, the baseness of his origin. Although Twm appeared no more in his house, he had the mortification to learn that at the play, the ball, and in the Park and Mall, their meetings had been frequent. In a bitter spirit of resentment against his daughter, without the least previous warning, he one morning compelled her roughly to enter a coach at the door, which soon drove off, taking her she knew not whither.
Our hero’s surmises became numerous and agonizing, when for three long weeks he had neither seen nor heard from his charmer, although he had not missed one opportunity of encountering her at any oftheir accustomed places of meeting, and his days became burdensome, and his nights sleepless. Just as he was sinking into a state of despondency, he one evening received a note in the hand of Lady Devereaux, informing him of her forcible conveyance to, and safe arrival at Ystrad Feen. His father having long since returned to North Wales, he took an affectionate but hasty leave of the hospitable family of the Martyns, and commenced his journey to his native principality.
Twmin Wales again. His meeting with the “lady of his dream.” “The course of true love never did run smooth,” which Twm ruefully acknowledges.
The dangers of the road had been somewhat reduced by the vigorous prosecution of highwaymen and robbers, many of whom had been lately convicted and executed. Travellers could pursue their way in comparative security, so Twm encountered no “hair-breadth escapes by flood or field” and his journey home, consequently added no exciting incident to swell his gallant reputation. At Reading, he heard of the late execution there of his former antagonist Tom Dorbell.
Our hero’s impatience towards the close of his journey was so great that he rode all night, that he might reach Ystrad Feen a day earlier. How would the “lady of his dream” receive him? With what delight would he not gaze upon her dear face again! When Twm, mounted on a goodly steed, dashed into the court-yard, Lady Devereaux, who witnessed his arrival sprang from her seat and hurried to meet him as he reached the entrance hall. We fear, for the honour of prudery, that her resistance was not very great.
When our gallant hero caught her in his arms, and impressed a certain number of kisses somewhere about the region of the cheeks and lips, both of which looked many degrees redder than when, a few minutes before, she complained to Miss Meredith of his strange delay in town.
“Kiss her also, so that she can’t tell tales of me!” said the gay young widow; so Twm, somewhat less ardently, kissed Miss Meredith, and seemed to look about to see if there were any more business of that kind on hand.
“My dear Mr. Jones, you are welcome, most welcome, back to Wales, and trebly welcome to me, and the lonely walls of Ystrad Feen,” were the kind Lady Joan’s first words. Neither of the ladies was slow in discovering the change for the better which had taken place in his address, his former diffidence and indecision of manner being supplanted by easy confidence, and high animal spirits.
Twm was now, indeed, happy with the “lady of his dream;” for he was on much more intimate terms with her than he had, at one time, ever hoped to be. She told him that when her father so suddenly forced her into the coach, to be hurried towards the country, she was joined by two lofty ladies, his maiden sisters, who literally became her jailors in the travelling vehicle. Our hero remembered them well, from seeing them at cards one evening at their brother’s; and he did not fail to describe them to young Martyn, as ugly as heartless pride, ill-temper, long saturnine noses, yellow ribbons and slippers, could make them.
The ancient gentlewomen had chosen the state of ceaseless virginity, they said, to keep up the dignity of the family, which, in their persons, they proudly added, should never be lowered by an unworthy alliance. During their homeward journey, they entertained their victim with ingenious reproaches and disparaging observations respecting “the strange young man who had obtruded himself into their brother’s house—the unknown Mr. Jones.”
“Why, the creature has no family,” observed the long-waisted Miss Felina Tomtabby Price. “Then,” replied our heroine, “he is never likely to be pestered with the claims of poor relations, nor the persecution of rich ones.” “No, he is of no stock,” said Miss Euphemia Polparrot Price, following up her sister’s remark; “the creature was only born yesterday.” “Then he is singularly young and harmless,” answered the lady of Ystrad Feen. “And, above all blemishes, he is base-born,” added Miss Felina Tomtabby Price. “That is less his fault than his misfortune, as the Irishman said who warranted his blind mare free from faults,” answered their merry niece.
The young lady was evidently more than a match for the two elder ones, and so these ancient gentlewomen kept a dignified silence, or spoke only to each other, during the rest of the journey; which terminated at length by their seeing her to Ystrad Feen, and betaking themselves to the Priory House at Brecon.
In the course of many private conversations between Miss Meredith and the young widow, the subject of which discourses, strange to say, being invariably Twm himself; she declared herself delighted with him, and Twm, it was easy to see, returned the compliment with interest. At her invitation, he became an inmate of the house, until, as she said, he could put himself to rights. The golden chain and sum of money left to her care, were delivered up to him with considerable additions, in return for his services by a journey to London and from her own private bounty.
With the evident encouragement vouchsafed to him by the lady of Ystrad Feen, Twm was soon madly and irrecoverably lost in his warm affection for her, and there is nothing to surprise any reasonable being when he is told that Twm, with energetic enthusiasm, protested that he admired—nay, loved her! If the lady chided him, it was with such winning gentleness that it seemed to say, “Pray, do so again.” If she turned aside her head to conceal her blushes, smiles ever accompanied them, in coming and retreating; or ifshe frowned, it was so equivocally, that, for the life of him, our hero could not help considering each transient bend of the brow as so many invitations to kiss them away, which the gallant Twm never failed to accept and obey.
These golden days were too rich in delight to last long. As thegood-natured and most virtuous worlddiscovered that they were very happy, and pleased with each other, it breathed forth its malignant spirit, and doubted whether they had a legitimate right to be so; of course, deciding negatively, and consequently awarding to the lovers the pains and penalties of persecution and mutual banishment.
When they had become for some time, undivided companions, and walked, rode, danced at Brecon balls, and resided under the same roof together, although under the strict guidance of moral propriety, as daily witnessed by the lady’s female friend; it will be no wonder that scandal at last became busy with the lady’s fame. An additional incentive for raising these evil reports was that she had rejected the attentions of several of the rural noblesse, who had endeavoured to recommend themselves to her good graces.
All at once like the inmates of a hornet’s nest, the various members of her family, the proud Prices of Brecon, buzzed about her ears and stung her with their reproaches. She bore all with determined patience, until assured that her fame had been vilified, and that she had been described as living a life of profligacy and dishonour. Conscious of rectitude, however indiscreet she might have been, the haughtiness of her spirit now rose, as she indignantly repelled the infamous charges; in the end, requested herdear friends and relationsto dismiss their tender fears for her reputation, and keep to their own homes for the future, or at least not to trouble hers.
Although she had treated her officious friends with the contumely they deserved, she could not afford to set at nought, altogether, the opinions of the little world in which she lived; and, tired, irritated, andvexed, by hearing the same tale from day to day, she at last consented to send away her deliverer and friend, as she called him, from the protection of her roof. Our hero, however, could never be brought to distinguish between her real kind feelings towards him, and the constrained appearance which her altered conduct made in his sight.
Free as the air, as he felt himself, he could not understand why a great and wealthy lady was not equally unshackled and independent. Explanations and excuses were entirely thrown away upon him, as he could not, or would not, understand aught so opposed to his happiness and pre-conceived notions.
When, at length, it was made known to him that the separation was inevitable, and the season of it arrived, he received the astounding intelligence like a severe blow of fortune, that struck him at once both sorrowful and meditative. Pride and resentment, from a supposed sense of injury at last supplanted every other feeling; and, starting up with a frenzied effort, he ordered his horse to be got ready, and gave directions for his things to be forwarded to Llandovery; after which, he wrote a note, and sent it to the lady’s room requesting a momentary interview with her alone, before he took his departure.
She came down with a slow, languid step, and met him in the parlour. Her eyes were red with weeping; and, before she uttered a syllable, our hero’s much-altered looks affected her so much, that she burst out into a heavy fit of sobbing. “Do not think hardly—do not feel unkindly towards me, Jones,” were her first words! “I entreat you to give me the credit due to my sincerity, when I assure you that the sacrifice I made on consenting to part with you, was—yes! although I have buried two husbands who loved me tenderly, it was the heaviest of my life.”
Twm replied in a tone and manner that evinced both his pride and his suffering; “I have but few words, madame, and they shall not long intrude upon your leisure. I came here a stranger, and had sometrifling claims, perhaps, on your attention. Those claims have been more than satisfied—noble has been your remuneration of my humble services, your beneficence generous and princely.
“A change took place in your destiny; you honoured me beyond my merits, and bade me stand to the world in a new character. You called me friend, your sole friend, in a faithless world; nay, lady, your lover; I loved, and love you with a pure but unconquerable flame! Blame me not if I am presumptuous;—it was your own condescension, your own encouragement, that made me so, and elevated me to an equality with yourself. You gave me hopes to be the future, the only husband of your choice. You stretched forth your hand to aid my efforts, as I eagerly climbed towards the darling object of my aim; but before I attained the summit, you, madame, in the spirit of caprice or treachery, dashed me headlong downwards, to perish in despair.
“Your great and wealthy friends will praise you for this, while the mincing madames and the insipid misses of Brecon shall learn a noble lesson by your conduct, and emulating you, become in their day as arrant coquettes and tramplers on manly hearts, as their limited powers and vanity will permit. But enough! you shall have your generous triumph,—and from this hour I tread the world without an aim, a wanderer in the wilderness, reckless of everything. Advancement, estimation, I here abjure; nor, from this hour, would I raise my hand to save from annihilation the being I am—for life is henceforth hateful to me.
“Lady, farewell!—never more will I cross your path; but you may hear of my wayward steps,—and if in me you are told of a wretched idiot, a being whose mind had perished while his frame was strong, remember that it was yourself who wrought that mental desolation. Or, if they name me as a lawless being, plunged head-long into deeds of guilt, remember it is you, you, madame, who are the authoress of my crimes and sorrows, and, may be, of an ignominious death. Andnow, madame, farewell!” On which he darted out, mounted his horse, and rode off; while the unhappy lady of Ystrad Feen, whose agitation choked her utterance, caught a last glimpse of him, and fell on the parlour floor in a swoon.