CHAPTER IV.

_The Family of De Lancaster return to Kray-Castle. Our History mends its Pace._

De Lancaster and his daughter, meditating on the occurrences, that had passed at their visit, particularly on the expressions, that had fallen from Sir Owen upon their taking leave, observed a profound silence for some time after they had left the Abbey. Philip’s thoughts did not in any degree harmonize with their’s, for he was ruminating on the charms of Mrs. Owen, and, as the coach was slowly moving up a steep ascent, promulgated his opinion, that nothing could be more agreeable and engaging than the very lady, who to them had appeared in so opposite a character.

No notice was taken of this _dictum_, for Philip had such a muttering way of delivering his wise sayings, as made them seem like speeches addressed to nobody in company, and of course entitled to no answer from any body. Philip however, who had laid down his proposition in general terms, proceeded now to branch into particulars, and these produced the following brief dialogue between son and father; the former carrying it on in the character of proponent, the latter as respondent.

Mrs. Owen is very delicately made. I like slender limbs.

They suit well with slender likings.

She has a great deal of wit, and I am sure you thought so, for you talked a great deal to her.

And to very little purpose it should seem.

She did not like Sir Owen to correct her child.

Then she should have taken the trouble out of his hands, for the boy deserved correction, and I am afraid will shortly become incorrigible.

Here the alternation paused, and Cecilia, turning to her father, said--What is it in the countenance of that boy, which, when I look upon him, causes me to shudder?

It is, said the father, because you read his character in his features, and are persuaded, that the child, who sets out by tormenting a poor helpless dog, will in time grow up to be the tormentor of a poor helpless man. I own there is something in the boy repulsive to my nature.

He has fine eyes, said Philip.

They are indications of his mind, and give fair warning, replied De Lancaster; so far they may merit what you say of them.

I hope, rejoined Cecilia, my dear little nephew in no future time will form acquaintance or connection with him. He never will be cruel I am sure; his little hands already are held out to every living thing he sees, and his sweet smile bespeaks humanity.

Yes, and as surely as he lives, my dear, replied De Lancaster, his hands will be held out to all his fellow creatures in distress, or I am a false prophet. As for my friend Sir Owen, I pity him from my heart, poor man. His last words made a strong impression on me. If he submits to keep these plagues about him, I fear he will never know another happy day.

Philip’s opinion of Mrs. Owen was not altered, but his fund of conversation was exhausted, so he said no more, and the coach discharged its freight in the port, from which it had set out.

As we hold it matter of conscience not to keep our readers any longer in the nursery, we must here avail ourselves of our privilege, and pass very slightly over a period of our hero’s life, which does not furnish us with matter sufficiently interesting to be recorded in these memoirs. As we profess to give the history of the human mind, we trust it will be allowed us to present our John De Lancaster to the reader as a boy, whose thoughts and actions were no longer merely neutral, but such as might naturally lead to the developement of that character, which he was destined to exhibit in his more advanced maturity. For the present we shall content ourselves with observing that, although the age, when education ought to have begun, was now gone by, still the question of what species that education should be, whether public or private, was not decided.

Within this period the following letters, under different dates from the West Indies, had reached the hands of Mrs. Philip De Lancaster.

“_From Captain Jones--Letter the first._

“Madam,

“In a few days after I had arrived at my destination I fell ill, and my disorder soon assumed those appearances, which in this country are considered to afford but little chance of a recovery. The wife and daughter of my friend Major Parsons, who came passengers with me in the same transport, with a benignity, that exposed their lives to danger, under Providence saved me from death.

“Unfortunately for the younger of my preservers, she conceived so strong an attachment, that I must have been the most unfeeling and the most ungrateful of all men could I have remained insensible to her partiality. Her health became in danger, and both her father and mother, well apprised of the cause of it, offered and even solicited me to accept her hand in marriage, and I did not withstand their joint appeal.

“Thus, after your example, I have married, and I am persuaded, that my wife, had she the honour of being known to you, would please you by the gentleness of her character and the unaffected modesty of her manners. I have stationed her in a little cottage near adjoining to the barracks, and in a healthy situation; but her father Major Parsons is like myself a soldier of fortune, and our establishment is proportioned to our means.

“I write by this conveyance to lay her jointly with myself at the feet of my benevolent patron your ever-honoured father. She presumes to send you a few tropical fruits of her own preserving, and hopes you will condescend to accept of them together with her most humble respects and unfeigned good wishes.

I have the honour to be, Madam, &c. &c. JOHN JONES.”

The second letter from Captain Jones, of a date posterior by about a year to the foregoing, is as follows--

“Madam,

“Alas, that I must trouble you with my sorrows! I have lost my wife; my poor Amelia is no more. She was a being of so mild a nature, that were I conscious of a single word, which ever passed my lips to give her pain, I never should have peace of mind again. The ravages of this exterminating fever are tremendous: she fell before it almost without a struggle. The affliction of her parents is extreme, and I am told the sternest soldier in my company, that followed her body to the grave, could not refrain from tears, for every soul that knew her, loved and lamented her. She has left an infant daughter, in whose tender features I trace a perfect miniature of her whom I have lost. As soon as ever her afflicted grandmother can be induced to part from her, I mean to rescue her from this infernal climate, and consign her to the motherly care and protection of my kind friend and relation Mrs. Jennings, who resides at Denbigh--

“Oh Madam, you, who know the inmost feelings of my breaking heart, will you in pity look upon my child, the legacy of my Amelia, my all in this world, and perhaps before this letter reaches you, the only relict of your wretched friend?

I have the honour, &c. &c. JOHN JONES.”

This letter was soon followed by the melancholy tidings of poor Jones’s death; his infant child Amelia had in the mean time arrived, and was placed under the care of Mrs. Jennings above-mentioned, who by the bounty of old Morgan, was liberally rewarded with a pension for her education of the orphan.