CHAPTER IV.

_Our young Hero accidentally meets Sir Arthur Floyd, and Mr. Philip De Lancaster visits a certain Lady at Penruth Abbey._

In the morning of the third day young John De Lancaster left Glen-Morgan, and set out on his return to Kray Castle. As he was passing through part of the grounds belonging to Sir Arthur Floyd, whose house was within sight from his road, he chanced to meet that gentleman, as he was taking his ride about his demesne. Sir Arthur accosted him with much civility, and adverting to the accident, that had befallen him in the field, when he was out with Sir Owen’s hounds, expressed his concern for the unpleasant consequences that had ensued, and hoped it would not discourage him from coming out again.

I shall not easily be tempted to come out when Mr. David Owen is in the field.

I hope, returned the baronet, you do not consider it as a purposed injury on the part of that young gentleman.

I don’t suppose the gentleman could exactly instruct the horse he rode to throw dirt in my face, and almost put my eyes out; but I am not obliged to the gentleman for looking back and laughing at me, when he discovered the condition I was in.

I trust, resumed Sir Arthur, he did not know the extent of the mischief he had done, and when he did know it, I hope he made those enquiries, which it behoved him to make in such a case.

I don’t suppose, said John, Mr. Owen thought that necessary. He had enjoyed his joke, and was not curious to enquire how I had relished it--but I have simply answered your questions, Sir Arthur; when I have serious cause to resent Mr. Owen’s treatment of me, I shall look to him only for redress.

I hope, young gentleman, said Sir Arthur gravely, you will not consider me as a busy body in this affair between you, for though my habits of intimacy are chiefly with the house of Owen, I have all possible respect for your worthy grandfather, and every one, that bears his name. If I seem to intrude upon you therefore with any further questions, believe me it is only in the hope of setting matters straight, which at present appear to be rather out of course, and accordingly I beg leave to ask you as to the truth of a report, that circulates about the neighbourhood respecting a poor distressed soldier, who received charity from you at your house, and is said to have been very harshly treated at the abbey door, when supplicating for relief, by young Owen in person.

Such I believe to be the fact, was the answer.

It tells much to the dishonour of the party in question, that being the fact; but if the soldier be still within reach, I hope you will allow me to tender you these few guineas for his use on the part of my young friend David Owen, as an atonement for his oversight.

A piece of bread and a draught of beer might have been of use, but the money is of none. The man is dead.

My God!--cried Sir Arthur; turned a look of marked regard upon our hero, bowed and rode off.

Mr. Philip De Lancaster had of late stepped a little out of his non-elastic character, and been rambling from the castle every forenoon between the hours of breakfast and dinner. Nobody was curious to trace him in these excursions, but it could not fail to be discovered, that his visits were to the Spanish lady at the abbey house of Penruth. To say that Philip was in love with Mrs. Owen might be to mistake a habit for a passion; he was in the habit of turning his poney’s head abbey-ward, as soon as he had sallied from the castle-gate, and poney was in the habit of going on without any turn at all till he stopped at the aforesaid abbey door. When Philip dismounted, Mrs. Owen’s lacquey was also in the habit of ushering him to his lady’s sitting-room, where he silently took his chair and his chance for being spoken to, when the lady was in the humour and at leisure to speak to him.

The first remark, that had ever dropped from Mr. De Lancaster with respect to Philip’s absence, occurred in his discourse with the Wilsons about John’s education, and it so happened that Mrs. Owen in her tete à tete that very morning had been rather more disposed to extort a conversation than was usual with her, when the following very interesting dialogue ensued.

I conclude, said the lady, that this extraordinary melancholy, which seems to hang eternally upon you, my good friend, can only be accounted for by your concern for Mrs. De Lancaster’s dismal state of health and spirits.

Not at all, said Philip: that’s not it.

What is it then? What in the name of wonder can it be?

I can’t tell. It comes of its own accord.

I don’t know how to believe you. There must be some cause: as sure as can be you have caught the hip of your hypochondriac wife.

I have nothing to do with any hip of hers. I never go near her: that’s agreed between us.

A happy release, if what I hear be true. Then you have no domestic troubles.

None at all: quite free.

Why then so gloomy? What annoys you, what possesses you so wholly, that you seem almost to have lost the very use of speech? Are you in love, my friend?

Not with my wife.

With any body else?

With any body rather than with her.

With me, for instance--

Oh, with you sooner than with any body. I visit nobody but you.

True, but I thought you visited me from habit, not from liking.

I like you very much.

What shall I do to encrease your liking?

Nothing. It encreases quite fast enough without your help.

Bless me! That’s lucky; for to say the truth I have not been aware of it. But I am so surprised, and so flattered by it, that I would fain take some pains to cultivate so agreeable an impression.

You need not. There’s no occasion to trouble yourself about it.

Should not I contrive to make myself a little younger?

I don’t wish it.

A good deal handsomer?

It is not possible.

A great deal fairer?

That would entirely spoil the beauty of your complexion.

Well! that is charming. I protest you make me the politest speeches; but alas! they go for nothing. No woman of discretion should encourage the attachment of a man that’s married.

I may not always be a married man.

That’s true; but then perhaps you’d change your tone.

Never.

Were I quite sure of that, I would not listen to Sir Arthur Floyd; nor indeed to any body in Sir Owen’s life time--but recollect we have each a son. What must we do with them? They’ll never set their horses up together. What is the reason that they don’t agree? I doubt your youngster is a little proud. Isn’t it so?

I know nothing of him.

My David does not like him, I assure you. He says he is certain you are not his father.

I know nothing of that also.

He never speaks of him by the name of John De Lancaster; he calls him Jack Jones after the name of your wife’s favourite lover Captain Jones, for whom she is so inconsolable.

Why now that’s wonderful--I can’t think how that secret could get out.

Secret, my friend! You are much mistaken if you think it is any secret. They say he is as like that Jones as ever son was like a father--but I am talking treason, and you must not betray me--People you know will be censorious, and it is rather remarkable, that since Jones’s death she has never added to your family stock.

There’s nothing remarkable in that, if the talking people knew what they talked about.

Why certainly, were the case as they give out, one son of that sort is quite enough, and were I in your place I should be apt to think him one more than was welcome.

I am at no trouble about him. His grandfather and his aunt are at all the pains of spoiling him.

Not by overmuch education I should think. Begging the young gentleman’s pardon, I take him to be a most egregious dunce.

Oh! if you take him to be that, I shall take him to be my own son. But with your leave we’ll say no more about him.

Agreed! Besides I know your time is nearly out. This however I must tell you in secret--Sir Owen’s life is despaired of, and his whole estate is settled and entailed upon my son: David will soon be of age, and probably I shall then have some other residence to seek. Your father I understand is in his seventy-fifth year, and your son in his fifteenth. A short time according to the course of nature may set us both free. In the mean time let me see you as frequently as you can contrive, and if I have been fortunate enough to make an impression on your heart, be assured you have interested mine no less; and so long as you continue to persuade me that I am agreeable in your eyes, neither Sir Arthur Floyd, nor any man, shall be other than indifferent to me.

Having said this, she reached out her hand, the gallant Philip pressed it to his lips, made his reverence, and departed.