The perusal of this melancholy letter made a deep impression on the feeling heart of De Lancaster: he pondered on its contents for some time, and began to arrange his thoughts for answering it in a consolatory manner. When he had written a few lines, he laid down his pen, and said within himself—How much better might all this be stated face to face in person than upon paper! He is ill, poor man, and unable to come to me; I am in health, and will go to him; he cannot fail to take my visit kindly, and the face of a friend is cheering, when the spirits are depressed. I will act towards him, as I, in his circumstances, should wish and expect him to act towards me. It is but about four hours drive, and I can be home the next morning: if the roads are passable, ’twill be a pleasant jaunt, for the weather is now fine, and promises a fair day to-morrow.
Having settled this point to his kind heart’s content, the good man rang his bell, and summoned his servant, who had been to Glen-Morgan, to make his report of the roads.
Were they practicable for the coach to pass with safety? The coach might pass in perfect safety, for though the snow laid on the mountains, the road was clear, and he saw no danger. The report was satisfactory; the servant was dismissed, and the coachman summoned: upon enquiry made as to matters within his department, every thing thereunto appertaining, horses and carriage, were ready for the start. Cecilia was now called into council, and the important project was announced to her: It occasioned some surprise to her at first on account of its uncommon spirit and vivacity, but she gave it no opposition, nor even moved the previous question—The kindness of the motive, and care for her dear father’s safety, occupied her gentle thoughts:—Were the roads safe, and would he go alone? The roads were safe, and as he wished to have some private talk with his brother Morgan upon family affairs, he would go alone, and return to her on the next day.
It was resolved: the grand affair was settled: the solemn fiat was announced; the note of preparation was sounded through all the lower regions of the castle, and echoed through the range of stables—Our master goes to-morrow to Glen-Morgan, and will stay out a whole night!
When tidings of this extraordinary event were announced to Colonel Wilson, he was in the common parlour, and had sate down to chess with Mr. Philip De Lancaster, who took much content in that narcotic game, of which however he scarce understood a single principle. Going to Glen-Morgan, cried Wilson! this is news indeed: I am astonished.—I am cheque-mated, said Philip; I cannot move a man.—By Heavens! but I am moved with pleasure and surprise, exclaimed Wilson, to hear that your good father meditates a visit to Glen-Morgan.—It is not above twenty miles, said the other, and the coach is easy; he may sleep in it all the way.—The devil he may, rejoined Wilson: You might as well expect the coachman to fall asleep.—That is not impossible, said Philip, he is very fat and drowsy. But now I think of it, I’ll go and angle for some perch: I shall like to send my father-in-law a few fish of my own catching.
Do so, cried Wilson: you can stand still and catch them.—With these words he stumped out of the room, and turning into the library, where De Lancaster was sitting—I come to congratulate you, said he, as he entered, upon the resolution you have taken. It will warm the heart of my old friend Morgan to be flattered with a visit from the man in all the world he most esteems and honours.
If it will give him any pleasure, I shall not regret my pains.
It will, be assured, repeated Wilson. I have a letter from him by your messenger full of sighs and groans: I don’t much heed them; for it is his humour to deal in the dolefuls, and set himself off in the worst light he can possibly devise: for instance, he tells me here, that his temper, which was always execrable, is now worse than ever; and that he is grown so touchy, that even the parson won’t trust himself to a hit at backgammon with him. This is about as true as the account he gives of his house-keeping, which I know is liberal to excess, but which he represents as rascally in the extreme; pretending to say, that through mere covetousness he has made a potatoe garden of his pleasure ground, turned his coach-horses into the straw yard, and lowered the quality of his Welch ale, till his servants are in mutiny, and his parishioners consulting about hanging him in effigy.
Is all this true? De Lancaster asked.
Not any of it, Wilson replied. His poor neighbours are more disposed to worship him in effigy, than to hang him. He may have planted his grounds with potatoes, and turned his idle horses out to fodder, for I dare say this hard winter has made havoc of his stores, as he tells me that he is screwing up his farmers in revenge for their want of mercy to their necessitous neighbours; but as for his covetousness, I give no credit to that; on the contrary I happen to know that he has just now paid down the purchase money of a company for a young officer in the line, in no degree related to him, or indeed connected with him.