It so happened that Colonel Wilson had been called away upon an exchange of his government for one of rather more emolument in a distant situation, where he had been obliged to reside for a certain term upon his first taking possession. This was a heavy loss to young John, who had the mortification to hear the wit and understanding of David Owen cried up and applauded, whilst he himself was let to remain in a state little short of dereliction. Once or twice he was admitted to the honour of standing by his father, whilst he angled in the canal; but John saw no amusement in watching a float, that never once gave the signal of a bite. In Cecilia’s flower garden he took some small delight, but it was pleasure of too tame a sort to satisfy his ardent mind.
One morning when Sir Owen’s fox hounds were to throw off in Kray wood, he was permitted to put himself under the convoy of the groom, and go out to see them find; but alas, he was destined to exhibit himself on the back of the reformed poney, late the letter-carrier and drudge of the castle; when the first object, that struck his sight, was the fine young heir of Penruth Abbey, mounted on a full-sized hunter, and dressed in a uniform of green and scarlet. He was accompanied by several gentlemen in the same uniform, and, Sir Owen not being in the field, seemed to act as master of the hunt. When the hounds began to challenge in the cover, the sportsmen were in motion, and poor John, conscious of his unworthiness to enrol himself amongst them, struck down a narrow lane, that skirted the wood and led towards the castle by the shortest cut. The country had been drenched with rain, and whilst John and poney were bustling through this muddy pass, young Owen gallopped swiftly by, and having spitefully contrived to sluice him, (man and horse,) all over with the dirty soil, looked back and laughed.—Never mind, master Johnny, cried the groom: sportsman’s fare—Not aware that the injury, which the poor little fellow had received, was not confined to his clothes, for upon drawing up and dismounting, which agony compelled John to do without delay, not only his face was cut with the flinty rubbish, that had been thrown up by the heels of Owen’s horse, but his eyes had suffered much more seriously, so that he was obliged to be led home with his handkerchief bound over his eyes, suffering the whilst intolerable pain. What passed on his arrival at the castle need not be described: it was some weeks before the skill of Mr. Llewellyn, and the tender care of Cecilia, could be fairly said to have perfected the cure. No intercourse in the mean time passed between the abbey and the castle, and, if it was known at the former place (which there is good reason to think it was) neither enquiry nor apology ever reached the latter.
Whilst the groom enraged the lower regions of Kray Castle with his account of the malicious feat, John was quite as capable of distinguishing between design and accident, and with fewer words, but deeper meditation, laid up the insult in his mind, never to be forgotten.
During the time that the boy, in consequence of this injury, was interdicted from resorting to his book, impatient to be learning something, he turned his thoughts towards blind Williams, who repeated verses and played to him on the harp; which to enjoy, he would sit for hours, with the shade over his bloodshot eyes, sympathizing with old David on the lamentable loss of sight, and enquiring if it was attended by that misery, which his imagination attached to it.
It chanced one day, whilst sitting in this attitude by the side of the minstrel, he was solicited for his charity by a worn-out soldier, who had fallen sick upon his way, and had been admitted into the house by the servants for the purpose of relieving him in his distress. John lifted up the shade from off his eyes, to look at him, and the melancholy spectacle, which, through the misty medium of his feeble optics, he imperfectly discerned, struck so hard upon his feeling heart, that he suffered the very keenest pang, that pity could inflict. Food, clothes, medicine, bed, every thing, that could relieve a suffering fellow creature at the point to die, was immediately to be prepared. The soldier’s tale was short; for in the history of his sufferings there was a mournful uniformity: wounds and hard service in unhealthy climates had made him old in the mid-stage of life; poverty and privation had depressed his hardy vigour, and sickness, consequencial of those evils, had at length broken down a gallant spirit, which, under these accumulated visitations, could no longer struggle with its destiny.
John heard this sad recital of his woe with sympathizing tears; but when he came to relate how cruelly he had been threatened and dismissed by the young lord of a fine great house in the neighbourhood, (describing Penruth Abbey) whilst begging charity at the door, where he saw the very dogs fed with bread, for want of which he was starving, our heart-struck hero started from his seat, and, stamping vehemently on the floor, exclaimed—Let me but live to bring that Jew-born wretch to shame, and let me die the death, I care not; tis enough!—Then turning to the servants, he said—Take notice; my grandfather, your master, has charity in his heart, and will not suffer this poor man to perish through the want of any thing, that he can give. Let him therefore want for nothing; when you have given him what he ought to have, take him to a well-aired bed in a comfortable room, and send for Mr. Llewellyn to attend upon him. I’ll answer for my orders—The soldier overpowered with gratitude, only murmured out his thanks: blind David sung out loudly—Heaven reward thee, my sweet child! Thou art a true De Lancaster!
CHAPTER VII.
The Soldier takes leave of our young Hero. Delivers to him a Pacquet he was entrusted with, and dies.
Next morning, when the sun had risen, and old Robert De Lancaster was attended upon, as usual, by David Williams, he enquired after the sick soldier, which he understood had been taken into the house by the order of his grand-son John. This drew from Williams a recital, much more circumstantial, than had yet been made to him of that event. He gave the very words, that John had uttered in resentment of young Owen’s inhumanity, and they were deeply felt. De Lancaster remained silent for a time, and gave no signal to the blind musician; at length he said—Williams, my mind is agitated: give me something soothing, and let it be a simple melody—I have hastily put together a kind of ballad-melody of that very sort, replied the minstrel, which occurred to me whilst reflecting upon young Mr. Owen’s want of charity to the poor soldier, and, if it is your pleasure, I will recite it to the harp—Let me hear it, said the master, and the minstrel sung as follows—
“I’m sick, said the soldier, and cover’d with scars,
“Behold the sad fruit I have reap’d in your wars!
“Have pity, good master, I’m feeble and old,
“I’m weary, and starving with hunger and cold.
“Begone from my door, and appeal to the laws,
“I am not of your country, nor friend to your cause:—
“Thus answer’d the merciless squire in his pride,
“And thus with disdain a young angel replied—