At this moment Mr. Philip De Lancaster walked into the room, and addressing himself after his cool manner to his son—You are come just in time, he said, for I have taken leave of your mother, and have nothing to do but to pay my duty to my father, and set out upon my journey. I leave you in the care of such good friends, that you stand in no need of any advice from me; and, if you did, I know not what else I could say to you, but to recommend it to you to be a good boy, to pay attention to your tutor, to carry yourself dutifully to your grandfather, mother and aunt, to recollect that you are but a child in age and understanding, and in a word to mind your book and say your prayers. Now go up to your mother; she expects you in her bed chamber; tread softly, (do you mind) and be careful of alarming her, for, though she bore parting from me with perfect tranquillity, the least noise will shake her nerves, and throw her into tremors.
I shall observe your caution, sir, the youth replied; but if it is your pleasure that I should attend upon you again before you take your departure, I will simply pay my duty to my mother, and wait upon you to your carriage.
No, no, child, cried the father, there is no occasion for that ceremony. I don’t wish any body to attend upon me to my carriage, but the servant, that goes with me.
The disappointed youth cast a parting look of sensibility on his father, bowed respectfully and left the room.
I perceive, son Philip, said the old gentleman, that, nearly allied as you are to my grandson John, you are not acquainted with his manly character, when you talk to him as to a child—but of this we will say no more—so long as I have life his education will be my care, and at my death it will be found I have not been less careful of his interest. You are now going to the continent, and I sincerely wish you health and a pleasant tour; but if you calculate upon Mrs. De Lancaster’s chance of ever reaching Montpelier, I greatly fear you will be disappointed, and I therefore recommend it to you to postpone providing an establishment for her there or elsewhere, till you are further advised from us. Your equipage I see is waiting, and nothing remains for me, but to bid you heartily farewell.
This said, they both rose, embraced and parted never to meet again.
CHAPTER VI.
Dark Doings at the Abbey of Penruth.
When long disease hath sapped the vital powers, and death creeps on by painless slow approaches, the mind is oftentimes observed to assume a dignified composure, and even an elevation of sentiment, which did not appear to belong to it in the body’s better health: so it was with the mother of our hero. She was reposing on her couch with Cecilia sitting by her side, and when her son approached raised herself up to receive him—I am delighted to see you, my dear child, she said, and I hope your grandfather will consent to your residing in the castle for the very short time I have yet to live: though I have little strength to hold discourse with you, yet it is a consolation to know you are within my call, and that, so long as sight is not taken from me, I may gratify that sense—nay, my beloved son, don’t shed a tear for me—rather rejoice that I am drawing near to the end of a dull journey, joyless at the best, and not less wearisome to others than to myself. I have parted from your father: if he persuades himself that I shall follow him, it is a harmless delusion; if he does not, it is a commodious plea to escape a trouble, and exchange a melancholy scene for an amusing one; at all events, whatever object he may have in view, I hope that you, who have never experienced his care, will have no occasion to lament his absence.
To this John made some answer not necessary to record, when by a signal from his aunt understanding that his mother stood in need of silence and repose, he took the hint and quietly departed. The project of his passing a few weeks with Mr. Wilson at the parsonage was now laid aside, and in compliance with his mother’s wishes, he resumed his station and his studies at the castle, holding himself ever ready to obey her summons, when she wished to see him.
The next morning brought Sir Arthur Floyd once more to the castle. He came to ask the favour of young De Lancaster’s company at his own house, and that he would allow his servant Williams to attend together with lawyer Davis, who would provide himself with the deposition of Sir David’s feeder. It was matter of no small regret to the good old man that these gentlemen were so resolute to persist in their investigation of this odious business, but having pledged his word, he would not retract it, and young John who had not all those repugnant feelings, which his grandfather had, was speedily equipped, and having put himself under the convoy of Sir Arthur Floyd, soon found himself in his conductor’s house, and greeted with all possible politeness by the gentlemen there assembled. Sir David Owen was not yet arrived, and some began to doubt if he would attend the meeting. At length he was discovered coming down the avenue, followed by his huntsman and his groom, himself and his attendants being in the uniform of the hunt.