It would not be right.
It would be rascally: for suppose I was to say to her thus—because I abound in money myself, I won’t marry you unless you abound also; what sort of a reason would that be? Or again, because I am a plain gentleman, and you are quite as well born as myself, in short, in every respect my equal, therefore I must seek for something higher—I must not disappoint the expectation of my friends; I must not do what is unbecoming of my situation—How would that sound? What kind of opinion would you form of a man, who should act and argue in that way? You would despise him, Amelia; you would say to him in earnest what you say to me in jest—Don’t let us meet, if it be possible to avoid it: should I come to visit your family, take care not to be at home—Ah Amelia, Amelia, if so you wished to have disposed of me, why did not you contrive to make your visit to Kray Castle, as my aunt proposed to you, when you knew I could not be there?
Nay, that is not a fair question, she replied: why do I think these minutes happier than any I have passed, since last we met in this room together?—Here the conversation no longer turned upon interrogatories: it was not of the nature of argumentation or discussion; it would elude short-hand; for the pauses, when no words were interchanged, were employed in contemplating the miniature, affixing it to the chain, and adjusting it to the pearly neck of the fair possessor, which, with other businesses of not less moment, occupied the thoughts of the parties, till Mrs. Jennings made her entrance, and announced to John De Lancaster that a young man, who called himself the son of Ap Rees, the minstrel of Penruth, was waiting and extremely urgent to be admitted; a wish, that was immediately complied with.
The agony of the young man’s mind was visible in his countenance. It was with some difficulty that our hero recognized him; but in the same moment that he recalled him to his memory, he received him in the kindest manner, put him at his ease and made him sit down—I saw you ride into town, said the poor fellow, and I traced you to this house: I was a long time doubtful about venturing to ask for you; but you have an excellent character for kindness and benevolence to your inferiors, and the story of the poor soldier, who died in your house, encouraged me to believe, that the pity you bestowed upon a traveller and a stranger, you would not withhold from an ancient Briton and a neighbour: Besides, sir, I remember when my father Robin Ap Rees performed at Kray Castle, and sister and I came upon the platform in the great hall with him—Yes, sure enough, I remember how good you was to my poor Nancy, when shame overcame her, and she was like to faint—Ah, sir, worse shame has overcome her now: the direst villain breathing has undone her: she is crazed; she has attempted her own life; she is dying: that Jew David Owen is her murderer: but I’ll follow him through the world; he is out of the law’s reach, but not out of mine: as soon as I have laid poor Nancy in her grave, I’ll after him across the seas, and when, or wheresoever I can light upon him, that moment shall be his last.
Stop, friend, said John De Lancaster, you let your passion run away with you, and don’t know what you are saying. I can guess the injury, that has been done to your sister, but what are the facts, that so particularly criminate Sir David Owen? Recite them simply, if you please; give me nothing but the truth exactly stated; no invective, Mr. Ap Rees, no aggravation.
Why, you must know, sir, said the appellant, that after the old baronet’s death father wished for Nancy to go out to service; so there came a lady to the Abbey to visit Sir David, or Sir David’s mother, I can’t say which: she seemed to be mightily taken with Nancy, and being a single lady hired her to be about her person, promising to educate and take care of her. She seemed a motherly kind of person, sure enough, and very affable. So when the lady’s own chariot drove up to the door, and Nancy was told to step into it with her mistress, father thought, and so did I, that it was a famous thing for his daughter—Alas, a-day! There is no looking into people’s hearts. Little did we think, that it was all a deep-laid plot to ruin a poor Innocent.
Proceed with your narrative, John repeated, and don’t digress into comments and remarks, that, if you want my assistance, only prevent me from tendering it to you by taking up my time unprofitably, and puzzling my understanding.
I ask your pardon, sir, Ap Rees replied; I should have gone on to say, that after two days travelling my sister was set down at a lone cottage, where she believed herself at a considerable distance from the Abbey, when in fact the tour she had taken was projected purposely to deceive her into that persuasion. After a few days passed in perfect solitude Sir David Owen appeared as a visitor to the lady of the cottage, when by their joint contrivances, too horrible to relate, they first succeeded in depriving my unhappy sister of her reason, and then accomplished their infernal triumph over her innocence. In this state of mental derangement she was kept for some time, not totally devoid of short intervals of recollection, in one of which she thinks she saw you, sir; but probably it was only her fancy, for there is no road, that could have led you to the house.
I have reason to believe she is not mistaken, John replied! but no matter. I can now anticipate in some degree the tragic end of your afflicting narrative. Sir David Owen has left the kingdom, and made no provision for your sister’s comfort—she is destitute, distracted, dying—your father is old, blind and broken-hearted, and you are young, torn with rage, burning for revenge, and perhaps not in a capacity to furnish those medical and immediate aids, which the pitiable situation of your suffering sister unintermittingly demands. I take all that upon myself: I’ll do it instantly without delay: The victim of man’s villainy shall not want a friend. Nancy Ap Rees, the blushing Innocent, whom I supported in my arms, and was insulted for my officiousness, shall now, in the last stage of her distress, and to the last moment of her life, find my unqualified and full support: therefore lead me to her directly wheresoever she is—If in town, let us hasten to her on foot; if out of town, I have horses ready for myself and you—set out at once!