It was to the romantic little tenement, which John De Lancaster in his bounty had bestowed upon Ap Rees, he now proceeded with his companion Devereux, pondering by the way upon the wretched situation of his helpless father, and devising means how to overcome the difficulties, that he foresaw would assail him in his project for leaving England. He could as yet see no way through the labyrinth of obstacles, that from all quarters would be opposed to his departure; and of these the sorrows of Amelia, though probably the least obtrusive, were by no means the least to be apprehended, or the easiest to surmount.
The information he could gain from Devereux did not in all points satisfy his curiosity; for Sir David Ap Owen had said nothing to him of the menaces he employed for obtaining the bond, and with Philip he had had but one interview, which disclosed still less of what John wanted to be explained than the letter, which he had been reading.
As they went on their way discoursing, the cottage of Ap Rees in all its rural loveliness caught the eyes of Devereux, and caused him to break forth in rapturous admiration of it—We are going thither, said our hero. That is the habitation of the minstrel Ap Rees, who from his childhood has been domesticated in the Ap Owen family, and is, as you will soon discover, a person of no ordinary talents; and although now old and blind, and (which is worse than both) broken-hearted by misfortunes, yet is he second to none that our country has to boast of, either as harmonist or bard.
Alas! said Devereux, old and blind and full of sorrows, with feelings yet alive to every pang they give him, what accumulated misery must his be! Heavy enough, I should conceive, must be his loss, who cannot see the beauties of this lovely spot, nor gratify his senses with the scenery, that nature in the wantonness of her luxuriance spreads around him. But doubtless it is to the bounty of the heir of the Ap Owens, that he owes these comforts, this asylum for old age to rest in, till Providence shall graciously be pleased to terminate his sorrows, and close those eyes in death, that are already merged in darkness and despair.
’Tis natural, John replied, that you should so conjecture: but no Ap Owen gave him that asylum.
To whom then does he owe it?
No answer was given to this question; and now the notes of the harp, accompanied by the voice, caused them to stop and listen at the wicket of the little plat of grass, that for a few yards ran sloping down from the cottage. The harmony was of the most pathetic, sad and solemn cast, delicately touched by the hand of the master, but of the words they could distinguish few, expect that by a passage more strongly given out than the rest, they concluded it to be the lamentation of a father at the funeral of his child.
He ceased and all was silent in the house—’Tis exquisite, said Devereux; but pray don’t ask him to repeat it. I should not like to see him, and to hear him at the same time—John walked up to the house-door, opened it gently, and entered the room, followed by Devereux.
The old man had replaced himself in his elbow chair; his son Robert had put away his harp, and in a corner of the room apart sate a young woman, who held her white apron to her eyes, and appeared to be weeping.
As soon as Robert announced Mr. John De Lancaster Ap Rees rose from his seat, and with his claspt hands pressed upon his bosom, bowed his head and exclaimed—The Providence of Heaven be with you, my most honoured benefactor! Are you come to visit your poor beadsman? Oh, that I could see you! With the benevolence of an angel in your heart I am sure you must have the divinity of an angel in your countenance.