In the breakfast-room the whole family were assembled. In the countenances of the several parties any man of common sagacity might have read the several feelings. Old De Lancaster struggled hard to maintain a firm and dignified tranquillity, and if he did at any time betray symptoms of occasional embarrassment, it was only to show that his philosophy did not absolutely desert him. The person, whose thoughts seemed to be most disengaged, was the gallant Major, who just then had the most to do; for the ordering and arranging of the whole cavalcade had been assigned over to him, and the alacrity, with which he executed his authority over men, horses and carriages, left him no time for those tender sentiments and concerns, that seemed to occupy every body else. Life and spirit animated him; silence and sadness dwelt on all the rest.
Here was an opportunity for an orator to avail himself of, and an audience to his heart’s content most happily disposed to hear him: but Mr. De Lancaster let it go by for reasons no doubt best known to himself. He did indeed take occasion to impart a few words to Edward Wilson when he came into the room; but they were only for his private ear. The ladies kept their station in the back ground, and as much out of sight as they could contrive. Devereux had very sensibly committed his adieus to paper, and left them in the hands of Mr. De Lancaster’s servant to be delivered to him at his better leisure. At length Major Wilson in a sprightly tone announced all ready; Devereux’s travelling coach was first at the door, and appointed to lead; himself with John and the two Wilsons were by the major’s order billeted upon it; our hero halted a few minutes, after his companions had taken leave, to bid farewell to the beloved objects of his duty and affection; after which, having presented himself at the door of the coach, where his three friends were already seated, he made his parting acknowledgments to the crowd, who were invoking blessings in his behalf; and passed the outward gate of the castle with those sensations and in that kind of triumph, which only virtue can deserve, and gratitude alone bestow.
When Colonel Wilson, who had gone to the hall-door with his sons, returned to the breakfast-room, the ladies had departed, and he found the two grandfathers left in silent sadness to themselves. De Lancaster was in a meditative posture, with his elbow rested on the arm of his chair, and his head reclined upon his hand. Poor old Morgan was wetting a crust of bread with his tears, whilst he was mumbling it with his teeth. When he had pretty nearly settled the controversy between swallowing, coughing and choaking, he turned a look upon Wilson, and said—
Brother soldier, there is nothing in this world, for which I so much envy you as for that piece of wood, that you wear as a supplement to your composition, and is one part of you at least, which is totally devoid of feeling. I always knew you were what we call heart of oak, but I did not till now know that you had an oaken heart. Look at me. Did you ever see such a blubbering beast as I have made of myself? By the life of me, Wilson, you are a fine gay fellow, and can have neither water in your head, nor water at your heart, else methinks you would have pumped up some of it upon this occasion. May I perish, if I don’t suspect you have got an hydrophobia in your eyes: at least, I am sure you will never die of Niobe’s disease—all tears.
I hope not, Colonel Wilson replied; yet to such tears as you shed I cannot object, forasmuch as they convince me I was not mistaken, when I set you down as a very tender-hearted man, though you was pleased to represent yourself as something without any heart at all. When I now find you weeping without cause; what would you do, if you had cause? Why, man, you would drown yourself in tears. Old fellows like me rarely out-live old habits, let them live as long as they may. I have been a poor soldier at the command of other people, and bandied up and down, all my life long. If I had wit enough to understand my duty, I never wanted will to undertake it; in this light I look upon this trip of your grandson’s as a call of duty made upon him by his father, who according to the laws of nature is properly his commanding officer, though Heaven know he is as little proper for a command as any non-effective officer can be, though you rummaged the whole shelf to search for him. And now give me leave, my good friend, to ask you, whether you lament over his absence because he is out upon his duty, or because he can’t go there and stay here at one and the same time. Convince me only that he went away from us when he might honourably have staid at home, and I will own you have good reason to lament his absence. In the mean time I confess to you that I do not conceive our dear John De Lancaster to be more in the way of danger upon this expedition, and with those friends, than he would be on his horse’s back on a chace after a paltry fox, which it is no part of his duty to pursue, nor any proof of his merit to overtake.
Whilst the Colonel had been thus haranguing, Mr. De Lancaster had shifted his meditative posture, and paid attention to what was passing: He now took up the argument, and replied—Enough said, my good Colonel, enough said! You have a right to argue for duty, having yourself uniformly obeyed and fulfilled it, as an officer and a gentleman. My brother Morgan does not want to be convinced that his grandson is gone upon an honourable errand; but you are well aware, that the painful and enfeebling illness, with which he has been visited, will naturally shake even the firmest and the bravest spirit.
In my own particular I am not a man prone to shed tears: If I were, I confess to you, Colonel Wilson, I should be sooner thrown into the melting mood by the contemplation of a generous act, or noble sentiment, than by the pathos of a tragedy, or the pity-moving lamentations of a desponding lover, or a whining mendicant.
A servant now delivered the letter Devereux had left for Mr. De Lancaster, who read as follows.—
“Sir,
“The hospitality and kindness I have experienced at Kray-Castle have made an impression on my mind, that can never be obliterated. The purposes of my coming to England have been completely obtained, and I am now returning to my family fully armed with evidence, not only to rescue them from any chance of a disgraceful connection, but also prepared to co-operate with your amiable grandson and his friends in their measures for averting the like disgrace from you and your respectable and ancient house. Believe me, Sir, this will be a task, that can involve no representative of your’s in either difficulty or danger; for I can confidently assure you that upon my father’s statement of the case to the minister of Portugal, that court will not permit a fugitive from the laws of his country, more especially a British subject, to avail himself of its protection for escaping with impunity; much less will it be allowed him to enforce a bond illegally obtained for purposes the most inadmissible and outrageously unfair.