“As soon as I regain the use of my limbs, I shall look out for a suitable abode for Mrs. De Lancaster in this delicious place, where I promise myself a high entertainment in surveying the dilapidations and disorders occasioned by the great earthquake, which has made the town a heap of interesting ruins.
“I have written you a long letter, so, with my duty to my father and regards to all at home, I conclude myself, dear sister,
“Your very faithful servant
and loving brother,
“Philip De Lancaster.”
CHAPTER III.
Mr. Philip De Lancaster in his Hotel at Lisbon receives the News of his Lady’s Death, and is visited by Sir David Ap Owen. The Consequences of that Interview are related.
If this letter was read by our hero with mixed impressions of vexation and disgust it is little to be wondered at, for certainly no character less extravagantly absurd than that of Philip could have dictated such a narrative in a serious mood and without varying from the truth of fact. The intelligence of his wife’s decease was now gone to him at Lisbon, and the consequences, that might ensue from the fatal weakness of his intellect and the interested cunning of the widow Owen were very seriously to be apprehended.
His natural indolence still kept him a voluntary prisoner in his hotel at Buenos Ayres and under the hands of his surgeon, though he had no longer any need of surgical assistance. When Cecilia’s letter reached his hands he was sitting, in all the costuma of a wounded invalid, in a bed-gown and night-cap, with his leg, that, having once been bruised, had not forfeited its privilege, resting on a stool provided with an easy cushion. Having perused the contents, he deliberately folded up the letter, laid it on the table before him, and, reclining back in his chair, surrendered himself to a kind of drowsy meditation on the solemn nature of the event, now communicated to him: at length, being in the habit talking more confidentially to himself than to any other person, he murmured out the following reflections, as they presented themselves to his mind without order or connection.
“I thought she had not long to live. I was prepared for the event. It was naturally to be expected, and Llewellyn himself seemed to cherish very feeble hopes. Death is common; she is dead, and all the medicines she has taken have been of no avail; even music could not save her. Well! I have done my duty; witness the incredible pains and trouble I have taken to seek out a suitable climate and commodious house for her to winter in: one of these after infinite labour I had happily discovered, and the other I was using unabating diligence to provide for her. As things have turned out I might have spared myself this voyage; but no matter—It is some consolation to reflect that I have done what I could; and if my travels have not proved serviceable to her, for whose sake I undertook them, they have not been totally unprofitable or unpleasurable to me; for, with the exception only of the surfeit I got of salt-fish, and the bruises I suffered by shipwreck, I passed my time very comfortably at sea, and if I have not seen any thing worth my notice on shore, I have been at least where it was to be seen, and that is something for a man of curiosity like mine to reflect upon with satisfaction. Now that I am a widower, and only in the noon of life, people will be saying to me—Why don’t you marry again? This I am to expect, but who can judge for me so well as I can for myself? Nobody knows what matrimony is but those who have undergone the trial. A man may risque it once in the way of an experiment, but to repeat it is a sacrifice to posterity and a compliment to the sex, which I am not disposed to make. No, no; I must not come on there any more. Let me do Mrs. De Lancaster the justice to confess, that there was an accommodating lassitude in her, a hypochondriac inertness, a congelation of all the volatile humours, harmonizing so entirely with my feelings, that I despair of finding any second wife so happily endowed; I dare not trust myself with the widow Ap Owen: she has indeed many excellent endowments; and in spite of all my family can say against her I will maintain my opinion of her as a very elegant engaging woman, aye, and one, that in many respects is entirely to my taste, but then (oh Heaven and earth!) her eyes are so quick, her voice so shrill, her spirit so high and her health alas! so alarmingly good, that I could never promise myself a life of ease with her—No, no; she will not suit.”
Just as he had struck upon this ante-hymeneal sentiment Sir David Ap Owen came into his room—I am this instant arrived from Cintra, he said, where in the loveliest spot upon the habitable globe I have been entertained in a princely style by a gentleman of the factory, Devereux by name, diamond contractor with the court of Portugal, and universally looked up to as a man nobly descended and of great wealth. He has one son, who jointly conducts his business, and one daughter, who to the recommendation of a very handsome person adds that of a very considerable fortune: In short, I have some thoughts of the girl, and in consequence of that idea have a small favour to require of you.
Name it, Sir David.
Simply to take an opportunity of calling on Mr. Devereux, and in the course of conversation naturally to say, that you know me to be what I am—A man of honour, fortune and of high respectability on the score of family. This is what I want from you, friend Philip, and all I want from any man. You know it to be true and of course will have no difficulty in averring it. I am a stranger in this country: impostors have assumed names and titles, and Devereux, being a trader, is a cautious man. Come, sir, put on your clothes, and accompany me directly: my carriage is in waiting: as for your leg, it has been well these three weeks.