When Twm had any leisure or reflection, his mind was occupied with but one subject, so that at this period of his life he could hardly be said to be a man of many ideas. This remark applies only to the time when he indulged in retired country rambles, or when he was in the solitude of his own apartment. Confront him with any specimen of male humanity extant, and his faculties returned in all their natural vigour, and success generally attended his enterprises.
As before related, the moment he first set his eyes on the remarkable and pleasing countenance of the lady of Ystrad Feen, he felt a conviction that it was not the first time that he experienced the pleasurable sensation that then pervaded his whole soul. His continued intercourse with her during his prolonged stay stubbornly maintained his first conviction that they had met before; but when, where, and under what circumstances, he could not discover. At length, when the mind had been repeatedly fatigued with these vain tuggings at the nerve of memory, although compelled by exhaustion to give up the point, it was only for a season, to be resumed on the first opportunity for putting his powers of recollection again into practice.
After analyzing these mental enquiries with the closest precision, he came to the successive negative conclusions, that he could not possibly have seen her either at Graspacre Hall, at Inco Evan’s, nor, most assuredly, at the cottage of his mother. “Then, where on earth else?” muttered he, wiping his moist brow, which was a little fevered by the intensity of his labours in this mental research. Determined, for his future ease, to dismiss the thought altogether, he answered himself peevishly, “nowhere, surely, but in the land of dreams.”
Yes, indeed, this chance thought provided him with the key so long sought, to his remembrance of the face and form of his charming hostess, for scarcely had he uttered those talismanic words than they acted on his memory like Ithuriel’s spear;—the sentence fell like a flash of fire on the touch-spring of the whole mystery, and flashed in full effulgence, illuminating fully his long-darkened powers of recollection!
Little had he thought of putting to himself what appeared so vain a query, whether it was at Morris Greeg’s home of misery that he had beheld the never-to-be-forgotten face of beauty and intellect—but at length he traced it! And, of all places in the world, the most unfitting to be associated with it—the murky hay-loft of Cwm y Wern Ddu: in short mysterious still as the inference gave out, Lady Devereaux, in every glance, feature, and movement, was indeed the spirit of his glorious vision—the lady of his dream!
Thoroughly absorbed by this unexpected and most interesting discovery, he forgot altogether the lapse of time, and was startled by the sudden appearance of Sir George by his bed side. The friendly baronet inquired with much concern, if he was unwell, as they had been waiting breakfast for him full half an hour. On being assured of the contrary, and that he had only overslept himself, Sir George hastened down with the glad tidings, as the whole family feared the consequence of his temerity on the day before.
Our hero was soon among them, tendering his apologies, and parrying the graceful banterings and rallyings of the ladies, who rated him playfully for a sluggard and a lie-abed. The baronet soon recurred to the punishment inflicted by our hero on the intolerable vanity and presumption of the London buck. A knock at the parlour door checked the current of his discourse, and, on permission being given, in walked that little comical undersized fellow, familiarly called Tommy Thomas, the second whipper-in, with a face of ruefully long dimensions.
After a very worshipful bow, accompanied with many a bodily turn and twist, while his fingers wandered among the regions of his head and his whiskers, it turned out that honest Tom Thomas came to report a calamitous visitation that had befallen this very respectable house. During this worthy functionary’s absence at Llandovery, yesterday, (of course his stay was not prolonged by his curiosity to examine the quality of the different taps there!) he said that some audacious villain had been to the stable, and stolen all the food which he had purchased for the hounds.
“What food—what food?” inquired the baronet; for everything was important to him that was in any way connected with his darling hounds. “Why look you now, I wass py an oil plind mare for ten shillings and two quarts of beer from a travelling packman that wass sold off his goots, and not want her agen; so I did pargen for hur, see you now, and wass paay for hur, and dit put hur in te stapples, for foots for te hounce; and look you now, some loucey peggar wass steal hur.”
All the party except the baronet laughed heartily at this intimation; but our hero soon relieved both Sir George and honest Tommy Thomas, by informing the latter that his bargain was to be found at the bottom of the Craig Ddu ravine; on which the poor fellow joyfully withdrew. Twm immediately called him back, and astonished him with the present of a broad piece, in company with divers smaller silver coins, in acknowledgment that his precious bargain had enabled him to win his bet from the Londoner.