It struck our hero, that it would be well to make the benevolent bishop acquainted with his tale, and take his advice; with which suggestion, Mr. Martyn entirely agreed.
“The Bishop,” observed the latter, “is an early man, generally, and will, no doubt, be the first to call this morning.” While they were yet speaking, a servant announced Sir John Wynn’s carriage; and before Mr. Martyn could reply, or rise from his chair, Sir John Wynn entered. Martyn, rising with a bland countenance, met the Baronet’s advances with courtesy, if not cordiality. Our hero having retired to the window, was unseen by Sir John, although Twm seized the opportunity of exercising all his powers of observation.
“Well, I am the first in the field, I see,” observed the Baronet; “and now, my dear Mr. Martyn, let me again impress you with the sense of the wrongs I endured from this ungrateful Priest, this Bishop of my own making.” “My dear Sir John,” replied Martyn, “he may arrive this instant, and then see how unseemly it will be to find you touching on the case before his arrival, and me your unbiassed umpire.”
“Oh, Martyn, Martyn!” replied the Baronet, disregarding the delicacy of the appeal, “there is no grief like the grief of unkindness; he rewarded me with evil for good, to the great discomfort of my soul. I may well say so, and justly complain to you of my Lord of St. Asaph, who, besides what his ancestors received of mine, is in many matters beholden to me. My mind is eased by opening to you his hard dealings with me, and my benefits towards him;—but who is that?”
Our hero, feeling the awkwardness of his situation, had coughed gently, to inform the gentleman of his presence, and while making towards the door, was not ungracefully apologizing for his presence. He stopped as Mr. Martyn took his hand, and replied, “A young countryman of yours, Sir John; or, I should say, a South Walian, whom I beg leave to introduce to you as my friend.”
“Ha, ha!” cried Sir John, with his constitutional heartiness, “a young Welshman, a countryman of my own; your hand, Sir!” and the old gentleman shook it with a friendly feeling towards his country, if not the individual. “I could have sworn,” continued Sir John, “he was a native of our glorious mountain land, by his frank open countenance, and healthy look, unlike your suet-pudding-faced cockneys here.”
A servant answering the bell, Mr. Martyn desired that his son should show his guest to the picture gallery, on which our hero withdrew, with a tear in his eye which he found it impossible to suppress, when he felt the pressure of his father’s hand.
The parlour door being closed, Martyn recounted briefly our hero’s adventures, in bringing him a considerable sum of money, from Carmarthenshire. Sir John gave one of his most loud and hearty laughs, when he heard how he outwitted the notorious Tom Dorbell. But when he related his part in the rescue of the Bishop, at the imminent peril of his life, the Baronet grew serious; but giving way to his spleen against the prelate, he replied, “I wish he had saved some one more worthy of his bravery!—but, Martyn, I must be better acquainted with this gallant. A brave young Welshman like this, should be known, noted, and patronized! but perhaps he has abundance of friends without my thought of him.”
“Not so, Sir John, he is a stranger in London, and almost friendless anywhere,—he is a natural son; but you may hear his history hereafter,” replied Mr. Martyn, almost pointedly, as he fixed his eyes on the Baronet.
This was not unobserved by him, as he smiled, and said, “You mean something, Martyn; but let it pass for the present; so let us proceed with this matter of mine.”