Many were the villages and suburbs through which they passed, before the lady, breaking a silence which had endured some time, exclaimed, “The stones of London, at last, my Lord.”
The worthy prelate directed his coachman to drive to Mr. Martyn’s; and, in a brief space, the carriage stopped at a large, lofty, and many gabled house, opposite to St. Andrew’s Church, in Holborn, where Twm was put down, and kindly received by Mr. Martyn, who helped him from the bishop’s coach. His lordship observed that he was waited for by his brother, the Bishop of London, at Lambeth Palace; briefly referred to the business of the morrow, kindly shook hands with our hero, as did the young lady and the chaplain, each repeating their acknowledgments, and when the carriage drove off, Twm Shon Catty was ceremoniously ushered into the fine town-house of Mr. Martyn.
TWM, at last, face to face with his paternal parent. A little scene between a Baronet and a Bishop. Twm’s particular star brightens.
When it became known that Twm was the bearer of money from the baronet to Mr. Martyn, that he had rescued the bishop of St. Asaph and party, and that he was the hero of many other encounters with daring highwaymen, he became quite a lion in the house, was regarded as a fine specimen of a Welshman, and, in homely language, was “made much of.”
Previous to the sound slumber that soon overcame his softly-pillow’d head, he pondered much on what he had heard of his reputed father, and felt his mind strongly impressed with the idea that the coming morrow teemed with events that would cast their shade or sunshine on his future days.
In a dream that followed, he found himself in the presence of a passionate little gentleman who threatened him with terrible vengeance, unless he returned to the house of Morris Greeg, and gave his hand in marriage to the amiable daughter Shaan; and he thought he discovered in a murky recess, a parrot-nosed sprite, resembling Moses, who was grinning at his dilemma; when the lady of his former dream appeared suddenly, and smiled like an angel on the churlish old man, who forthwith smiled again, when Ianto Gwyn stood forth with his harp; on which he joined her in a Welsh jig. Then came a long and dreamless sleep, which at length was broken by the numerous clocks of London, clamorously informing its citizens of the seventh hour of a new day.