Chapter Twenty Five.

Chapter Twenty Five.In Council of War.The man who had succeeded Colonel Essex in the governorship of Bristol was well, even enthusiastically, affected to the Parliamentary cause. Beyond that, he was altogether unfitted for the trust reposed in him. A lawyer before becoming soldier, he better understood the marshalling of arguments than armies, and, though a man of grave, serious thought, his passionate temper gave offence to friends as foes, oft thwarting his best intentions. Fortunately he had around him men of greater military capacity and experience, by whose counsels he was, to some extent, controlled—officers who had seen service in the Low Countries, Sweden, and Germany—among them Sir Richard Walwyn.How the knight came to be in Bristol—Eustace Trevor too—may need making known. At the breaking out of hostilities, when blood began to flow, the Dean Foresters were, in a way, taken by surprise, and for a time overpowered. In addition to their old enemy, Sir John Wintour, threatening them on the south, they had to contend with the strong and well-disciplined force of Lord Herbert on the west; while Harry Lingen, a man of more capability than either—as a partisan leader unsurpassed—had commenced harassing them from the Herefordshire side.Seeing he would be unable to hold ground against such odds, Sir Richard, who had hastily got together a body of horse, withdrew it from the Forest, and joined the main force of the Parliament, which confronted that of the King. At the time the two armies were manoeuvring in Worcestershire, Warwick, and Salop, every day expecting to come into collision, which they did soon after at Edgehill—a drawn battle, with feats of daring on both sides, and on both displays of abject cowardice.The men commanded by Sir Richard Walwyn were not chargeable with this last; instead, on that day distinguishable by the first, having performed prodigies of valour. Since then he and his Foresters had shown themselves on other fields, and done other gallant deeds, till the troop of horse, with the “big sergeant,” had become a name of terror to the Royalist soldiers. Even Rupert’s pick Cavaliers would have shied encounter with it, unless they knew themselves in the proportion of two to one.By the drift of events, this small but efficient body became part of the garrison of Bristol—disagreeable duty to the Foresters, but forced upon them by the chances of war.So in Bristol we now find them, with their commanding officer Sir Richard, their “big sergeant” Rob Wilde, and for one of their captains the ex-gentleman-usher, Eustace Trevor. To explain his presence there and position it needs but referring back to his words spoken in that hour when Lunsford was hammering at the door of Hollymead House.Reverting to the new governor, we must give him the credit of endeavour to do his best—that at least. Entering upon the office full of hope and spirit, he was correspondingly vigorous in the execution of its duties. And as there had been no time for his enthusiasm to get cool, or his vigour to become relaxed, before that 7th of March—but a few days after Essex had been clapped under arrest—Fiennes was in the very blush of energetic activity. Not dining, wining, and dancing, as his predecessor would have been, in the company of gay Cavaliers, and light-hearted, as light-headed ladies; but within one of the reception rooms of the castle, holding counsel with half-a-score of grave men—chiefly commanding officers of the troops that composed the garrison of the city.All were impressed with the seriousness of the situation, feeling themselves, if not actually besieged, likely soon to be. From without, reports were pouring in, daily, hourly, of reverses sustained by the Parliamentarians. The capture and massacre at Cirencester, the surrendering of Malmesbury, Tewkesbury, and Devizes, with the abandonment of Sudley and Berkeley Castles,—all adverse events, following in quick succession as the blows of a hammer,—were enough to alarm the new governor and the men in consultation with him.The more, from their belief that in all likelihood Bristol would be the next point aimed at by the now victorious Royalists. For they knew it was the quarry these would most like to stoop at and kill. Ever since the commencement of hostilities, it and Gloucester had been very thorns in the side of the Royalist party; both cities being storehouses of war material, and other effects conducive to the supply of its sinews. But chiefly the great seaport, at once door of entry and key to the rich Severn Valley—with its towns and villages up to Shrewsbury—while also commanding the commerce and intercourse with South Wales.Rupert, now at the head of a considerable body of troops, held all the open country from the Severn up to Oxford, raiding over and ravaging it at will. But the rumour had got ground that he meant soon to engage in something more than mere skirmishing warfare, by making a dash at Bristol, either to attempt taking that city by assault, or laying siege to it.The assemblage of officers at the Castle was in consequence of this rumour, which had just reached the Governor’s ears, and he had hastily called them together to have their views and advice upon what steps had best be taken in the contingency—should it occur.But, as already made known, something more than the enemy without called for their consideration. The egg of treason, which had been hatching under Essex’s too lenient rule, was not an addled one. The vile bird was still vigorous within it, threatening to break the shell. A gleam of warmth and hope, the touch of a helping hand, and it would burst forth full fledged, ready to tear with beak and talons.On this night Nathaniel Fiennes was unusually excited; angry at the difficult task left him by his predecessor, just as might the Earl of Ripon be with Lord Lytton, that ass in lion’s skin—now politically defunct—for demising him the legacy of Afghanistan.But the lawyer-soldier, however worried and over-weighted, was not either dismayed or discouraged. After listening to what his fellow counsellors had to say, and giving his own views, he exclaimed in conclusion, and determinedly:“Before our enemies enter Bristol they’ll have to pass over my dead body!”“And mine, too!” “And mine!” were echoes of like patriotic resolve.All emphatic, though not all sincere; for the loudest of them came from the lips of a man who least meant what he said. Even then, Colonel Langrish was contemplating the treason he afterwards perpetrated.No one present so quietly declared himself as Sir Richard Walwyn. A man more of deeds than words, such pompous proclamation was averse to his nature, and pompous, so far as regarded Fiennes, it afterwards proved. For the enemydidenter Bristol, not over his dead body, nor even fiercely fighting with him, but by surrender, facile, and so much like being criminal, that the lawyer-soldier was himself cast into prison, not by foes, but those hitherto his friends; afterwards tried for his life, and let off as the son of Lord Saye and Sele, though without leave to play at soldiering any more. But we anticipate.Returning to the conference in the Castle, it had well-nigh reached conclusion, when the usher in charge of the door entered to announce a party seeking audience of the Governor, to whom alone the communication was made.“Who are they?” demanded Fiennes.“I don’t know, your Excellency. They’re still outside the gate. The guard-corporal brought the message—he’s at the door.”“Bring him in!”The abrupt order was with promptness executed; and in twenty seconds after, the corporal of the castle guard stood before the Governor, saluting in military style.“Who are these wishing to speak with me?” asked the latter.“I only know one of them, your Excellency,” returned the corporal. “That’s Sergeant Wilde, of the Forest of Dean troop—Sir Richard Walwyn’s. The other two are a short man and a tall woman—very tall she is. The man has a wooden leg.”“If I’m not mistaken, Colonel Fiennes,” interposed Sir Richard, who, standing by, overheard what the corporal had said, “I know all the party. And as my sergeant, Wilde, appears to be one of them, I’ll answer for the honesty of their purpose in seeking an interview with you, whatever it be.”“Let them be brought in?” commanded the Governor—“all three.”At which the guard-corporal, once more saluting, made “about face,” and with the usher disappeared from the room.“Who are they, Sir Richard?” asked the Governor, as the door was again closed.“By the description,” answered the knight, “I identify the short man and the very tall woman as cadgers, who follow their humble calling around the Forest of Dean; despite the reversed proportions in stature, being brother and sister.”“But what, think you, can they be wanting with me?”“That I can’t say, your Excellency. Though likely something of grave concern, or Rob Wilde wouldn’t be with them as their introducer. He isn’t the man to intrude, without serious purpose.”Their dialogue was interrupted by sounds in the hallway outside; a scraping and shuffling of heavily-shod feet, with something that resembled the strokes of a wooden mallet upon the stone flags, administered in regular repetition. It was no mystery, however, either to the Governor or the knight, both already aware that they were to see a man with a wooden leg.Which they did, as the door was again pushed open, and the usher entered for the third time, conducting in Jerky Jack and his sister, the sergeant bringing up the rear.

The man who had succeeded Colonel Essex in the governorship of Bristol was well, even enthusiastically, affected to the Parliamentary cause. Beyond that, he was altogether unfitted for the trust reposed in him. A lawyer before becoming soldier, he better understood the marshalling of arguments than armies, and, though a man of grave, serious thought, his passionate temper gave offence to friends as foes, oft thwarting his best intentions. Fortunately he had around him men of greater military capacity and experience, by whose counsels he was, to some extent, controlled—officers who had seen service in the Low Countries, Sweden, and Germany—among them Sir Richard Walwyn.

How the knight came to be in Bristol—Eustace Trevor too—may need making known. At the breaking out of hostilities, when blood began to flow, the Dean Foresters were, in a way, taken by surprise, and for a time overpowered. In addition to their old enemy, Sir John Wintour, threatening them on the south, they had to contend with the strong and well-disciplined force of Lord Herbert on the west; while Harry Lingen, a man of more capability than either—as a partisan leader unsurpassed—had commenced harassing them from the Herefordshire side.

Seeing he would be unable to hold ground against such odds, Sir Richard, who had hastily got together a body of horse, withdrew it from the Forest, and joined the main force of the Parliament, which confronted that of the King. At the time the two armies were manoeuvring in Worcestershire, Warwick, and Salop, every day expecting to come into collision, which they did soon after at Edgehill—a drawn battle, with feats of daring on both sides, and on both displays of abject cowardice.

The men commanded by Sir Richard Walwyn were not chargeable with this last; instead, on that day distinguishable by the first, having performed prodigies of valour. Since then he and his Foresters had shown themselves on other fields, and done other gallant deeds, till the troop of horse, with the “big sergeant,” had become a name of terror to the Royalist soldiers. Even Rupert’s pick Cavaliers would have shied encounter with it, unless they knew themselves in the proportion of two to one.

By the drift of events, this small but efficient body became part of the garrison of Bristol—disagreeable duty to the Foresters, but forced upon them by the chances of war.

So in Bristol we now find them, with their commanding officer Sir Richard, their “big sergeant” Rob Wilde, and for one of their captains the ex-gentleman-usher, Eustace Trevor. To explain his presence there and position it needs but referring back to his words spoken in that hour when Lunsford was hammering at the door of Hollymead House.

Reverting to the new governor, we must give him the credit of endeavour to do his best—that at least. Entering upon the office full of hope and spirit, he was correspondingly vigorous in the execution of its duties. And as there had been no time for his enthusiasm to get cool, or his vigour to become relaxed, before that 7th of March—but a few days after Essex had been clapped under arrest—Fiennes was in the very blush of energetic activity. Not dining, wining, and dancing, as his predecessor would have been, in the company of gay Cavaliers, and light-hearted, as light-headed ladies; but within one of the reception rooms of the castle, holding counsel with half-a-score of grave men—chiefly commanding officers of the troops that composed the garrison of the city.

All were impressed with the seriousness of the situation, feeling themselves, if not actually besieged, likely soon to be. From without, reports were pouring in, daily, hourly, of reverses sustained by the Parliamentarians. The capture and massacre at Cirencester, the surrendering of Malmesbury, Tewkesbury, and Devizes, with the abandonment of Sudley and Berkeley Castles,—all adverse events, following in quick succession as the blows of a hammer,—were enough to alarm the new governor and the men in consultation with him.

The more, from their belief that in all likelihood Bristol would be the next point aimed at by the now victorious Royalists. For they knew it was the quarry these would most like to stoop at and kill. Ever since the commencement of hostilities, it and Gloucester had been very thorns in the side of the Royalist party; both cities being storehouses of war material, and other effects conducive to the supply of its sinews. But chiefly the great seaport, at once door of entry and key to the rich Severn Valley—with its towns and villages up to Shrewsbury—while also commanding the commerce and intercourse with South Wales.

Rupert, now at the head of a considerable body of troops, held all the open country from the Severn up to Oxford, raiding over and ravaging it at will. But the rumour had got ground that he meant soon to engage in something more than mere skirmishing warfare, by making a dash at Bristol, either to attempt taking that city by assault, or laying siege to it.

The assemblage of officers at the Castle was in consequence of this rumour, which had just reached the Governor’s ears, and he had hastily called them together to have their views and advice upon what steps had best be taken in the contingency—should it occur.

But, as already made known, something more than the enemy without called for their consideration. The egg of treason, which had been hatching under Essex’s too lenient rule, was not an addled one. The vile bird was still vigorous within it, threatening to break the shell. A gleam of warmth and hope, the touch of a helping hand, and it would burst forth full fledged, ready to tear with beak and talons.

On this night Nathaniel Fiennes was unusually excited; angry at the difficult task left him by his predecessor, just as might the Earl of Ripon be with Lord Lytton, that ass in lion’s skin—now politically defunct—for demising him the legacy of Afghanistan.

But the lawyer-soldier, however worried and over-weighted, was not either dismayed or discouraged. After listening to what his fellow counsellors had to say, and giving his own views, he exclaimed in conclusion, and determinedly:

“Before our enemies enter Bristol they’ll have to pass over my dead body!”

“And mine, too!” “And mine!” were echoes of like patriotic resolve.

All emphatic, though not all sincere; for the loudest of them came from the lips of a man who least meant what he said. Even then, Colonel Langrish was contemplating the treason he afterwards perpetrated.

No one present so quietly declared himself as Sir Richard Walwyn. A man more of deeds than words, such pompous proclamation was averse to his nature, and pompous, so far as regarded Fiennes, it afterwards proved. For the enemydidenter Bristol, not over his dead body, nor even fiercely fighting with him, but by surrender, facile, and so much like being criminal, that the lawyer-soldier was himself cast into prison, not by foes, but those hitherto his friends; afterwards tried for his life, and let off as the son of Lord Saye and Sele, though without leave to play at soldiering any more. But we anticipate.

Returning to the conference in the Castle, it had well-nigh reached conclusion, when the usher in charge of the door entered to announce a party seeking audience of the Governor, to whom alone the communication was made.

“Who are they?” demanded Fiennes.

“I don’t know, your Excellency. They’re still outside the gate. The guard-corporal brought the message—he’s at the door.”

“Bring him in!”

The abrupt order was with promptness executed; and in twenty seconds after, the corporal of the castle guard stood before the Governor, saluting in military style.

“Who are these wishing to speak with me?” asked the latter.

“I only know one of them, your Excellency,” returned the corporal. “That’s Sergeant Wilde, of the Forest of Dean troop—Sir Richard Walwyn’s. The other two are a short man and a tall woman—very tall she is. The man has a wooden leg.”

“If I’m not mistaken, Colonel Fiennes,” interposed Sir Richard, who, standing by, overheard what the corporal had said, “I know all the party. And as my sergeant, Wilde, appears to be one of them, I’ll answer for the honesty of their purpose in seeking an interview with you, whatever it be.”

“Let them be brought in?” commanded the Governor—“all three.”

At which the guard-corporal, once more saluting, made “about face,” and with the usher disappeared from the room.

“Who are they, Sir Richard?” asked the Governor, as the door was again closed.

“By the description,” answered the knight, “I identify the short man and the very tall woman as cadgers, who follow their humble calling around the Forest of Dean; despite the reversed proportions in stature, being brother and sister.”

“But what, think you, can they be wanting with me?”

“That I can’t say, your Excellency. Though likely something of grave concern, or Rob Wilde wouldn’t be with them as their introducer. He isn’t the man to intrude, without serious purpose.”

Their dialogue was interrupted by sounds in the hallway outside; a scraping and shuffling of heavily-shod feet, with something that resembled the strokes of a wooden mallet upon the stone flags, administered in regular repetition. It was no mystery, however, either to the Governor or the knight, both already aware that they were to see a man with a wooden leg.

Which they did, as the door was again pushed open, and the usher entered for the third time, conducting in Jerky Jack and his sister, the sergeant bringing up the rear.

Chapter Twenty Six.A Despatch Cunningly Conveyed.The officers had separated into two groups, one on each side the Governor, as the odd trinity of personages was presented to him; these, as they came up, falling into line—Rob on the right, the woman left, and Jack central, as a pollard between two tall trees.Not yet aware of his colonel being in the room, the sergeant, as introducer of the other pair, was about to make known their business—of which Winny after all had given him a hint—when Sir Richard stepped forward to interrogate them. The knight had received instructions for this, on account of his acquaintance with the party.“Well, sergeant,” he said, after nodding recognition to Jack and his sister, “what may your Forest friends be wanting? I hope they haven’t got into any trouble with our soldiers, or the Bristol folk?”“No, Sir Richard; nothin’ o’ that sort whatsoever. They ha’ just entered the city, comin’ frae Gloster, an’ wi’ a message from Colonel Massey to his honner here.” The speaker, by a look, indicated the head figure of the listening assemblage; then added, “They think it be somethin’ o’ very great consarn, seein’ how the Colonel ha’ told them not to lose a minnit in the deliverin’ o’t.”At this all eyes turned eagerly upon the cadgers. A message from Massey, who commanded at Gloucester, and at such a crisis! It should mean something of importance.“Perhaps your Excellency would prefer hearing it in private?” suggested Sir Richard, with a feint at withdrawing, imitated by the other officers.“No, no!” rejoined theci-devantlawyer, who, unlike his confraternity, was of aught but secretive habit. “Stay, gentlemen! Whatever it be, we’re all equally interested in it. Now, my worthy friends,” he continued, his glance alternating between the little man and big woman, “what is this matter with which Colonel Massey has entrusted you? You may speak out openly and without fear.”The words of encouragement were superfluous. Neither Jerky Jack nor his sister were of the stuff to be affrighted, though they stood in the presence of Royalty itself. They had travelled too far, and seen too much of the world for that.“It be wrote, yer honner.” The woman it was who spoke. “The thing be’s all put down on paper; an’ Jack—my brother, sir—ha’ got it on him, hid away, as there was a fear us might meet the Cavalières.”“Well, you needn’t fear meeting them here. So let Jack produce it.”Which Jack did, though notpresto, on the instant. It took some time, with an amount of manipulation, before the secreted despatch could be laid open to the light. The cadger’s artificial leg had to be unstrapped and separated from what remained of the real one; then a cavity in the former, being uncorked, disclosed to view a roll of paper, bearing resemblance to a cartridge.This, drawn forth by Jerky himself, was handed to Sir Richard, and passed on to the Governor; who, having directed the temporary withdrawal of the messenger party, unrolling it, read—“Gloucester, March 7.—Report here of Rupert, with 8,000 men, on march for Bristol. Expected to arrive before your gates early in the night. Be careful to keep them shut. Sorry I can do nothing for you in the way of diversion. Myself pressed on Monmouthshire side. Brett and Lord John Somerset, with their Popish crew, have crossed the Forest, and are now threatening us from Highnam. But I’ll hold Gloucester at all hazards, as I know you will Bristol.“Massey.”“That will I!” cried Fiennes, in a fresh burst of enthusiasm, inspired by the last words of the despatch. “Hold and defend it to the death. We will, gentlemen!”Needless to say, they all again echoed his resolve loudly and determinedly as before.While their responses were still ringing through the room, the door was once more pushed open by a man who entered in haste, without announcement of usher, or introduction of any kind. The expression upon his features was sufficient apology for intrusion, but better the words that leaped from his lips, soon as he was inside:“Your Excellency—gentlemen all—we’re standing upon a mine!”“‘Standing upon a mine!’” echoed the Governor. “Explain yourself, Captain Birch!”“Treason in our midst—a conspiracy—the conspirators met at this very moment.”“Where?” demanded several voices. “I heard first of a party in the house of Robert Yeomans, and another at George Boucher’s. But I’ve since been told about more of them at Edward Dacre’s.”“And they’re assembled now, you think?”“I’m sure of it, your Excellency. Armed, too; ready for rising.”In view of the contents of Massey’s despatch, now hastily communicated to the Volunteer captain, this seemed probable as intelligible. Rupert to assault from outside, aweing the loyal citizens by an attack, sudden as unexpected; the disloyal ones, these conspirators, to take advantage of it and act in concert—the programme beyond a doubt!Withal, Langrish and one or two others were disposed to discredit it. For in that confidential council itself was a leaven of treason. Luckily not enough to control it; and when Fiennes put the question, “Shall we arrest these men?” a majority of voices declared promptly and decisively in the affirmative.“Captain Birch!” said the Governor, once more turning to the young officer of Volunteers, “you hear our determination. I commit this matter to you, who best know the guilty parties, and the places. Take your own men, and whatever other force you think necessary. This gentleman will go with you as my authority for the requisition.”He referred to an aide-de-camp by his side, who, after receiving some directions in undertone, parted from him, and, with Birch, hastily left the room.Scarce were they outside, when another officer presented himself in the council-chamber; in haste also, and unannounced, on the plea of pressing matter. A Volunteer captain, too; for Bristol had already raised more than one company of these citizen soldiers. Captain Jeremiah Buck, it was—the “busy mercer,” as the Restoration writers contemptuously style him. But whatever he may have been otherwise, he was a busy soldier, too busy that night for Royalist likings, and brought further intelligence of the conspiracy, obtained from other sources—confirming that of Birch.And, as the latter, he also received instant commands to proceed on the arrest of the conspirators. As there were several distinct “clatches” of them, more than one force was needed to catch them simultaneously.So commissioned, off went Buck, to all appearance greatly elated, and possibly indulging himself in the thought of satisfying some private spite.Whether or no, the door that had closed behind him was still vibrating to the clash, when one who needed no usher to announce him caught hold of its handle and pushed it open, with an alacrity which proclaimed him also the bearer of tidings that would not brook delay.“What is it, Trevor?” asked Sir Richard Walwyn, advancing to meet his troop captain. “Why have you left your guard at the gate?”“Because, Colonel,” panted out the young officer, “I’ve thought it better to come myself and make sure of the news reaching you in good time, as the Governor here.”“What news?”“Prince Rupert and the Royalist army reported outside the city. A countryman just come in says they are pitching tents on Durdham Down. And his report’s confirmed by what I’ve myself seen from the top of the gate tower.”“What saw you, Captain Trevor?” asked the Governor, who, with the other officers, had been all the while anxiously listening.“A glare of light, your Excellency; such as would proceed from the blaze of camp-fires.”This was confirmation full, of Massey’s warning despatch, the conspiracy, everything. But, for better assurance of it, the Governor, with the assembled officers, rushed out of the council-chamber and up to the Castle donjon; there to see the horizon lit up with a yellowish glare which, as soldiers, they knew to be the reflection from bivouac fires. And a wide spread of them, the sky illumined all over Durdham Down, away to King’s Weston.“Rupert it must be—he, and his plundering host!”Captain Birch made quick work of the duty assigned to him. In less than twenty minutes after receiving the Governor’s commands, he stood before the door of Robert Yeomans’s house, demanding admission. He had the strength at his back to enforce it—his own Volunteers afoot, with a body of horse, lest the conspirators should escape by flight. And some of both, distributed round the house, already enfiladed it.It was a large house, its owner being one of the wealthy citizens of Bristol. Forty men were within it, all armed, as the Volunteer officer had been told. At word of what was without they sprang to their arms, some of the more courageous counselling fight. But when they looked through the windows, saw that formidable array, and heard the stern summons “Surrender!” their hearts failed them, and they surrendered. Wisely, too. Had they resisted, instant death would have been their fate. For, among the men with Birch, were some fresh from the affair of Cirencester; themselves escaped, but leaving behind friends, relatives, even brothers, butchered in cold blood. Exasperated, maddened, by the memory of that slaughter—some of them with wounds still unhealed from it—Birch, who was moderate as brave, had a difficulty to restrain them from dealing out death to the malignants. The troopers who accompanied him, smarting under late reverses, would have gladly hailed the order to “fall on.” But the cowed conspirators submitted like sheep, and were marched off to the Castle, every man-jack of them; there to meet other batches brought in by Buck and the different officers who had been detailed for their arrest.In houses here and there throughout the city, parties of them were found and picked up; all armed, waiting for a signal to sally forth and shed the blood of their fellow-citizens. This has been denied, but a letter from the barbarous Lord Byron to Prince Rupert puts the design beyond doubt. But for the vigilance of the merchant-soldier Birch, and the activity of the “busy mercer” Buck, that night the streets of Bristol would have run blood, and every house in it belonging to a Parliamentarian been sacked and plundered. For the head plunderer, Rupert—he who introduced the word to the English language—stood at that very hour on the top of King’s Weston hill, awaiting a triple signal—the bells of three churches to be rung—Saint John’s, for summoning the Royalist sailors; that of Saint Nicholas, to call out the butchers for butchers’ work congenial to them; while from the tower of Saint Michael’s he expected to hear a peal more especially meant for himself and his freebooters, as it were saying, “You may come on! The gates of Bristol are unbarred for you!”But he heard it not. They who had been entrusted with the ringing of that fatal peal never rang it. Instead of bell ropes in their hands, they now had manacles around their wrists, and grim sentries standing guard over them.Rupert waited, watched, and listened, till the break of day showed him the great seaport of the Severn still calm; its gates close shut; its walls and towers bristling with armed men, in attitudes that told them determined on its defence.Thinking he had been made a fool of, and fearing further betrayal, he hastily beat retreat from Durdham Down to seek the pillage of some city more easy of being entered.The rising sun saw his back turned upon Bristol; he and his Cavaliers venting loud curses—reviling their partisans inside, whose misleading correspondence had lured them to an expedition ludicrous as bootless.

The officers had separated into two groups, one on each side the Governor, as the odd trinity of personages was presented to him; these, as they came up, falling into line—Rob on the right, the woman left, and Jack central, as a pollard between two tall trees.

Not yet aware of his colonel being in the room, the sergeant, as introducer of the other pair, was about to make known their business—of which Winny after all had given him a hint—when Sir Richard stepped forward to interrogate them. The knight had received instructions for this, on account of his acquaintance with the party.

“Well, sergeant,” he said, after nodding recognition to Jack and his sister, “what may your Forest friends be wanting? I hope they haven’t got into any trouble with our soldiers, or the Bristol folk?”

“No, Sir Richard; nothin’ o’ that sort whatsoever. They ha’ just entered the city, comin’ frae Gloster, an’ wi’ a message from Colonel Massey to his honner here.” The speaker, by a look, indicated the head figure of the listening assemblage; then added, “They think it be somethin’ o’ very great consarn, seein’ how the Colonel ha’ told them not to lose a minnit in the deliverin’ o’t.”

At this all eyes turned eagerly upon the cadgers. A message from Massey, who commanded at Gloucester, and at such a crisis! It should mean something of importance.

“Perhaps your Excellency would prefer hearing it in private?” suggested Sir Richard, with a feint at withdrawing, imitated by the other officers.

“No, no!” rejoined theci-devantlawyer, who, unlike his confraternity, was of aught but secretive habit. “Stay, gentlemen! Whatever it be, we’re all equally interested in it. Now, my worthy friends,” he continued, his glance alternating between the little man and big woman, “what is this matter with which Colonel Massey has entrusted you? You may speak out openly and without fear.”

The words of encouragement were superfluous. Neither Jerky Jack nor his sister were of the stuff to be affrighted, though they stood in the presence of Royalty itself. They had travelled too far, and seen too much of the world for that.

“It be wrote, yer honner.” The woman it was who spoke. “The thing be’s all put down on paper; an’ Jack—my brother, sir—ha’ got it on him, hid away, as there was a fear us might meet the Cavalières.”

“Well, you needn’t fear meeting them here. So let Jack produce it.”

Which Jack did, though notpresto, on the instant. It took some time, with an amount of manipulation, before the secreted despatch could be laid open to the light. The cadger’s artificial leg had to be unstrapped and separated from what remained of the real one; then a cavity in the former, being uncorked, disclosed to view a roll of paper, bearing resemblance to a cartridge.

This, drawn forth by Jerky himself, was handed to Sir Richard, and passed on to the Governor; who, having directed the temporary withdrawal of the messenger party, unrolling it, read—

“Gloucester, March 7.—Report here of Rupert, with 8,000 men, on march for Bristol. Expected to arrive before your gates early in the night. Be careful to keep them shut. Sorry I can do nothing for you in the way of diversion. Myself pressed on Monmouthshire side. Brett and Lord John Somerset, with their Popish crew, have crossed the Forest, and are now threatening us from Highnam. But I’ll hold Gloucester at all hazards, as I know you will Bristol.“Massey.”

“Gloucester, March 7.—Report here of Rupert, with 8,000 men, on march for Bristol. Expected to arrive before your gates early in the night. Be careful to keep them shut. Sorry I can do nothing for you in the way of diversion. Myself pressed on Monmouthshire side. Brett and Lord John Somerset, with their Popish crew, have crossed the Forest, and are now threatening us from Highnam. But I’ll hold Gloucester at all hazards, as I know you will Bristol.

“Massey.”

“That will I!” cried Fiennes, in a fresh burst of enthusiasm, inspired by the last words of the despatch. “Hold and defend it to the death. We will, gentlemen!”

Needless to say, they all again echoed his resolve loudly and determinedly as before.

While their responses were still ringing through the room, the door was once more pushed open by a man who entered in haste, without announcement of usher, or introduction of any kind. The expression upon his features was sufficient apology for intrusion, but better the words that leaped from his lips, soon as he was inside:

“Your Excellency—gentlemen all—we’re standing upon a mine!”

“‘Standing upon a mine!’” echoed the Governor. “Explain yourself, Captain Birch!”

“Treason in our midst—a conspiracy—the conspirators met at this very moment.”

“Where?” demanded several voices. “I heard first of a party in the house of Robert Yeomans, and another at George Boucher’s. But I’ve since been told about more of them at Edward Dacre’s.”

“And they’re assembled now, you think?”

“I’m sure of it, your Excellency. Armed, too; ready for rising.”

In view of the contents of Massey’s despatch, now hastily communicated to the Volunteer captain, this seemed probable as intelligible. Rupert to assault from outside, aweing the loyal citizens by an attack, sudden as unexpected; the disloyal ones, these conspirators, to take advantage of it and act in concert—the programme beyond a doubt!

Withal, Langrish and one or two others were disposed to discredit it. For in that confidential council itself was a leaven of treason. Luckily not enough to control it; and when Fiennes put the question, “Shall we arrest these men?” a majority of voices declared promptly and decisively in the affirmative.

“Captain Birch!” said the Governor, once more turning to the young officer of Volunteers, “you hear our determination. I commit this matter to you, who best know the guilty parties, and the places. Take your own men, and whatever other force you think necessary. This gentleman will go with you as my authority for the requisition.”

He referred to an aide-de-camp by his side, who, after receiving some directions in undertone, parted from him, and, with Birch, hastily left the room.

Scarce were they outside, when another officer presented himself in the council-chamber; in haste also, and unannounced, on the plea of pressing matter. A Volunteer captain, too; for Bristol had already raised more than one company of these citizen soldiers. Captain Jeremiah Buck, it was—the “busy mercer,” as the Restoration writers contemptuously style him. But whatever he may have been otherwise, he was a busy soldier, too busy that night for Royalist likings, and brought further intelligence of the conspiracy, obtained from other sources—confirming that of Birch.

And, as the latter, he also received instant commands to proceed on the arrest of the conspirators. As there were several distinct “clatches” of them, more than one force was needed to catch them simultaneously.

So commissioned, off went Buck, to all appearance greatly elated, and possibly indulging himself in the thought of satisfying some private spite.

Whether or no, the door that had closed behind him was still vibrating to the clash, when one who needed no usher to announce him caught hold of its handle and pushed it open, with an alacrity which proclaimed him also the bearer of tidings that would not brook delay.

“What is it, Trevor?” asked Sir Richard Walwyn, advancing to meet his troop captain. “Why have you left your guard at the gate?”

“Because, Colonel,” panted out the young officer, “I’ve thought it better to come myself and make sure of the news reaching you in good time, as the Governor here.”

“What news?”

“Prince Rupert and the Royalist army reported outside the city. A countryman just come in says they are pitching tents on Durdham Down. And his report’s confirmed by what I’ve myself seen from the top of the gate tower.”

“What saw you, Captain Trevor?” asked the Governor, who, with the other officers, had been all the while anxiously listening.

“A glare of light, your Excellency; such as would proceed from the blaze of camp-fires.”

This was confirmation full, of Massey’s warning despatch, the conspiracy, everything. But, for better assurance of it, the Governor, with the assembled officers, rushed out of the council-chamber and up to the Castle donjon; there to see the horizon lit up with a yellowish glare which, as soldiers, they knew to be the reflection from bivouac fires. And a wide spread of them, the sky illumined all over Durdham Down, away to King’s Weston.

“Rupert it must be—he, and his plundering host!”

Captain Birch made quick work of the duty assigned to him. In less than twenty minutes after receiving the Governor’s commands, he stood before the door of Robert Yeomans’s house, demanding admission. He had the strength at his back to enforce it—his own Volunteers afoot, with a body of horse, lest the conspirators should escape by flight. And some of both, distributed round the house, already enfiladed it.

It was a large house, its owner being one of the wealthy citizens of Bristol. Forty men were within it, all armed, as the Volunteer officer had been told. At word of what was without they sprang to their arms, some of the more courageous counselling fight. But when they looked through the windows, saw that formidable array, and heard the stern summons “Surrender!” their hearts failed them, and they surrendered. Wisely, too. Had they resisted, instant death would have been their fate. For, among the men with Birch, were some fresh from the affair of Cirencester; themselves escaped, but leaving behind friends, relatives, even brothers, butchered in cold blood. Exasperated, maddened, by the memory of that slaughter—some of them with wounds still unhealed from it—Birch, who was moderate as brave, had a difficulty to restrain them from dealing out death to the malignants. The troopers who accompanied him, smarting under late reverses, would have gladly hailed the order to “fall on.” But the cowed conspirators submitted like sheep, and were marched off to the Castle, every man-jack of them; there to meet other batches brought in by Buck and the different officers who had been detailed for their arrest.

In houses here and there throughout the city, parties of them were found and picked up; all armed, waiting for a signal to sally forth and shed the blood of their fellow-citizens. This has been denied, but a letter from the barbarous Lord Byron to Prince Rupert puts the design beyond doubt. But for the vigilance of the merchant-soldier Birch, and the activity of the “busy mercer” Buck, that night the streets of Bristol would have run blood, and every house in it belonging to a Parliamentarian been sacked and plundered. For the head plunderer, Rupert—he who introduced the word to the English language—stood at that very hour on the top of King’s Weston hill, awaiting a triple signal—the bells of three churches to be rung—Saint John’s, for summoning the Royalist sailors; that of Saint Nicholas, to call out the butchers for butchers’ work congenial to them; while from the tower of Saint Michael’s he expected to hear a peal more especially meant for himself and his freebooters, as it were saying, “You may come on! The gates of Bristol are unbarred for you!”

But he heard it not. They who had been entrusted with the ringing of that fatal peal never rang it. Instead of bell ropes in their hands, they now had manacles around their wrists, and grim sentries standing guard over them.

Rupert waited, watched, and listened, till the break of day showed him the great seaport of the Severn still calm; its gates close shut; its walls and towers bristling with armed men, in attitudes that told them determined on its defence.

Thinking he had been made a fool of, and fearing further betrayal, he hastily beat retreat from Durdham Down to seek the pillage of some city more easy of being entered.

The rising sun saw his back turned upon Bristol; he and his Cavaliers venting loud curses—reviling their partisans inside, whose misleading correspondence had lured them to an expedition ludicrous as bootless.

Chapter Twenty Seven.A City of Refuge.Of the Foresters who figure in our tale, Rob Wilde, Jerky Jack, and Winny were not the only ones who had found their way into Bristol. Most of Sir Richard Walwyn’s troopers were Foresters. But the master of Hollymead was himself there, with his daughters, their maid Gwenthian, and others of the family servants.Why he had exchanged his Forest home for a residence in town—that, too, in a city under military occupation, threatened with siege and all its inconveniences—has been already in part explained. With the commencement of hostilities country life became unsafe, more especially for people of quality and those who had anything to lose. Parties of armed men penetrated into the most remote districts, demanding contributions and levying them—at first in the name of the King. Naturally, this aroused the spirit of retaliation, and dictated reprisals; so that in time both sides became more or less blamable forfilibusterism. The weight of evidence, however, shows that, as a rule, the Parliamentarian officers did all in their power to restrain, while those of the Royalist army not only encouraged but gloried in it—themselves taking a hand. A Prince had set them the lesson, making robbery fashionable, and they were neither backward nor slow in profiting by it.As a sample of the spirit in which the Cavaliers made war, thus wrote Sir John, afterwards Lord Byron—the same truculent ruffian already alluded to, commanding a body of the King’s horse—“I put them all to the sword, which I find to be the best way to proceed with these kind of people, for mercy to them is cruelty.”The gallant defenders of Barthomley Church were “these kind of people,” whom this monster, ungrammatical as inhuman, had massacred to a man!Fighting under such faith, no wonder thelex talionissoon displayed itself on both sides, and in bitterest, most relentless form. Not only had the main routes of travel become unsafe, but sequestered country roads; while the sanctity of private houses was invaded, and women subjected to insult, oft even to the disregarding of their honour. This was conspicuously the case in the districts where the Cavaliers had control, no decent woman daring to show herself abroad. Even high-born ladies feared encountering them, if having father or brother on the Parliamentary side. Some dames, however, who favoured their side, were bold and free enough with them; and a very incarnation of female shamelessness was the strumpet following of Rupert.As known, Ambrose Powell had at first thought of fortifying Hollymead, and holding it with his servants, retainers, and such of the Foresters as he could rally around him; of whom he had reason to believe many would respond to his call. Thehaw-hawaround the house was suggestive of his doing so—itself an outer line of defence, which could be easily strengthened. It but needed a parapet ofgabions, orfascines, to render it unassailable, save in the face of a scathing fire. And he had the wherewith to deliver this, having long expected the coming storm, and stored up materials to meet it. One of the chambers of Hollymead House was a very armoury and ordnance room, full of the best weapons of the time, which his great wealth had enabled him to provide—muskets of thesnap-hansfire, pistols, pikes, and halberds. They but wanted putting into hands capable of making efficient use of them.And he himself had but waited for Sir Richard Walwyn’s advice, as to whether he should attempt holding Hollymead, or abandon it. He knew he must do one or the other. His partisanship, long since proclaimed and known beyond the borders of the Forest, with the echoes returning, so admonished him.“Could it be held, think you?” he asked of the soldier knight, on the evening of his arrival with Eustace Trevor—Sir Richard and his host alone closeted in conversation.“Impossible!” was the answer, backed up by convincing reasons. “Were it a structure of stone, I might say Yes, easily enough; with a force numerous enough to garrison it. But those wooden beams, and roofs dry as tinder—they’d be set ablaze by the first arrow sent at them.”The reader may fancy Sir Richard’s allusion to arrows was a figure of speech, or anachronism. It was neither. For this primitive weapon, almost universal among savage men, was not then obsolete, or out of the hands of the civilised. In the army of Essex—the Lord General himself—was a corps of bowmen; and others elsewhere. The belief in the bent yew stick and feathered shaft, that had gained for England such renown at Cressy and Agincourt, was still strong in the days of her more glorious struggle—the Great Rebellion.But it was not to shafts of this kind the knight had reference; instead, arrows projected from muskets and arquebusses for setting fire to assailed forts and houses—a species of ordnance which then formed part of the equipment of every well-appointedcorps d’armée.With the master of Hollymead the argument was conclusive. He saw his house could not be held, with any hope of successful defence, if attacked by a force strong and determined. And that such would come against it he had been as good as sure, ever since that hour when Reginald Trevor placed in his hands the letter of Loan by Privy Seal—altogether sure, when Lunsford, later, came to make the levy itself.Only a day or two longer had he remained in it, to pack up his plate, with other cherished penates, and have them transmitted to a place of safety—to Gloucester—the nearest city promising asylum to the harried partisans of the Parliament—going thither himself with his family.He had, however, made but short stay there. The seaport of Bristol beyond was a “city of refuge” more to his mind, because of a house in it that offered him hospitality—a sister’s—and under its roof he and his were sojourning on that night of dread danger, averted almost as soon as apprehended.Nor in that crisis was the refugee from Dean Forest himself inactive. When men stood gazing with eyes full of keen apprehension at the fire-glare over Durdham Down, Ambrose Powell was moving briskly through Bristol’s streets, urging its citizens to arm and defend it. Along with him a clergyman, who added his appeal with eloquent tongue and passionate speech. He was Tombes, of Leominster, who had been mobbed in that town of woolstaplers, and driven out of it by drunken roughs; no doubt the progenitors of those who in the late Parliamentary election in like manner dishonoured themselves.To Darwin’s transmutation and improvement theory, the human animals of Leominster seem to be an exception; especially as regards the improvement, for its Jingo cur of to-day is rather a falling off from the quality of his prototype—the Cavalier wolf of the Great war time.

Of the Foresters who figure in our tale, Rob Wilde, Jerky Jack, and Winny were not the only ones who had found their way into Bristol. Most of Sir Richard Walwyn’s troopers were Foresters. But the master of Hollymead was himself there, with his daughters, their maid Gwenthian, and others of the family servants.

Why he had exchanged his Forest home for a residence in town—that, too, in a city under military occupation, threatened with siege and all its inconveniences—has been already in part explained. With the commencement of hostilities country life became unsafe, more especially for people of quality and those who had anything to lose. Parties of armed men penetrated into the most remote districts, demanding contributions and levying them—at first in the name of the King. Naturally, this aroused the spirit of retaliation, and dictated reprisals; so that in time both sides became more or less blamable forfilibusterism. The weight of evidence, however, shows that, as a rule, the Parliamentarian officers did all in their power to restrain, while those of the Royalist army not only encouraged but gloried in it—themselves taking a hand. A Prince had set them the lesson, making robbery fashionable, and they were neither backward nor slow in profiting by it.

As a sample of the spirit in which the Cavaliers made war, thus wrote Sir John, afterwards Lord Byron—the same truculent ruffian already alluded to, commanding a body of the King’s horse—“I put them all to the sword, which I find to be the best way to proceed with these kind of people, for mercy to them is cruelty.”

The gallant defenders of Barthomley Church were “these kind of people,” whom this monster, ungrammatical as inhuman, had massacred to a man!

Fighting under such faith, no wonder thelex talionissoon displayed itself on both sides, and in bitterest, most relentless form. Not only had the main routes of travel become unsafe, but sequestered country roads; while the sanctity of private houses was invaded, and women subjected to insult, oft even to the disregarding of their honour. This was conspicuously the case in the districts where the Cavaliers had control, no decent woman daring to show herself abroad. Even high-born ladies feared encountering them, if having father or brother on the Parliamentary side. Some dames, however, who favoured their side, were bold and free enough with them; and a very incarnation of female shamelessness was the strumpet following of Rupert.

As known, Ambrose Powell had at first thought of fortifying Hollymead, and holding it with his servants, retainers, and such of the Foresters as he could rally around him; of whom he had reason to believe many would respond to his call. Thehaw-hawaround the house was suggestive of his doing so—itself an outer line of defence, which could be easily strengthened. It but needed a parapet ofgabions, orfascines, to render it unassailable, save in the face of a scathing fire. And he had the wherewith to deliver this, having long expected the coming storm, and stored up materials to meet it. One of the chambers of Hollymead House was a very armoury and ordnance room, full of the best weapons of the time, which his great wealth had enabled him to provide—muskets of thesnap-hansfire, pistols, pikes, and halberds. They but wanted putting into hands capable of making efficient use of them.

And he himself had but waited for Sir Richard Walwyn’s advice, as to whether he should attempt holding Hollymead, or abandon it. He knew he must do one or the other. His partisanship, long since proclaimed and known beyond the borders of the Forest, with the echoes returning, so admonished him.

“Could it be held, think you?” he asked of the soldier knight, on the evening of his arrival with Eustace Trevor—Sir Richard and his host alone closeted in conversation.

“Impossible!” was the answer, backed up by convincing reasons. “Were it a structure of stone, I might say Yes, easily enough; with a force numerous enough to garrison it. But those wooden beams, and roofs dry as tinder—they’d be set ablaze by the first arrow sent at them.”

The reader may fancy Sir Richard’s allusion to arrows was a figure of speech, or anachronism. It was neither. For this primitive weapon, almost universal among savage men, was not then obsolete, or out of the hands of the civilised. In the army of Essex—the Lord General himself—was a corps of bowmen; and others elsewhere. The belief in the bent yew stick and feathered shaft, that had gained for England such renown at Cressy and Agincourt, was still strong in the days of her more glorious struggle—the Great Rebellion.

But it was not to shafts of this kind the knight had reference; instead, arrows projected from muskets and arquebusses for setting fire to assailed forts and houses—a species of ordnance which then formed part of the equipment of every well-appointedcorps d’armée.

With the master of Hollymead the argument was conclusive. He saw his house could not be held, with any hope of successful defence, if attacked by a force strong and determined. And that such would come against it he had been as good as sure, ever since that hour when Reginald Trevor placed in his hands the letter of Loan by Privy Seal—altogether sure, when Lunsford, later, came to make the levy itself.

Only a day or two longer had he remained in it, to pack up his plate, with other cherished penates, and have them transmitted to a place of safety—to Gloucester—the nearest city promising asylum to the harried partisans of the Parliament—going thither himself with his family.

He had, however, made but short stay there. The seaport of Bristol beyond was a “city of refuge” more to his mind, because of a house in it that offered him hospitality—a sister’s—and under its roof he and his were sojourning on that night of dread danger, averted almost as soon as apprehended.

Nor in that crisis was the refugee from Dean Forest himself inactive. When men stood gazing with eyes full of keen apprehension at the fire-glare over Durdham Down, Ambrose Powell was moving briskly through Bristol’s streets, urging its citizens to arm and defend it. Along with him a clergyman, who added his appeal with eloquent tongue and passionate speech. He was Tombes, of Leominster, who had been mobbed in that town of woolstaplers, and driven out of it by drunken roughs; no doubt the progenitors of those who in the late Parliamentary election in like manner dishonoured themselves.

To Darwin’s transmutation and improvement theory, the human animals of Leominster seem to be an exception; especially as regards the improvement, for its Jingo cur of to-day is rather a falling off from the quality of his prototype—the Cavalier wolf of the Great war time.

Chapter Twenty Eight.A Home Gayer than Congenial.Madame Lalande,néePowell, was the widow of a West Indian planter, late deceased. Her husband, during life, had held commercial intercourse with Bristol, then chief port of communication with all the Transatlantic colonies. Though a Creole of French descent, the isle of his nativity, in the Antilles, had come under British rule; and he himself rather affected English tastes and habits, often visiting England and making short sojourns in it. At a Bristol ball he had first met Gwendoline Powell, Ambrose’s sister; had married in Bristol, and there designed spending the evening of his days in retirement from the cares of business life. And when the time at length came for carrying this design into execution, he sold off his West Indian plantation—an extensive one, with its human chattels, some hundreds in number—and invested the proceeds in Bristol property, part of it being a handsome dwelling-house meant for his future home:Into this he had entered about a year before the commencement of the civil strife, which he lived not to see. The cold, moist climate of our island, so different to that of the tropical Antilles, was fatal to him, and in less than twelve months after settling on the Avon’s banks he was buried there, having succumbed to an attack of pleurisy. Possibly fast living may have had something to do with it. He was a man of social inclinings and sumptuous habits, which his great wealth enabled him to indulge without stint; and he had recklessly disregarded the care of his health.Fortunately for those who inherited his property, his life of extravagance had not been long enough to dissipate it, and Madame Lalande was still one of the wealthiest women in Bristol, with no one to share her wealth, save an only daughter, a girl of some eighteen summers, or, to speak more correctly, one summer of eighteen years in length. For the occasional visits to England with her father and mother had been made in this season, the rest of her life spent in a land where winter is unknown. All summer her life in every sense; from her cradle not a wish denied, or taste ungratified, but everything lavished upon her which money could purchase or parental fondness bestow.As a consequence, Clarisse Lalande had grown up a spoilt child; and now that she was almost a woman, the fruits of such folly made themselves manifest. Imperious and capricious, she had a temper which would not brook restraint. For this it had never known, accustomed all her life to the obeisance of black slaves, and the flattery of mulatto hand-maidens.Flattery from others she had received too—a very incense of it—which her beauty, without thought of her prospective wealth, commanded. For a beauty she was, of the true Creole type, with all its characteristics; the golden brown tint of skin, the crimson flush of cheeks, the brilliancy of dark eyes, with a luxuriance of hair that defied confinement by ordinary clasp or comb. There was the suspicion of a “wave” in it; and report said that the blood in her father’s veins had not been pure Circassian, but with a slight admixture of Ethiopian. All the more piquant were the charms it had transmitted to his daughter, as the star-like fire in her brown-black eyes, and a figure of grandly voluptuous outline. Some of her mental characteristics, too, may have come from it—a certain sensuousness, with the impatience of control already adverted to.Such being Clarisse Lalande, it scarce needs saying that between her and her cousins Powell there was little congeniality either of tastes or sentiments. Though in person more resembling Sabrina, the two were mental antipodes; while sunbright Vaga, who looked altogether unlike her dark-skinned Creole cousin, had yet certain similar traits of temper; the which made mutual antipathy, at first sight, as when alkali and acid come into contact. It afterwards became heart-hatred, inspired and nursed by the most powerful of influences.Considering that Madame Lalande was Ambrose Powell’s sister, and that her late husband had been a Protestant of Huguenot ancestry—at least four-fifths of him—one would naturally expect her to be on the Parliamentary side—supposing her to take a side at all—with ardent inclinings thereto. Ardent inclinings had she, and side she took; but, strange perversity,againstthe Parliament, notforit!And it was like mother, like daughter, for Clarisse, with all her frivolousness of character, had political leanings too, or more properly caprices, the frivolity itself their cause. In the eyes of the imperious young lady Roundheadism and Puritanism were things of reproach, and the terms themselves often scornfully on her lips. Kingly form of government was the only one fit for gentlepeople; and Cavaliers alone worthy to associate with such as she—those curled darlings, “dear delightful creatures,” as, in her fond partiality, she was accustomed to call them.Wonderfully hospitable was Madame Lalande; that is, in a fashionable way. She gave grand entertainments, which was indeed but continuing what had been done before the death of her husband. Nor was it so long after that event they were recommenced, and carried on with greateréclatthan ever. For Clarisse had become a toast and now an heiress—sole and safe from any possibility of late-born brother or sister to share the demised wealth. There was keen competition for the favour of her smiles. Knights and baronets were flitting about in plenty, with here and there an earl; and as her ambitious mother aimed at having a titled son-in-law, so spread she the banquet to allure them.During the brief rule of the gay Essex, as a matter of course Madame Lalande’s house was open to him; and so frequently was he its guest, there had been talk of an attraction in it beyond the delights of the dinner table or the joys of the dance. He was not a lord; but, as the son of one, in all probability some day would be.Alas! for any matrimonial designs Madame Lalande might have upon the rollicking Colonel for her daughter, her chances of showing him further hospitality were brought to an abrupt end, by his heels getting kicked up in a different way, and himself carried off a prisoner to Berkeley Castle.Withal the festivities in the house of the planter’s relict went on as usual—nearly every night something of dinner party, and during the day receptions. If there was suffering in other homes of Bristol through the state of semi-siege in which the place was then held, nothing of this affected the home of the rich West Indian widow. There all was gaiety and splendour.Yet it had inmates who took little delight in its joys, and one who detested them—that one Ambrose Powell. A new style of life, with a companionship altogether uncongenial, was it to him; and, but for its being forced upon him by the necessity of circumstances, he would not have continued it a single day—not an hour. It was many long years since he had last met his sister; and, remembering her as a guileless country girl—almost portionless too—seeing her now a sharp woman of the world, wealthy and devoted to ideas of frivolity and fashion,—above all, finding her changed from the political faith of their common father and family, he was alike surprised and shocked—angry, moreover, to the point of reproaching, even scolding her; and would have done so, but for the question “Cui bono?” which had negative, though silent, answer in all he saw around. His dear sister Gwen, who in earlier days would have humbly listened to his counsels, and been controlled by them, would now resent the meekest suggestion as to her way of life or the conduct of her affairs.Many a time, after becoming her guest, did he regret having passed on, and beyond Gloucester, to seek an asylum in Bristol. But he was in Bristol now, he and his; and how to get out of it was not a mere question of inconvenience, but a matter of great difficulty, attended with danger. Though not so close to the door, after that 7th of March night, the wolves were still without, on the roads—ravening everywhere.

Madame Lalande,néePowell, was the widow of a West Indian planter, late deceased. Her husband, during life, had held commercial intercourse with Bristol, then chief port of communication with all the Transatlantic colonies. Though a Creole of French descent, the isle of his nativity, in the Antilles, had come under British rule; and he himself rather affected English tastes and habits, often visiting England and making short sojourns in it. At a Bristol ball he had first met Gwendoline Powell, Ambrose’s sister; had married in Bristol, and there designed spending the evening of his days in retirement from the cares of business life. And when the time at length came for carrying this design into execution, he sold off his West Indian plantation—an extensive one, with its human chattels, some hundreds in number—and invested the proceeds in Bristol property, part of it being a handsome dwelling-house meant for his future home:

Into this he had entered about a year before the commencement of the civil strife, which he lived not to see. The cold, moist climate of our island, so different to that of the tropical Antilles, was fatal to him, and in less than twelve months after settling on the Avon’s banks he was buried there, having succumbed to an attack of pleurisy. Possibly fast living may have had something to do with it. He was a man of social inclinings and sumptuous habits, which his great wealth enabled him to indulge without stint; and he had recklessly disregarded the care of his health.

Fortunately for those who inherited his property, his life of extravagance had not been long enough to dissipate it, and Madame Lalande was still one of the wealthiest women in Bristol, with no one to share her wealth, save an only daughter, a girl of some eighteen summers, or, to speak more correctly, one summer of eighteen years in length. For the occasional visits to England with her father and mother had been made in this season, the rest of her life spent in a land where winter is unknown. All summer her life in every sense; from her cradle not a wish denied, or taste ungratified, but everything lavished upon her which money could purchase or parental fondness bestow.

As a consequence, Clarisse Lalande had grown up a spoilt child; and now that she was almost a woman, the fruits of such folly made themselves manifest. Imperious and capricious, she had a temper which would not brook restraint. For this it had never known, accustomed all her life to the obeisance of black slaves, and the flattery of mulatto hand-maidens.

Flattery from others she had received too—a very incense of it—which her beauty, without thought of her prospective wealth, commanded. For a beauty she was, of the true Creole type, with all its characteristics; the golden brown tint of skin, the crimson flush of cheeks, the brilliancy of dark eyes, with a luxuriance of hair that defied confinement by ordinary clasp or comb. There was the suspicion of a “wave” in it; and report said that the blood in her father’s veins had not been pure Circassian, but with a slight admixture of Ethiopian. All the more piquant were the charms it had transmitted to his daughter, as the star-like fire in her brown-black eyes, and a figure of grandly voluptuous outline. Some of her mental characteristics, too, may have come from it—a certain sensuousness, with the impatience of control already adverted to.

Such being Clarisse Lalande, it scarce needs saying that between her and her cousins Powell there was little congeniality either of tastes or sentiments. Though in person more resembling Sabrina, the two were mental antipodes; while sunbright Vaga, who looked altogether unlike her dark-skinned Creole cousin, had yet certain similar traits of temper; the which made mutual antipathy, at first sight, as when alkali and acid come into contact. It afterwards became heart-hatred, inspired and nursed by the most powerful of influences.

Considering that Madame Lalande was Ambrose Powell’s sister, and that her late husband had been a Protestant of Huguenot ancestry—at least four-fifths of him—one would naturally expect her to be on the Parliamentary side—supposing her to take a side at all—with ardent inclinings thereto. Ardent inclinings had she, and side she took; but, strange perversity,againstthe Parliament, notforit!

And it was like mother, like daughter, for Clarisse, with all her frivolousness of character, had political leanings too, or more properly caprices, the frivolity itself their cause. In the eyes of the imperious young lady Roundheadism and Puritanism were things of reproach, and the terms themselves often scornfully on her lips. Kingly form of government was the only one fit for gentlepeople; and Cavaliers alone worthy to associate with such as she—those curled darlings, “dear delightful creatures,” as, in her fond partiality, she was accustomed to call them.

Wonderfully hospitable was Madame Lalande; that is, in a fashionable way. She gave grand entertainments, which was indeed but continuing what had been done before the death of her husband. Nor was it so long after that event they were recommenced, and carried on with greateréclatthan ever. For Clarisse had become a toast and now an heiress—sole and safe from any possibility of late-born brother or sister to share the demised wealth. There was keen competition for the favour of her smiles. Knights and baronets were flitting about in plenty, with here and there an earl; and as her ambitious mother aimed at having a titled son-in-law, so spread she the banquet to allure them.

During the brief rule of the gay Essex, as a matter of course Madame Lalande’s house was open to him; and so frequently was he its guest, there had been talk of an attraction in it beyond the delights of the dinner table or the joys of the dance. He was not a lord; but, as the son of one, in all probability some day would be.

Alas! for any matrimonial designs Madame Lalande might have upon the rollicking Colonel for her daughter, her chances of showing him further hospitality were brought to an abrupt end, by his heels getting kicked up in a different way, and himself carried off a prisoner to Berkeley Castle.

Withal the festivities in the house of the planter’s relict went on as usual—nearly every night something of dinner party, and during the day receptions. If there was suffering in other homes of Bristol through the state of semi-siege in which the place was then held, nothing of this affected the home of the rich West Indian widow. There all was gaiety and splendour.

Yet it had inmates who took little delight in its joys, and one who detested them—that one Ambrose Powell. A new style of life, with a companionship altogether uncongenial, was it to him; and, but for its being forced upon him by the necessity of circumstances, he would not have continued it a single day—not an hour. It was many long years since he had last met his sister; and, remembering her as a guileless country girl—almost portionless too—seeing her now a sharp woman of the world, wealthy and devoted to ideas of frivolity and fashion,—above all, finding her changed from the political faith of their common father and family, he was alike surprised and shocked—angry, moreover, to the point of reproaching, even scolding her; and would have done so, but for the question “Cui bono?” which had negative, though silent, answer in all he saw around. His dear sister Gwen, who in earlier days would have humbly listened to his counsels, and been controlled by them, would now resent the meekest suggestion as to her way of life or the conduct of her affairs.

Many a time, after becoming her guest, did he regret having passed on, and beyond Gloucester, to seek an asylum in Bristol. But he was in Bristol now, he and his; and how to get out of it was not a mere question of inconvenience, but a matter of great difficulty, attended with danger. Though not so close to the door, after that 7th of March night, the wolves were still without, on the roads—ravening everywhere.

Chapter Twenty Nine.The Night Owl.The conspiracy having been nipped in the bud, and the conspirators in prison, Bristol again breathed freely. The approaches to it were once more open, the thwarted Royalists having withdrawn to a distance; so that Jerky Jack might have made the return trip to Gloucester with a despatch stuck in the band of his hat safe as it inside his wooden leg.But swifter messengers traversed that road now, cleared of the enemy at both ends, and on both sides of the river Severn.He who had effected this clearance was Sir William Waller, jocularly styled “William the Conqueror,” from the succession of victories he had late achieved. Also was he known as the “Night Owl;” a sobriquet due to his habit of making nocturnal expeditions that oft took the Royalists by surprise. No Crophead he, but a Cavalier in the true sense; a very Paladin—withal a Christian gentleman. He had separated from slow-going Lord General, and made one of his bold dashes down to the shires bordering Wales; first relieving Gloucester, which was in a manner besieged by the Monmouthshire levies of Lord Herbert. The besiegers were not only brushed off, but the main body of them either killed or captured; only a scant residue escaping to their fastnesses beyond the Wye; whither the “Conqueror” followed, chastising them still further.Returning across the Forest of Dean, he outwitted the Royalist troops under Prince Maurice; and, once were setting face westward, raided through Herefordshire on to its chief city—which he captured, with a flock of foul birds that had been roosting there ever since its abandonment by the Parliamentarians under the silly Stamford.But the “Night Owl” himself was not the bird to remain long on perch anywhere; and, gathering up his captured game—a large bag, including some of Herefordshire’s best blood, as the Scudamores, Conningsbys, and Pyes—he rounded back to Gloucester, and on to Bristol.Not to tarry here, either. Soon as he had disembarrassed himself of his captive train—committed to the keeping of Fiennes—he was off again into Somersetshire, there to measure swords with Maurice and the Marquis of Hertford. As he rode out through the Bath gate at the head of a troop of steel-clad cuirassiers—“Hesselrig’s Lobsters”—the citizens of Bristol felt more confident of safety than ever since the strife began. For now they were assured against danger, outside as within. Internal treason had been awed, the traitors cowed and crushed, by what had befallen the conspirators of March the Seventh. The two chiefs of them, Yeomans and Boucher, had been tried, found guilty, and sentenced to death—a sentence soon afterwards carried into execution. Grand efforts were made to get them off; the King himself, by letter, threatening to retaliate upon the poor captives taken at Cirencester—such of them as remained unmurdered. Old Patrick, Earl of Forth, his Majesty’s Lieutenant-General, was put forward as the writer of the barbarous epistle. But canny Scot and accomplished soldier as his lordship might be, in a polemical contest he was no match for the lawyer, Fiennes, who flung the threat back in his teeth, saying:“The men we have tried and condemned are not soldiers, but spies and conspirators. The prisoners you took at Cirencester are prisoners of war. I would have you observe the distinction. And know, too, that for every hair of their heads that falls, I will hang ten of your curled Cavaliers—make Bristol a shambles of them.”Though not Nathaniel Fiennes’s exact words, they convey his meaning very near. And he could and would have acted up to them, as the King and his counsellors knew. So, whether or not they deemed his argument rational, it was unanswerable, or at all events unanswered, by a counter-threat; and the Cirencester prisoners were spared execution, while the Bristol conspirators went to the scaffold.Much has been made of the King’s forbearance in this affair by those who did not, or would not, comprehend the motive. It was pure fear, not humanity—fear of a still more terrible retaliation. At that time the Parliament held ten prisoners for one in the hands of the Royalists—men of such rank and quality, his Majesty dared not put their lives in peril, much less let them be sacrificed. He had his revenge in secret, however, since under his very nose at Oxford many of the hapless captives from Cirencester miserably perished, through the torturing treatment of the Royal Provost-Marshal, Smith.Finally, the “two State martyrs”—as Yeomans and Boucher have been styled by the Royalist writers—were strung up, protesting their innocence to the last, for all they were little believed. The evidence adduced at their trial clearly proved intent to shed the blood of their fellow-citizens; else why were they and their co-conspirators armed? Independent of this, their design of handing over Bristol to the rule of Prince Rupert and his ruffians meant something more than the mere spilling of blood in a street conflict—it involved the sack and pillage of peaceful homes, the violation of women, rapine and ruin in every way. It was only on getting the details of the trial that the Bristolians became fully sensible of the danger they had so narrowly escaped; convinced then, as Captain Birch worded it, that they had been standing upon a mine.Notwithstanding all these occurrences and circumstances running counter to the Royal cause, against which the tide seemed to have turned, within Montserrat House—as the late Monsieur Lalande had named his dwelling—was no interruption of the festive scenes already alluded to. Its guests were as numerous, its gaieties gay and frequent as ever. For, to speak truth, the politicalbiasof the planter’s widow, as that of her daughter, was but skin deep. Hair had much to do with it; and, like enough, had the Parliamentarian officers but worn theirs a little longer, submitted it to the curling tongs, and given themselves to swearing and swaggering, in a genteel Cavalier way, they would have been more welcome to the hospitality of her house.Still not all of them were denied it; for not all were of the Roundhead type. Among them were many gentlemen of high birth and best manners, some affecting as fine feathers as the Cavaliers themselves. For the “Self-denying Ordinance” had not yet been ordained, nor the Parliamentary army moulded to the “new model.”In view of certain people sojourning in Montserrat House, it need scarce be said that Sir Richard Walwyn and Eustace Trevor were visitors there. Even without reference to the predilections of Madame or Mademoiselle, they could not well be excluded. But there was no thought of excluding them; both were unmistakably eligible, and one of them most welcome, for reasons that will presently appear. They had arrived in Bristol only a short while antecedent to its state of semi-siege, the Powells having long preceded them thither. And now that the approaches were again open, most of their time was spent keeping them so; the troop with the “big sergeant,” and standard showing a crown impaled upon a sword, once more displaying its prowess in encounters with the Cavaliers. After Rupert had disappeared from that particular scene, Prince Maurice, with hiscorps d’armée, began to manoeuvre upon it, swinging round southward into Somersetshire to unite his force with that of Hertford. To hang upon his skirts, and harass his outposts, was the work of Sir Richard Walwyn; a duty which often carried him and his Foresters afar from the city, and kept them away weeks at a time.He was just returning to it when Waller passed through. But, entering by a different route and gate from that taken by the latter going out, he missed him. Like enough but for this he would have been commanded along. For the “Conqueror” had carried off with him theéliteof the troops quartered in Bristol, almost stripping it of a garrison, to the no small annoyance of Nathaniel Fiennes. Glad was the Governor that the troop with the “big sergeant” had escaped such requisition—overjoyed his eyes to see that banner, bearing the emblem of a crown with sword stuck through it once more waving before the Castle gate.

The conspiracy having been nipped in the bud, and the conspirators in prison, Bristol again breathed freely. The approaches to it were once more open, the thwarted Royalists having withdrawn to a distance; so that Jerky Jack might have made the return trip to Gloucester with a despatch stuck in the band of his hat safe as it inside his wooden leg.

But swifter messengers traversed that road now, cleared of the enemy at both ends, and on both sides of the river Severn.

He who had effected this clearance was Sir William Waller, jocularly styled “William the Conqueror,” from the succession of victories he had late achieved. Also was he known as the “Night Owl;” a sobriquet due to his habit of making nocturnal expeditions that oft took the Royalists by surprise. No Crophead he, but a Cavalier in the true sense; a very Paladin—withal a Christian gentleman. He had separated from slow-going Lord General, and made one of his bold dashes down to the shires bordering Wales; first relieving Gloucester, which was in a manner besieged by the Monmouthshire levies of Lord Herbert. The besiegers were not only brushed off, but the main body of them either killed or captured; only a scant residue escaping to their fastnesses beyond the Wye; whither the “Conqueror” followed, chastising them still further.

Returning across the Forest of Dean, he outwitted the Royalist troops under Prince Maurice; and, once were setting face westward, raided through Herefordshire on to its chief city—which he captured, with a flock of foul birds that had been roosting there ever since its abandonment by the Parliamentarians under the silly Stamford.

But the “Night Owl” himself was not the bird to remain long on perch anywhere; and, gathering up his captured game—a large bag, including some of Herefordshire’s best blood, as the Scudamores, Conningsbys, and Pyes—he rounded back to Gloucester, and on to Bristol.

Not to tarry here, either. Soon as he had disembarrassed himself of his captive train—committed to the keeping of Fiennes—he was off again into Somersetshire, there to measure swords with Maurice and the Marquis of Hertford. As he rode out through the Bath gate at the head of a troop of steel-clad cuirassiers—“Hesselrig’s Lobsters”—the citizens of Bristol felt more confident of safety than ever since the strife began. For now they were assured against danger, outside as within. Internal treason had been awed, the traitors cowed and crushed, by what had befallen the conspirators of March the Seventh. The two chiefs of them, Yeomans and Boucher, had been tried, found guilty, and sentenced to death—a sentence soon afterwards carried into execution. Grand efforts were made to get them off; the King himself, by letter, threatening to retaliate upon the poor captives taken at Cirencester—such of them as remained unmurdered. Old Patrick, Earl of Forth, his Majesty’s Lieutenant-General, was put forward as the writer of the barbarous epistle. But canny Scot and accomplished soldier as his lordship might be, in a polemical contest he was no match for the lawyer, Fiennes, who flung the threat back in his teeth, saying:

“The men we have tried and condemned are not soldiers, but spies and conspirators. The prisoners you took at Cirencester are prisoners of war. I would have you observe the distinction. And know, too, that for every hair of their heads that falls, I will hang ten of your curled Cavaliers—make Bristol a shambles of them.”

Though not Nathaniel Fiennes’s exact words, they convey his meaning very near. And he could and would have acted up to them, as the King and his counsellors knew. So, whether or not they deemed his argument rational, it was unanswerable, or at all events unanswered, by a counter-threat; and the Cirencester prisoners were spared execution, while the Bristol conspirators went to the scaffold.

Much has been made of the King’s forbearance in this affair by those who did not, or would not, comprehend the motive. It was pure fear, not humanity—fear of a still more terrible retaliation. At that time the Parliament held ten prisoners for one in the hands of the Royalists—men of such rank and quality, his Majesty dared not put their lives in peril, much less let them be sacrificed. He had his revenge in secret, however, since under his very nose at Oxford many of the hapless captives from Cirencester miserably perished, through the torturing treatment of the Royal Provost-Marshal, Smith.

Finally, the “two State martyrs”—as Yeomans and Boucher have been styled by the Royalist writers—were strung up, protesting their innocence to the last, for all they were little believed. The evidence adduced at their trial clearly proved intent to shed the blood of their fellow-citizens; else why were they and their co-conspirators armed? Independent of this, their design of handing over Bristol to the rule of Prince Rupert and his ruffians meant something more than the mere spilling of blood in a street conflict—it involved the sack and pillage of peaceful homes, the violation of women, rapine and ruin in every way. It was only on getting the details of the trial that the Bristolians became fully sensible of the danger they had so narrowly escaped; convinced then, as Captain Birch worded it, that they had been standing upon a mine.

Notwithstanding all these occurrences and circumstances running counter to the Royal cause, against which the tide seemed to have turned, within Montserrat House—as the late Monsieur Lalande had named his dwelling—was no interruption of the festive scenes already alluded to. Its guests were as numerous, its gaieties gay and frequent as ever. For, to speak truth, the politicalbiasof the planter’s widow, as that of her daughter, was but skin deep. Hair had much to do with it; and, like enough, had the Parliamentarian officers but worn theirs a little longer, submitted it to the curling tongs, and given themselves to swearing and swaggering, in a genteel Cavalier way, they would have been more welcome to the hospitality of her house.

Still not all of them were denied it; for not all were of the Roundhead type. Among them were many gentlemen of high birth and best manners, some affecting as fine feathers as the Cavaliers themselves. For the “Self-denying Ordinance” had not yet been ordained, nor the Parliamentary army moulded to the “new model.”

In view of certain people sojourning in Montserrat House, it need scarce be said that Sir Richard Walwyn and Eustace Trevor were visitors there. Even without reference to the predilections of Madame or Mademoiselle, they could not well be excluded. But there was no thought of excluding them; both were unmistakably eligible, and one of them most welcome, for reasons that will presently appear. They had arrived in Bristol only a short while antecedent to its state of semi-siege, the Powells having long preceded them thither. And now that the approaches were again open, most of their time was spent keeping them so; the troop with the “big sergeant,” and standard showing a crown impaled upon a sword, once more displaying its prowess in encounters with the Cavaliers. After Rupert had disappeared from that particular scene, Prince Maurice, with hiscorps d’armée, began to manoeuvre upon it, swinging round southward into Somersetshire to unite his force with that of Hertford. To hang upon his skirts, and harass his outposts, was the work of Sir Richard Walwyn; a duty which often carried him and his Foresters afar from the city, and kept them away weeks at a time.

He was just returning to it when Waller passed through. But, entering by a different route and gate from that taken by the latter going out, he missed him. Like enough but for this he would have been commanded along. For the “Conqueror” had carried off with him theéliteof the troops quartered in Bristol, almost stripping it of a garrison, to the no small annoyance of Nathaniel Fiennes. Glad was the Governor that the troop with the “big sergeant” had escaped such requisition—overjoyed his eyes to see that banner, bearing the emblem of a crown with sword stuck through it once more waving before the Castle gate.

Chapter Thirty.A Mixed Assembly.If Waller’s passage through Bristol caused general rejoicing, there was joy in a certain private circle at the re-entry of Sir Richard Walwyn with his troop. Three of the inmates of Montserrat House hailed his return with a flutter of delight; though not all on his account, nor any of them its mistress, the Madame herself. She was pleased, however, to see the gallant knight again, as also his young troop captain, so much, that within a week after their return she sent out invitations to a grand ball, to be given, if not professedly for them, at least so understood.Many of the invited who were of the King’s party wondered, not at her giving a ball, but giving it at such a time, and in honour of their enemies; one of these Eustace Trevor, formerly in the service of the Court itself, whom they regarded as the basest of renegades. Madame Lalande, hitherto such an enthusiastic Royalist, making merry, while the State Martyrs were scarce cold in their graves, and things looking black generally! Waller’s unopposed marchings through the surrounding districts had, in a manner, made good the belief in his being invincible; and that he would be equally victorious in the shires of the “West,” whither he was now gone. If so, the Royal cause, hitherto ascendant in that quarter, would come under a cloud, if not be extinguished altogether.Among the Cavalier acquaintances of the planter’s widow, therefore, were heard sneering allusions to the “worship of the rising sun,” as the reason for her seeming defection.It was not the correct one, though. Nor, if called upon, could she herself have stated the precisemotif. Alone her daughter could do that; since it was she had suggested the entertainment; or rather commanded it. Though but turned eighteen, this young lady, child of a precocious clime and race, was a full-grown woman, intellectually as physically; wont to have her own way in Montserrat House, as in her native isle of the Antilles; and was in reality more its mistress than her mother. Her father’s will had been read to her, and she quite comprehended its provisions—all in her favour. Little cared she for slanderous whispers, whether by the tongues of Cavaliers or Cropheads; though it was no worship of rising sun inspired her in this particular matter. Instead, a wish to shine herself in the eyes of society; but chiefly those of one for whom she had begun to feel adoration, beyond that to sun, moon, or stars. She could dance like a Bayadere, and knew it.There need be no difficulty in getting together an assemblage of guests, numerous, and of the rightton. Bristol was then an ancient city, second only to London itself; the mushroom Liverpools, Manchesters, and Birminghams having barely a mark upon the map. Besides, in those days, the gentry were more resident in towns; the state of the roads—where there were any—and the scarcity of wheeled vehicles, cumbersome at that, making travel irksome and country life inconvenient. In times of peace the city on Avon’s banks had its quota of England’s upper crust; but now that war raged around it was crowded with such—fugitives from the adjoining villages and shires, even from beyond the Welsh border, who, as Ambrose Powell and his family, had repaired thither to escape exaction and insult—it might be outrage—from the marauding Cavaliers.In addition, Bristol, just at this time, contained a goodly sprinkling of the Cavaliers themselves, both military and civilian; not voluntarily there, nor as political refugees, but prisoners. Waller had flung some threescore into it, brought all the way from Monmouth and Hereford, most of them men of high rank, and most as manyon parole—allowed free range about the city and circulation in its best society, if they had theentrée.So, in sending out her invitations, Madame Lalande had not only a large, but varied list to select from; and to do her justice—or it may have have been Clarisse—on this occasion the names were pricked with impartiality; short hair and long being alike honoured by circulars of complimentary request. In this there might have been an eye to the changing times.Few were the refusals. No ball had ever come off at Montserrat House unaccompanied by a sumptuous supper. This was lure enough for the elderinvitées, especially in a city still straitened if not besieged; while to the younger the dancing itself offered attraction sufficient. Since the deposition of the festive Essex there had been but little gaiety in Bristol; under the stern administration of his successor the dance being discouraged, if not altogether tabooed; so that youthful heels were itching for it, of both sexes, and belonging to families on both sides of the political question.As a result, over two hundred responded to Madame Lalande’s invitations by presenting themselves at Montserrat House. Twice the number would not have inconveniently crowded it; since, in addition to several ample reception rooms, there was plenty of space in the ornamental grounds outside, which had been prepared for the occasion by a setting and festoonery of lamps. A summer’s night—for it was July, and sultry too—this was an advantageous arrangement, the open air being more enjoyable than that inside.But another advantage was derived from it; one that may be thought strange enough. It gave Madame Lalande’s guests an opportunity ofshunningone another! With many of them a thing most desirable; for men met there who had been enemies outside—were so still, even to hating—the fugitives from persecution and their very persecutors; the last, now their prisoners, humbled and abashed. Seemingly a fine chance for the former to indulge spites; but good manners forbade that.Still something more interposed to prevent awkward encounter or recognition. On the ball notes of invitation was marked “Fancy costume at pleasure,” which left the invited free to wear masks, or appear without them. But then, even in ordinary street promenade, masks had not been altogether abandoned, at least by ladies, many wearing them to a still later period.As a consequence of this allowed latitude, numbers of both sexes who attended the Lalandes’ ball came in fancy costumes, and masked. But ladies reliant on their charms were careless about the fastenings of the masks, and, somehow or other, the detested screens soon disappeared, giving the gentlemen an opportunity for the scrutiny and comparing of faces.Many were remarkable for their beauty—some of Bristol’s fairest daughters. And as a great seaport, with much foreign element in it, the types were varied. Three, however, attracted special attention—all entitled to the epithet lovely. They had been observed from the beginning, as they were in the withdrawing-room, unmasked, beside Madame Lalande, assisting her in the reception of the guests. Which identifies them as Madame’s daughter, and her two nieces, Sabrina and Vaga Powell. So were they.A connoisseur in female beauty would have found it difficult to decide which of the three deserved the palm. Paris himself would have been puzzled to award it. Clarisse, at home, and helping her mother in the duties of introduction stood prominently forward, and so first met the view of the incoming guests. Few who looked upon her would have thought of looking farther, nor cared to take their eyes off. But beyond her face with features of French type, tinted olive and carmine, was another of English outline, all roses set in a framework of gold—Vaga’s. In front of this that of the Creole brunette, despite its piquant beauty, was but the shadow of a partial eclipse vainly endeavouring to hide the light of the sun.Beside this, still another face in retirement, which many admired as much as either—Sabrina’s. Notwithstanding the preference shown by the frivolous Trojan, stately, queenly Juno had her charms too.Among the gentlemen received by Madame Lalande, and the fair triune forming her staff, were three who had peculiar relations with them—at least with the young ladies—Sir Richard Walwyn, Eustace and Reginald Trevor. They came not in together; the last by some minutes preceding the other two. But, without bettor knowledge of antecedents, it may seem strange his being there at all. Nothing much of this, however, was there about it; nor did Eustace show any surprise at seeing his cousin in the room, which he did soon as entering. He knew Reginald was in the city, and the reason—no voluntary sojourner, but one of the prisoners enjoying “parole.” As a captain in Sir John Wintour’s troop of horse he had been with Lord Herbert’s Monmouthshire levies in their farcical siege of Gloucester, so abruptly raised by Waller; where he escaped death by being made captive, and sent for safe keeping to Bristol. Though Colonel Lunsford was not there also, that worthy had been served in the same way at an earlier period. Having cried “quarter” at Edgehill, and there surrendered up his precious person, it was now being taken care of by the gaoler of Warwick Castle. But for that adverse incident he might have been in Bristol too, and figuring, as other fine Cavaliers, at the Lalandes’ ball.Though Reginald Trevor had been now some weeks in the city, and on parole, before that night he and his cousin had not met. As known, Eustace was for a time absent on scout with Sir Richard. But even after his return Reginald had shunned him, and neither had seen aught of the other since that angry parting at Hollymead. Now that chance had brought them together again, it was to meet with no increased cordiality; instead diminished, what had occurred since having but widened the gap between them. Still the hostility was all on Reginald’s side, by him felt keenly and bitterly. He had suffered humiliation; a soldier of fortune he was now, not only thrown out of employ but a prisoner. And, if not one of his captors, there among them in amicable association was his cousin, to whom he had sworn giving “No Quarter!” should they ever cross swords in the field of fight.By good fortune they had not done so yet; and whether he desired it, the other did not—had no such wish. Instead, would have been willing there and then to shake hands with him, and be friends again.With a half-formed resolve to make offer of reconciliation Eustace approached his cousin. To get a reception which flung him back upon himself, and his sensibilities.Though few their words exchanged, they were sharp and cutting, as might have been their swords.“So you’ve done what you said you would?”It was Reginald who spoke.“Done what?”“Turned traitor to your King. And to your father too?”“But not to my conscience, nor my God. They are more to me than loyalty to any King, as you call it—even more than affection for my poor deluded father, however much I feel for him.”“Feel for him, indeed! Ha, ha! But you can go on as you’ve begun. Your Cropheads have it all their own way here, and now; but the tide will turn sooner than you may think for. As for yourself, Eust, you may thank your stars you weren’t among the rabble that overpowered me at Highnam. I sent half-a-dozen to their long account, and like as not you’d have been one of them.”The implied superiority, even without the cruelty, was an impertinence. But Eustace Trevor, instead of taking it in that sense, and making angry retort, treated it rather as a joke, with a light laugh rejoining—“Possibly had I been there, Rej, you wouldn’t be here.”At which he turned away, leaving his dark-browed cousin to count the change in satire that had been given him in full.

If Waller’s passage through Bristol caused general rejoicing, there was joy in a certain private circle at the re-entry of Sir Richard Walwyn with his troop. Three of the inmates of Montserrat House hailed his return with a flutter of delight; though not all on his account, nor any of them its mistress, the Madame herself. She was pleased, however, to see the gallant knight again, as also his young troop captain, so much, that within a week after their return she sent out invitations to a grand ball, to be given, if not professedly for them, at least so understood.

Many of the invited who were of the King’s party wondered, not at her giving a ball, but giving it at such a time, and in honour of their enemies; one of these Eustace Trevor, formerly in the service of the Court itself, whom they regarded as the basest of renegades. Madame Lalande, hitherto such an enthusiastic Royalist, making merry, while the State Martyrs were scarce cold in their graves, and things looking black generally! Waller’s unopposed marchings through the surrounding districts had, in a manner, made good the belief in his being invincible; and that he would be equally victorious in the shires of the “West,” whither he was now gone. If so, the Royal cause, hitherto ascendant in that quarter, would come under a cloud, if not be extinguished altogether.

Among the Cavalier acquaintances of the planter’s widow, therefore, were heard sneering allusions to the “worship of the rising sun,” as the reason for her seeming defection.

It was not the correct one, though. Nor, if called upon, could she herself have stated the precisemotif. Alone her daughter could do that; since it was she had suggested the entertainment; or rather commanded it. Though but turned eighteen, this young lady, child of a precocious clime and race, was a full-grown woman, intellectually as physically; wont to have her own way in Montserrat House, as in her native isle of the Antilles; and was in reality more its mistress than her mother. Her father’s will had been read to her, and she quite comprehended its provisions—all in her favour. Little cared she for slanderous whispers, whether by the tongues of Cavaliers or Cropheads; though it was no worship of rising sun inspired her in this particular matter. Instead, a wish to shine herself in the eyes of society; but chiefly those of one for whom she had begun to feel adoration, beyond that to sun, moon, or stars. She could dance like a Bayadere, and knew it.

There need be no difficulty in getting together an assemblage of guests, numerous, and of the rightton. Bristol was then an ancient city, second only to London itself; the mushroom Liverpools, Manchesters, and Birminghams having barely a mark upon the map. Besides, in those days, the gentry were more resident in towns; the state of the roads—where there were any—and the scarcity of wheeled vehicles, cumbersome at that, making travel irksome and country life inconvenient. In times of peace the city on Avon’s banks had its quota of England’s upper crust; but now that war raged around it was crowded with such—fugitives from the adjoining villages and shires, even from beyond the Welsh border, who, as Ambrose Powell and his family, had repaired thither to escape exaction and insult—it might be outrage—from the marauding Cavaliers.

In addition, Bristol, just at this time, contained a goodly sprinkling of the Cavaliers themselves, both military and civilian; not voluntarily there, nor as political refugees, but prisoners. Waller had flung some threescore into it, brought all the way from Monmouth and Hereford, most of them men of high rank, and most as manyon parole—allowed free range about the city and circulation in its best society, if they had theentrée.

So, in sending out her invitations, Madame Lalande had not only a large, but varied list to select from; and to do her justice—or it may have have been Clarisse—on this occasion the names were pricked with impartiality; short hair and long being alike honoured by circulars of complimentary request. In this there might have been an eye to the changing times.

Few were the refusals. No ball had ever come off at Montserrat House unaccompanied by a sumptuous supper. This was lure enough for the elderinvitées, especially in a city still straitened if not besieged; while to the younger the dancing itself offered attraction sufficient. Since the deposition of the festive Essex there had been but little gaiety in Bristol; under the stern administration of his successor the dance being discouraged, if not altogether tabooed; so that youthful heels were itching for it, of both sexes, and belonging to families on both sides of the political question.

As a result, over two hundred responded to Madame Lalande’s invitations by presenting themselves at Montserrat House. Twice the number would not have inconveniently crowded it; since, in addition to several ample reception rooms, there was plenty of space in the ornamental grounds outside, which had been prepared for the occasion by a setting and festoonery of lamps. A summer’s night—for it was July, and sultry too—this was an advantageous arrangement, the open air being more enjoyable than that inside.

But another advantage was derived from it; one that may be thought strange enough. It gave Madame Lalande’s guests an opportunity ofshunningone another! With many of them a thing most desirable; for men met there who had been enemies outside—were so still, even to hating—the fugitives from persecution and their very persecutors; the last, now their prisoners, humbled and abashed. Seemingly a fine chance for the former to indulge spites; but good manners forbade that.

Still something more interposed to prevent awkward encounter or recognition. On the ball notes of invitation was marked “Fancy costume at pleasure,” which left the invited free to wear masks, or appear without them. But then, even in ordinary street promenade, masks had not been altogether abandoned, at least by ladies, many wearing them to a still later period.

As a consequence of this allowed latitude, numbers of both sexes who attended the Lalandes’ ball came in fancy costumes, and masked. But ladies reliant on their charms were careless about the fastenings of the masks, and, somehow or other, the detested screens soon disappeared, giving the gentlemen an opportunity for the scrutiny and comparing of faces.

Many were remarkable for their beauty—some of Bristol’s fairest daughters. And as a great seaport, with much foreign element in it, the types were varied. Three, however, attracted special attention—all entitled to the epithet lovely. They had been observed from the beginning, as they were in the withdrawing-room, unmasked, beside Madame Lalande, assisting her in the reception of the guests. Which identifies them as Madame’s daughter, and her two nieces, Sabrina and Vaga Powell. So were they.

A connoisseur in female beauty would have found it difficult to decide which of the three deserved the palm. Paris himself would have been puzzled to award it. Clarisse, at home, and helping her mother in the duties of introduction stood prominently forward, and so first met the view of the incoming guests. Few who looked upon her would have thought of looking farther, nor cared to take their eyes off. But beyond her face with features of French type, tinted olive and carmine, was another of English outline, all roses set in a framework of gold—Vaga’s. In front of this that of the Creole brunette, despite its piquant beauty, was but the shadow of a partial eclipse vainly endeavouring to hide the light of the sun.

Beside this, still another face in retirement, which many admired as much as either—Sabrina’s. Notwithstanding the preference shown by the frivolous Trojan, stately, queenly Juno had her charms too.

Among the gentlemen received by Madame Lalande, and the fair triune forming her staff, were three who had peculiar relations with them—at least with the young ladies—Sir Richard Walwyn, Eustace and Reginald Trevor. They came not in together; the last by some minutes preceding the other two. But, without bettor knowledge of antecedents, it may seem strange his being there at all. Nothing much of this, however, was there about it; nor did Eustace show any surprise at seeing his cousin in the room, which he did soon as entering. He knew Reginald was in the city, and the reason—no voluntary sojourner, but one of the prisoners enjoying “parole.” As a captain in Sir John Wintour’s troop of horse he had been with Lord Herbert’s Monmouthshire levies in their farcical siege of Gloucester, so abruptly raised by Waller; where he escaped death by being made captive, and sent for safe keeping to Bristol. Though Colonel Lunsford was not there also, that worthy had been served in the same way at an earlier period. Having cried “quarter” at Edgehill, and there surrendered up his precious person, it was now being taken care of by the gaoler of Warwick Castle. But for that adverse incident he might have been in Bristol too, and figuring, as other fine Cavaliers, at the Lalandes’ ball.

Though Reginald Trevor had been now some weeks in the city, and on parole, before that night he and his cousin had not met. As known, Eustace was for a time absent on scout with Sir Richard. But even after his return Reginald had shunned him, and neither had seen aught of the other since that angry parting at Hollymead. Now that chance had brought them together again, it was to meet with no increased cordiality; instead diminished, what had occurred since having but widened the gap between them. Still the hostility was all on Reginald’s side, by him felt keenly and bitterly. He had suffered humiliation; a soldier of fortune he was now, not only thrown out of employ but a prisoner. And, if not one of his captors, there among them in amicable association was his cousin, to whom he had sworn giving “No Quarter!” should they ever cross swords in the field of fight.

By good fortune they had not done so yet; and whether he desired it, the other did not—had no such wish. Instead, would have been willing there and then to shake hands with him, and be friends again.

With a half-formed resolve to make offer of reconciliation Eustace approached his cousin. To get a reception which flung him back upon himself, and his sensibilities.

Though few their words exchanged, they were sharp and cutting, as might have been their swords.

“So you’ve done what you said you would?”

It was Reginald who spoke.

“Done what?”

“Turned traitor to your King. And to your father too?”

“But not to my conscience, nor my God. They are more to me than loyalty to any King, as you call it—even more than affection for my poor deluded father, however much I feel for him.”

“Feel for him, indeed! Ha, ha! But you can go on as you’ve begun. Your Cropheads have it all their own way here, and now; but the tide will turn sooner than you may think for. As for yourself, Eust, you may thank your stars you weren’t among the rabble that overpowered me at Highnam. I sent half-a-dozen to their long account, and like as not you’d have been one of them.”

The implied superiority, even without the cruelty, was an impertinence. But Eustace Trevor, instead of taking it in that sense, and making angry retort, treated it rather as a joke, with a light laugh rejoining—

“Possibly had I been there, Rej, you wouldn’t be here.”

At which he turned away, leaving his dark-browed cousin to count the change in satire that had been given him in full.

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