O! holy men!Ye are the sons of piety and peace;Ye never felt the sharp vindictive spurThat goads the injured warrior; the hot tideThat flushes crimson on the conscious cheekOf him who burns for glory; else indeedYe much would pity me.
O! holy men!Ye are the sons of piety and peace;Ye never felt the sharp vindictive spurThat goads the injured warrior; the hot tideThat flushes crimson on the conscious cheekOf him who burns for glory; else indeedYe much would pity me.
O! holy men!
Ye are the sons of piety and peace;
Ye never felt the sharp vindictive spur
That goads the injured warrior; the hot tide
That flushes crimson on the conscious cheek
Of him who burns for glory; else indeed
Ye much would pity me.
Mason.
Eustace kept his promise, and rejoined Monthault, at the time and place appointed, equipped for service. His friend commended his heroism. "And did you," said he, "obtain Constantia's permission?" "No," answered Eustace; "I felt unequal to such a trial. I only pressed her hand with greater tenderness, and more earnestly implored Heaven to take her into his especial care."
"You will both thank me for projecting this separation," replied the Major. "Seeing the world with your own eyes will improve you, brush off that home-bred air which makes you bashful, and enlarge your ideas and powers of conversation. I promise ourselves a spirited, agreeable campaign. Hopton's office in the council will confine him about the person of the Prince, who must be kept at some distance from the scene of action; and Goring is no rigid disciplinarian. The enemy is not in force in the west; Cromwell and Fairfax are both to play at King-hunting; so we shall have time to divert ourselves and do our duty too."
From Bristol, Eustace wrote to his uncle and Constantia, excusing his absence by the uncontrollable avidity he felt to engage in the cause of his injured Prince, to whose commands he promised a strict obedience, and vowed to be sedulously attentive to all his new duties. To Constantia he added that he hoped to return worthier of her, and to feel in future the glorious consciousness of having contributed to restore his virtuous persecuted Sovereign, and give peace to his afflicted country. There was so much loyalty, honour, love, and gratitude in these letters, that they must have softened the Doctor's displeasure at his elopement, had they come to hand; but they were confided to the care of Monthault, and, either through forgetfulness or treachery, were never forwarded. It was therefore only from the vague testimony of an accidental passenger that the family knew Eustace had taken the road to Bristol; and, from his being in company with Major Monthault, they guessed his destination.
Constantia had now the twofold anguish of fearing for the safety and apologizing for the faults of her beloved. The latter task was by far the most painful. She could only urge that he had a bad adviser, and that it was his first offence. Every day she flattered herself that she should receive a letter, deprecating her father's anger, and assuaging her own fears. The summer passed away, and they heard nothing from Eustace. Had he forgot her, as well as the ties of duty and gratitude? It was impossible! letters might be lost, but her plighted Eustace must be good and faithful.
I have before remarked that Lord Hopton was the officer under whom Dr. Beaumont would have wished his nephew to learn "the noble game of war;" but there were circumstances in his present appointment which made it differ widely from that of the preceding year, when, with his compatriot, Sir Bevil Greenvil, he drew a cordon across the western peninsula, and preserved, in that happy spot, the laws, the virtues, and the honour of England. He was now, indeed, to be the ruling head; but his former associates in arms lay cold in earth, and the persons to whom the execution of his plans was to be intrusted, were the avowed votaries of Bacchus and Comus. It was with gay voluptuaries, freethinkers, and revellers, that Eustace must converse; at a distance from those whose wisdom might govern his impetuosity, and whose steady principles would correct his backslidings. Contemplating the dangerous situation of a generous, but indiscreet stripling, Dr. Beaumont now wished him in the army which the King was leading northward, to collect the remains of Lord Newcastle's forces, as that route might have afforded him a chance of joining his father in Carlisle, which held out with unexampled firmness, enduring the most incredible privations, and repelling the most vigorous assaults. The event of the fatal battle of Naseby, which palsied all the King's efforts to preserve the constitution, and ended all the hopes of his friends, would have made Dr. Beaumont rejoice that Eustace did not swell the list of noble and illustrious persons left on that bloody field, had not his sorrow for a "King and kingdom lost" been too acute and overwhelming to receive any diminution from private considerations. The infantry, cannon, ammunition, baggage, and all the resources of the King, were there wrested from his grasp by victorious rebels; and England virtually exchanged the government of the religious, conscientious descendant of her ancient Princes, for that of a low-born, cruel hypocrite, who ruled her with a rod of iron. The King indeed escaped from the battle with a small body of horse; but it was only to fly from place to place before his unwearied enemies, pursued into every corner of his kingdom, without knowing where to rest his head, allowed no pause, even to ruminate on his misfortunes, till at last, trusting that his own countrymen would not betray the Prince who flew, like a bird hunted by the hawk, to their bosoms, he appealed to the pretended loyalty of the Scotch Covenanters; and they sold him to those who thirsted for his blood.
Yet neither the desperate state of the kingdom, nor the ruin of their own fortunes, long since embarked in the same vessel with his rights, could compose the feuds of the western generals, or induce them to attend to the directions of the Prince's council, or to the discipline and behaviour of their troops. The latter, from their intolerable insolence and rapine, became formidable only to their friends; and the approach of Fairfax was hailed, even in the best-disposed districts, as a signal of deliverance from the galling yoke of military extortion. Goring, the soldier's darling, who combined all the alluring qualities of a demi-god, was found to want the distinguishing marks of a Christian hero. Possessed neither of self-command, obedience, nor fortitude, he was ever ready to dash at splendid actions, but was without resources in the day of peril. He was too vain of his wit and companionable talents to submit to the command of others, and too supine, dissipated, and rash, either to improve opportunities of action, or to defeat the views of the enemy. Such was the leader under whom Eustace hoped to serve his king, and learn the art of war. His friend, Monthault, was a transcript of all Lord Goring's faults, to which he added the most cool and determined treachery, under the garb of blunt simplicity and unguarded frankness.
It had been previously settled by the two friends, that their common wants should be supplied from the purse of Major Monthault, in case the Royal exchequer was inadequate to the supply of the army. That purse was either soon exhausted, or closed by the sinister designs of the owner. "It is his own fault if a soldier wants," was his answer to the urgent requests of Eustace for a small supply. "We are now," returned the other, "quartered among friends, to whom we ought to be not only punctual but liberal, lest we indispose them to the service. You see the Royal funds are scarcely adequate to the maintenance of the Prince. You are aware that I must depend on you, as the circumstances under which I left Oxford prevent my asking my uncle to assist me." "Certainly you must not," answered Monthault; "and I say again, a word will always carve a dinner. This, I own, is called a well-affected district; but there are many corrupted parts in it. Your host, for instance—a vile republican, a Presbyterian round-head—I saw him pelt the bishops when they appeared at the bar of the Lords, and join in a clamorous petition to behead Lord Strafford. Give him a hint of this, and make him bleed. Tell him we will inform Sir Richard Greenvil of his behaviour; and talk of Launceston gaol."
Eustace had long thought that every man concerned in either of those proceedings deserved the gallows, and fancied he could perform the office of executioner. He therefore made less scruple to require a pecuniary commutation for those offences, but thought the proceeds should be carried to a public account. Monthault laughed at this suggestion, said that self-preservation was the soldier's motto, and begged he would only bring the sum total to him, and his receipt should be a full discharge.
Eustace met Monthault next morning with a blank aspect. The accused had not only protested his innocence, but offered to bring testimony that he was in Devonshire at the time. Alarmed, however, at the impending charge, and knowing that riches were in these cases construed into a proof of guilt, he offered half the sum demanded as a present, provided Monthault would be his friend and protect him from further contribution.
Monthault held out his hand carelessly, and only said, "Disburse." Eustace protested that his principles would not permit him to take a commutation for offences from a person whom he believed innocent. Monthault flew into a rage, asked Eustace if, in a battle, or when storming a town, he would stop to ask those he met, "Pray, Sir, are you in heart a rebel? Good Master, were you pressed into the service?" before he hewed them down with his broad-sword? The very proposal of a bribe implied guilt. Eustace acknowledged there was weight in that remark; the offered sum was taken; Eustace carried it to his superior, and received the jackall's share.
Indignant at the wrong, the plundered Loyalist, for such indeed he was, appealed to the Prince's courts. The Lords Hopton, Capel, and the incorruptible Hyde, formed part of that body; and it will be anticipated, that only a want of ability to redress the wrong, prevented immediate reparation. The power of Lord Goring protected his favourite, Monthault; but it was thought proper to reprove the youth, who had acted as his agent. Eustace was summoned before the council. Shame and self-reproach bowed his erect head, and cast a gloom over his ingenuous features. The President explained how greatly such actions endangered the fugitive King, whose life now depended on the fidelity of his subjects, as he flew from post to post, seeking to hide his proscribed head. Eustace burst into tears. "I need proceed no further," continued Lord Hopton, "tell me what urged you to this base action."—"Necessity," replied Eustace, with a look of deep contrition. "That is a bad plea," returned the nobleman, "and urged with a bad grace, by those who refuse to admit it as an excuse for the crimes of rebels. In this instance too, I fear it is a false one. I know you are one of the party, who distinguish themselves by their midnight carousals in Major Monthault's quarters. The necessity which arises from dissipation, can never be urged to excuse peculation."
"Place me in the forlorn hope," said Eustace, "the first time you have any desperate service, and let me expiate my crime."
"So keen a sense of it," resumed Lord Hopton, "is its own punishment. Your name is Eustace Evellin. I have heard of a youth so called.—At Oxford he was said to be one of uncommon hope, the son of a noble Loyalist, distinguished alike for honour and valour; the nephew of a learned divine, a confessor in the cause of monarchy and episcopacy. Are you that person?"—Eustace answered by a burst of agonized grief.—Lord Hopton took him aside, and slided a purse into his hands; "Use this frugally," said he; "'tis the mite of one, whom duty has stripped of superfluities, yet apply again to the same source, rather than give your own heart the pangs which I see it now endures."
"But I am disgraced," said Eustace, with a look which at once bespoke intolerable anxiety and ardent gratitude. Lord Hopton answered, "I blush while I tell you that your fault is too general, to stigmatize those who commit it; but I mistake your character, if you find in its frequency an apology for repeating the crime."
Eustace retired; his dejected heart was warm with approbation of his excellent reprover; yet burning with impatience to obliterate all remembrance of his error, by some brave action which should prove that he was not unworthy the clemency and confidence which his appearance had excited. He told Monthault what had passed. "The old Prig worded it bravely," said he, "but in one respect he is better than most of your precise moralists. Come turn out the pieces—share and share alike you know; and just now they are quite convenient, as there is not a single doit in my purse." Eustace hesitated, knowing that its contents had been left at the billiard-table, but at length complied, with a secret determination that the partnership should immediately terminate.
While his mind still ruminated on the blight which his budding laurels had received, it occurred to him that it would be possible to surprise an advanced post of Sir Thomas Fairfax's army, which lay at a small distance from the town of which Monthault was intrusted with the command. When Eustace suggested the plan to his friend, the latter encouraged the attempt. It had many recommendations to his treacherous heart. The design was so full of danger, that it was most likely to end in the destruction of the whole party, and next to the disgrace, the death of Eustace was what he secretly desired. Nor did he forget that incursions into the energy's quarters could not be made, without hazarding the safety of the town where he was posted, and which Lord Goring told him was of the utmost importance to preserve the line of defence that covered the Royal army. With the true spirit which actuated the western commanders in this disastrous campaign, Monthault cared little what detriment the King received, so he might ruin a rival. He however, took care to shift the responsibility from himself. "If you ask me whether it is feasible," said he to Eustace, "I confess, I think that nothing but great valour, joined to great good fortune, can accomplish the design. But if you pant for glory, you know the adage, 'success attends the brave.' The glory shall be all your own, for as the letter of my orders forbids all hazards, I must officially be ignorant of your undertaking; though, as a friend, I will allow the night-guard to consist of picked men, whom you may dispose of as you think proper."
To succeed in a desperate enterprise, required more experience and better intelligence than Eustace possessed.—Brave in vain, he only led his followers to death or captivity. He was rescued from sharing their fate by a trooper, who, seeing him fainting from loss of blood, lifted him on his own horse, and galloped with him to the head-quarters. The post where Major Monthault was stationed, being weakened by the loss of this detachment, fell into the enemy's hands.
Miscarriages were too frequent to excite long clamour; but the disobedience of a positive command was, in this instance, too marked to be passed over in silence. Monthault, on being examined, denied having commanded the enterprize. Had he advised, or permitted it, was a question put by one of the council; it was over-ruled as inadmissible by Lord Goring; and Monthault made a specious appearance, by talking loudly of the gallantry and excellent intentions of his friend. Pale, wounded, and dejected, Eustace was unable to raise his eyes, fearing nothing so much as the calm severity of Lord Hopton's aspect. The hopes he had formed were blasted; his promised course of glory and success was turned to shame and misfortune; nay, worse, he had materially injured the Prince, whom he would have died to serve.—He stood almost senseless while he heard himself ordered under an arrest, and to be kept from duty for a fortnight. That time was indeed scarce sufficient to heal his wounds; but Eustace could not separate in his mind the restrictions imposed by kindness from the punishment of disobedience.
His extreme agitation moved the compassion of the centinel who was placed over him, and who was indeed the same brave trooper who had saved his life. "Courage, noble Captain," said he; "Their Honours, the Lords of Council, only lock you up to give you time to get well. When they asked me about the business, I told them you was as true a heart as ever lifted broad-sword, only a little too hot—that's all; and one of them, the old Lord, with white hair, that looked at you so, wished that true hearts were more common. Your wounds will be well by the time you are let out; and then we'll cut and slash the round-heads again. Shall we not do them a good one, as we say in Lancashire?"
The name of his native county threw the thoughts of Eustace into a train, no less painful than the wounded feelings of a soldier.—Its dear emigrants, what would they now think of him! Even Constantia would abjure him:—surely she would never hear of his being reproved as a peculator, and ordered under an arrest for insubordination.
"You are too brave a gentleman to mind a few slashes and thumps," continued the talkative centinel; "the surgeon says they will heal up, and you'll have a whole skin again presently; so it must be some other sorrow which casts you down so. And nothing cuts a man up like sorrow, as I have heard good Dr. Beaumont say."
The name roused Eustace to enquire how he knew the opinions of Dr. Beaumont, and the eclaircissement proved the centinel to be Ralph Jobson, the same person who refused to take the covenant at Ribblesdale in the beginning of the civil war, and had ever since felt such a reverence for the Doctor, as to connect with his name every sentiment to which he affixed peculiar importance.—To have rescued his nephew from death or captivity, was a most gratifying event to Jobson's honest heart; and he readily offered to do Eustace any service, even so far as to pass through the enemy's quarters, and inform the Doctor of his misfortunes. "Not for the universe," replied Eustace, "in the present situation of affairs."—"True," answered Jobson, "we must not rob the King of one brave heart just now; and though I was only a poor carter, and am now a trooper and quarter-master's man, mine is as true a heart as that old Lord's with white hair, that I liked the look of. So by way of passing the time, shall I tell you how I got away from the constables, sent by Squire Morgan to take me to Hull, and went to Nottingham and listed under the King; aye, and fought for him too, when Lord Lindsey was killed at Edgehill; and helped to bury Lord Falkland, and the young Earl of Sunderland at Newbury; and saw Lord Newcastle's lambs dye their fleeces in their own blood; aye, and was taken prisoner with the learned Mr. Chillingworth, who wrote against Popery at Arundel-castle, and tended him when he lay sick, and was catechised by Waller's chaplains for being a Papist. He could have talked them all dumb, only he was speechless; and so at last they killed him with their barbarous usage. Why, Captain, I have seen the King of England dining on a hard crust, under a hedge, like a gipsey-stroller. How could you have stood such sights? Why your heart would have broke, instead of being alive and merry to drub the round-heads, as I am."
Jobson's narrative was interrupted by a visit from Lord Hopton. "Once more, Captain Evellin," said he, "I come to reprove you. That I do so, is a proof of your repeated errors, and of my conviction that they proceed rather from inexperience, than a bad disposition." Eustace expressed his sincere gratitude and deep contrition. "On the former subject," replied His Lordship, "since it relates to myself, I may command silence, and you must feel that your contrition cannot restore to us the brave fellows we lost last night, or regain the post with which Major Monthault was entrusted. But I wish to ask if you knew that positive orders were given, to act only on the defensive?"
Eustace was silent. The manner in which Monthault spoke of his orders, intimated that their letter and spirit were at variance, and how could he throw the shadow of blame on one who had so eloquently defended his behaviour before the council. "I see," resumed Lord Hopton, "there is a mystery in this business; and as the desperate state of our affairs leaves me no power to punish breach of orders, we must endeavour to correct the past. Lord Goring has fled to France; despairing, I presume, of his master's cause. We have now to try to extricate ourselves from the difficulties into which discord and insubordination have plunged us. The Prince has this day required me to take the entire command of the army. 'I have not told His Highness, as hath of late been the fashion, that my honour would not permit me to accept it; but I have said that I knew I could not take it at this time, without resolving to lose my honour; yet since His Highness thinks fit, I am ready to obey him.' I can now therefore do you a real service, by taking you out of ill hands. I will make you my military secretary, and keep you about my person. The past is forgot. As soon as you are able, come to my quarters; but remember, I require a positive estrangement from your past connexions."
The transport of Eustace, at such a proof of confidence, may be readily conceived, and he now felt assured that he should expunge all the stains on his reputation. But ill-fortune and misconduct still attended him, as indeed they did the army to which he was attached. The bands of discipline had been too long relaxed. The general of the infantry refused to obey Lord Hopton, and was committed to prison, to intimidate other mutineers; and though his rapine and extortion had excited universal odium, so low was the general feeling of justice, that his punishment caused yet greater discontent than his rapacity had done. The troops were as corrupted as their leaders; only a small body of horse and a few companies of volunteers, chiefly composed of gentlemen, could be depended upon, in an army drawn up in the extremity of the kingdom, to defend the last holds of Royalty, and protect the heir of the crown from sharing the fate of his father, who was at this time a prisoner in the Scotch army at Newcastle, and scarce treated with the decency of external respect.
Whatever intrepidity, activity, and foresight could perform, was done by Lord Hopton and his faithful coadjutors; but from the hour when he undertook the charge to that of the army's dispersion, "scarce a party of guard appeared with half their appointed numbers, or within two hours of the time they ought." On such enemies Fairfax rushed with the concentrated forces of triumphant rebellion; yet if treachery had not aided his progress, the veteran's bands were again so strongly posted, that the victors would not have reaped bloodless laurels. But Goring's brigade (to which Monthault still belonged), being stationed to guard a down in front of the army, drew off without staying for orders, or intrenched Loyalists, before they had the least previous notice. Defeat and dispersion were the consequence. All efforts to rally the flying troops were vain, the officers cried out that their men could not be brought to face the enemy, and Lord Hopton in vain endeavoured to avail himself of the chances that might result from delay, by proposing to send to the Prince for directions how he should act. "Treat, treat," was the universal cry of the soldiers. Scorning to yield to such base clamour, he indignantly bade them treat for themselves, and retiring with the faithful few who adhered to his fortunes, to Pendennis Castle, falsified his own prediction by losing every thing but his honour, and the last ebbing sands of a long life, wasted by toils and sorrows, that left him merely strength enough to attend the Prince, who had been committed to his trust, to a foreign country, where, exiled from his large possessions, the country and the friends he loved, he found a refuge from triumphant guilt and undeserved misfortune in the grave.
To return to Eustace. The desertion of the post at Bodmin bore such evident marks of treachery, that it could not be attributed to the general trepidation and disorder which possessed the army, and circumstances proved that a correspondence subsisted between Monthault and the Parliamentary general, which the farce of taking him prisoner and committing him to close custody, when the King's forces were generally permitted to disband and return to their houses, strongly confirmed. Lord Hopton recollected that his designs had been counteracted by Fairfax, in a manner which implied previous acquaintance with his purposes. A moment of extreme irritation and anguish, such as a general must feel when he finds all his resources cut off, is not favourable to candour or calm investigation. The connexion between Eustace and Monthault was not dissolved. Notwithstanding the injunctions of the General to hold no intercourse with his late associate, Eustace had been seen in his company, and even detected in the act of writing him a letter. Monthault corresponded with Fairfax; his (Lord Hopton's) own secretary held a private correspondence with Monthault; thus the course of treachery seemed developed. Lord Hopton felt that he had been deceived by the ingenuous countenance of a handsome youth. He rejected his offer of accompanying him to Pendennis, and even demanded from him his sword. "Go," said he, "and when one is again given you, serve your employer with fidelity."
Eustace was thunder-struck, and rushed after his commander to enquire the cause of such severe treatment. "I forgave your extortion and licentiousness," said the General, with a stern austere look which pierced him to the soul; "I pardon the rashness which broke our line of defence, and weakened us by the loss of a brave detachment. After this I took you into a confidential situation, and you betrayed your General and your Prince.
"Never, never," was the exclamation of the tortured Eustace. "I own my other offences, but with my latest breath I deny being a traitor."
"Have you not held a secret and prohibited correspondence?—Guilt chains your tongue. I hoped better things from Eustace Evellin. Farewell, repent and reform." These words were spoken as Lord Hopton mounted his horse. Eustace threw himself on the ground, and in a frantic moment thought self-destruction allowable. Before principle had time to allay this agony of acute feeling, a sob, that seemed to issue from a breaking heart, made him raise his head to see if there were any as wretched as himself. A pale war-worn figure stood beside him, leaning on a carbine; his hat drawn over his eyes, and his body wrapped in a tattered roquelaure. Eustace would have felt ashamed at yielding to such expressions of poignant distress before any observer, had not the more painful consideration that this person had been a witness of his disgrace suppressed every other thought.
"Did you hear the General speak to me?" enquired Eustace in a perturbed accent. After a long pause the stranger answered, "I did."—Those words were uttered in a well-known voice; and at a moment of indelible shame and public ruin, Eustace saw the long-desired features of his father: that father, by whose side he hoped to have fought manfully, in defence of his King and in pursuit of glorious renown, was the witness of an accusation which even mercy could not pardon, and beheld him sinking under the consciousness of acknowledged offences. Dignified in misery, Colonel Evellin stood gazing at the youth on whose virtues his fondest hopes had reposed, now sunk far below even his own desperate fortunes. Eustace held his hands before his face, not daring even to ask a blessing, nor presuming to enquire how they happened to meet at this awful crisis.
Colonel Evellin first broke silence. "You are Eustace Evellin, my only son, for whom I cherished the remnant of my unfortunate life.—Boy, I was plundered of wealth, title, and reputation, by a perfidious friend. I submitted to obscurity and poverty, for I was blessed with a faithful wife in your angel-mother. Thanks be to Heaven, she lives not to see this day!—I have fought and bled for my King. I have endured hardships which would paralyze your pampered niceness to hear described. For eleven months I fed on carrion, reposed on filth, deafened with the sound of battering cannon, the shouts of besieging rebels, and the groans of dying comrades. I have swam across rivers, warding the broken ice from my wounded body. I have, like a hunted wolf, dressed those wounds in mountain-fastnesses, shunning the abode of man, and eluding pursuers whose mercy I disdained to ask. I have seen my King a prisoner, without power to redress his wrongs; my country a prey to tyrants; all her hallowed institutions overturned; but never till now, Eustace, was I completely wretched; for never did anguish, in its most desperate forebodings, whisper that I could be the parent of a traitor."
"Oh, my father!" replied Eustace; "kill me with your weapon rather than your words. By the unimpeached honour of my blessed mother, I am no traitor."
"Who spoke the accusation," returned the Colonel, "which I returned to hear, and to curse the hour of thy birth?—'Twas not the light reproach of petulant folly, anxious to shift the shame of defeat from its own misconduct.' The speaker was the wise, magnanimous Hopton."
"But even wisdom and magnanimity may mistake."
"Was there any intercourse which he interdicted, and you clandestinely continued?"
"There was one who wound himself round my heart by ties which I wanted firmness to dissolve, and I greatly fear he has been a traitor to his country and me."
"No expletives; no qualifying terms; no diminutive appellations, for crimes that involve a kingdom's fate. Under the influence of this man, you have been rapacious, licentious, rash, regardless of subordination."
"I have."
"And not a traitor!—Gracious Author of my existence, do I live to hear such perversion of language from my Eustace? When all depended on the honour and discipline of those who maintained the King's cause, my son commits crimes which disgrace his religion, his profession, and his principles, yet tells me he is no traitor."
"I never betrayed the confidence of Lord Hopton," said Eustace, attempting to clasp his father's knees. "The correspondence I carried on was to relieve the necessities of one who I thought had served me: not to disclose the secret plans of my General."
"Off! thy touch is contamination;" said the stern soldier. Yet Eustace perceived he melted as he spoke. "By our common wretchedness," continued he, "permit me to follow you. Let us throw ourselves into some garrison, where we may dearly sell our lives. I ask for nothing but to die defending you. Let me but combat by your side, and you shall find, though I have greatly sinned, I can also greatly repent."
"Oh, last of a noble stock!" said Evellin, while tears streamed fast down his furrowed cheeks, "if thou dost repent, save thy life for better times."—"Keep me but with you," returned Eustace, "and I shall become all you wish." "I mean to make for Oxford," said the Colonel; "darest thou go with me thither?" "No, no," replied the unhappy youth; "I dare not see Constance till I have erased my shames."—"The soul of thy parents spoke in that sentiment," said the Colonel, unable longer to restrain his arms from clasping his son; but the embrace was accompanied with that groan of woe, which spoke unsubdued repugnance and careless anguish, yet it seemed to restore the half-expiring Eustace to life, at the same time that it confirmed his resolution never to give occasion for such another groan.
Filial piety, which, in despite of all his errors, was a predominant sentiment in the mind of Eustace, soon pointed out to him, that though the sight of his injured but beloved Constance, and her offended father, would, in his present circumstances, be insupportable, it was highly desirable that his father should shelter his infirm frame under the roof of domestic friendship; and perceiving with joy that such was his design, he forbore to persevere in his request of never more separating from him. He knew that a few garrisons in the west still held out for the King, and his sanguine temper taught him to hope, that some happy occurrence might enable him to purify his blemished fame. Colonel Evellin encouraged this hope. Dearly as he prized his son's life, anxious as he was to preserve the true branch of the house of Neville from extermination, a dead son, fallen in the cause of honour, was infinitely better than a living one stamped with the stigmas of traitor and villain.
The advancing divisions of the enemy terminated the interview. Neither could bear to witness the King's troops laying down their arms, or the triumphant rejoicings of the Parliamentary forces. Colonel Evellin took the route to Oxford, which he hoped to gain by the most unfrequented ways; and Eustace intreating his father, if possible, to conceal his disgrace from his dear kindred, turned westward, determining to make every effort to rejoin Lord Hopton.
CHAP. XIV.
Where you are liberal of your loves, and counsels,Be sure you be not loose; for those you make friends,And give your hearts to, when they once perceiveThe least rub in your fortunes, fall awayLike water from ye, never found again,But where they mean to sink ye.
Where you are liberal of your loves, and counsels,Be sure you be not loose; for those you make friends,And give your hearts to, when they once perceiveThe least rub in your fortunes, fall awayLike water from ye, never found again,But where they mean to sink ye.
Where you are liberal of your loves, and counsels,
Be sure you be not loose; for those you make friends,
And give your hearts to, when they once perceive
The least rub in your fortunes, fall away
Like water from ye, never found again,
But where they mean to sink ye.
Shakspeare.
The evil genius of Colonel Evellin still pursued him. He had not travelled far before he fell into the power of the rebels, who carried him prisoner to London. He was recognized as one who had done wonders for the King; and, in an enemy every where triumphant, to spare his life was an act of mercy. He was, however, kept in rigorous confinement, and his name excepted out of every act of amnesty. Whether the Presbyterians or Independents gained a temporary ascendancy; whether the Rump or the army struggled to get the King's person into their hands, to give a colourable pretext to their most unrighteous proceedings, a high-minded Loyalist was alike dangerous and opposite to the vacillating humours of men, who, under the pretence of worshipping the God of truth and mercy, served the abominations of perverted understandings and corrupted hearts.
Eustace, accompanied by the faithful Jobson, reached Pendennis Castle, and joined its brave defenders; but Lord Hopton left it before their arrival, to follow his royal charge, who, in compliance with his father's commands, quitted England, which now had only chains to bestow on its Princes. In this strong fortress, celebrated for being the last that held out for the King, Eustace distinguished himself for patient bravery and active courage. But he no longer fought in a conspicuous scene of action, under the eye of a renowned commander, whose praise was glory, and whose reproof was disgrace. He gained indeed the esteem of the venerable Arundel, who, at the age of fourscore, bound his silver-locks with an helmet, and kept the Royal standard flying, till the enemy, astonished at his fortitude and resources, acceded to the most honourable capitulation. But as soon as terms were granted, and the garrison dispersed, Eustace lost all hope of again signalizing himself, nor could the renown gained within the walls of a fortress expunge the disgrace which had been promulgated at the head of an army.
While undetermined how to act, or which way to employ the unvalued life he was bound to preserve in proof of his repentance, Eustace heard of his father's captivity. Another report at the same time reached him, which, as any one who has fondly loved in early youth, when every idea is most likely to be engrossed by the ardent susceptibility of one predominant passion, will readily believe, excited still keener anguish. He was assured that Monthault was at that time an inmate in Dr. Beaumont's family, high in the estimation of all, and even believed to be an accepted lover of Constantia.
To refute a rumour so injurious to loyal faith and female truth, I must remind the reader, that immediately after Lord Hopton's defeat, Major Monthault was ostentatiously pointed out as an object of Parliamentary vengeance, and thrown into confinement. This was done to give him credit with the Loyalists, preparatory to his being sent to Oxford, where it was proposed he should act as a spy, and convey intelligence to the beleaguering army, specifying also such of the inhabitants as were too zealous and determined to make safe citizens in the projected commonwealth. He was soon permitted to break from durance, and arriving at Oxford under the character of a confessor in the Royal cause, he was kindly welcomed by Dr. Beaumont. He brought Constantia the first certain intelligence that Eustace was alive, and had passed through the dangers of a disastrous campaign with little injury.
The voice of fame, alike busy in circulating good and evil tidings, soon informed the family of the public censure which Lord Hopton cast on that unfortunate fugitive, and Monthault would have gained great credit with the Beaumonts for not having been the first to disclose it, had not his own conduct been implicated in the same accusation. Isabel eagerly clung to the visible proofs of his loyalty as an implicit evidence that her brother had been most basely aspersed. "The misery of these times," said she, "is surely sufficient; we need not aggravate the misfortunes of our fellow-sufferers, or the cruelty of our enemies, by crediting the calumnies of malice, or the unfounded fabrications of busy tatlers. Our dear Eustace is accused of treason, and his friend and constant associate is involved in the same charge. Yet if imprisonment and forfeiture of his estates are not testimonials of loyalty, where shall we seek more certain attestations? After having fought and bled for his King, he breaks from captivity and seeks an asylum among us at Oxford. Equally inconsistent is the charge aimed at my gallant brother. Dearest Constantia, surely you cannot believe Eustace to be a traitor; yet your cold looks and marked indifference to poor Monthault, and the care with which you avoid your lover's name, lest his friend should attempt his exculpation, indicate, that either you suffer this futile charge to dwell too much upon your mind, or that you mistook the mere attachment of kindred for devoted affection."
"Isabel," returned Constantia, with a look of mild expostulation, "I know not how far to trust rumour, but this I know, that the tongue of Monthault will corrode the fame of Eustace, either in censuring or commending him. Do not imagine there is any change in me, or that I mistook the nature of my own feelings. Whether Eustace deserves reproach or renown, my heart will never own another possessor. It is either wedded to his deserts, or so estranged by his faults, that love may as well light his fire on a monumental tablet as make me again admire in man, that fair semblance of generous integrity, by which Eustace won me to select him as the partner of my future life. Him I shall ever love, or ever mourn. But were he proved guilty of every base crime laid to his charge, this extortioner, this debauchee, this refractory soldier, nay, even this traitor, must not be placed by the side of Monthault, unless it be right to compare the guilt of frail man with the impious desperation of Satan. My greatest grief and torment proceed from a fact which I cannot dispute: true, as you say, Eustace selected Monthault for his constant associate and particular friend."
These remarks of Constance will disprove the rumour which had reached the ears of her fugitive lover, and prove that Monthault did not succeed in one of the designs which brought him to Oxford; with regard to the other, his intended services to the Parliament during the siege were frustrated by an order extorted from the captive King, requiring that his garrisons should be immediately surrendered to the ruling party. Oxford therefore admitted a detachment of the rebel army, but for some time a spirit of moderation was visible in the treatment bestowed on this honourable asylum of loyalty and learning. The covenant and other oaths were indeed sent down, but as they were not enforced, the conscientious possessors of ecclesiastical and collegiate situations were not ejected for contumacy. The captivity of the King imposed the most scrupulous moderation and quiet submission on all his adherents, and many persons hoped, from this apparent calm, that the national wounds would speedily be healed.
But the suspended fury of two powerful contending parties, concentrating their terrors, and perfecting their deep designs to crush each other before they entirely annihilate a fallen foe, bears no more resemblance to the wise lenity of a regular government towards the refractory subjects it has subdued, than the fearful stillness which is the precursor of a thunder-storm does to the serene tranquillity of a summer's day. No sooner were the Presbyterian republicans subdued by the fanatics, who had gained the entire command of the army, than the murder of the King, and the vindictive persecution of loyalty and episcopacy, plainly shewed that, in the nomenclature of these men, forbearance and liberty meant self-aggrandizement and most merciless oppression of all who dissented from their opinions.
Major Monthault had sufficient political versatility and natural baseness to be a busy actor in these scenes of perfidy and depravity; but his talents were too limited to acquire distinction among men of deep penetration, profoundly skilled in the art of fomenting and managing the malignant passions; besides, the open scandal of his profligate manners ill suited the decorous exterior of seeming saints. His treachery to the Royal cause, therefore, only purchased him the liberty of compounding for his estate at a less fine than was extorted from persons of untarnished fidelity; and he was laid by as an instrument equally mean and vile, incapable of further use. A bad heart can never taste the pleasures which belong to tranquillity; and inaction is torture to those who must shun reflection. Monthault had no resource but in the indulgence of his brutal appetites. The beauty of Constantia excited desire, while the avowed contempt with which she treated him convinced him that the blandishments of flattery and persevering assiduity would never remove the impressions which she had conceived to his disadvantage. The licence of these disorderly times was favourable to deeds of violence. Monthault formed the project of carrying off his mistress by force, and securing her in his parental castle; and disbanded soldiers were easily found, alike daring and lawless, to execute such an atrocious design.
The only difficulty attendant on this undertaking seemed to consist in wresting her from the protection of her friends; for though courts of law no longer afforded relief to injured loyalists, a police was still preserved, and the precincts of a college could not be violated with impunity, or indeed with a prospect of success. He resorted, therefore, to stratagem, invented a tale of distress, and disguised a female accomplice to pass as the widow of a soldier who had fallen at Naseby. A story of sick children perishing for want was likely to operate on the feelings of humane young women. Constantia and Isabel were soon drawn beyond the walls of Oxford, and conducted along the banks of the Charwell, in search of this scene of misery. When they were at such a distance from the city as to preclude the chance of assistance, several men, masked and disguised, rushed out of an inclosure, seized their fainting prey, and bore her from her shrieking companion to a carriage which waited to receive her. The horses set off at full speed, and Isabel, in an agony of despair, ran after it till it was out of sight, invoking the interposition of Heaven, and casting many a vain look around to see if any human succour was at hand. Tired and exhausted, she at last recollected, that to return to the city and relate the event, describing to the municipal officers the road the fugitives had taken, would afford the most probable means of rescue; and, though it would be unspeakable agony to meet her bereaved uncle and aunt, she yet considered that her being with them would afford them some consolation, beside the advantage of her testimony for the recovery of her dear companion.
When Constantia revived from the state of insensibility into which the suddenness of the assault had hurried her weak spirits, she found herself in a chaise with Monthault, who watched the return of her senses to pour out some passionate encomiums on her beauty, and protestations of his insurmountable, though hopeless love. "I will speak this once," said she, "and then for ever be silent. Hear, abandoned man and perfidious friend! I would sooner die than yield to your wishes; and I know my father would weep less over my corpse, than if he saw me contaminated by your embraces. Restore me to him; nay, only give me liberty to fly back to his dear arms, and I will never disclose that you were the ravisher; but if you persist in your cruelty, it will be of no other avail than to plunge your soul in additional guilt."
Alarmed by the determined firmness of her manner, Monthault changed his tone. He protested she misunderstood his expressions; for that, though he never should cease to adore her, he had merely engaged in this enterprize as the agent of Eustace, to whom he was going to carry her. Hopeless of obtaining her father's consent (since he knew his disgrace had reached Oxford), and incapable of living without her, they had projected this scheme; and he besought her to be calm, as a few hours would bring her to her plighted love. "Surely, beautiful Constantia," said he, "you would not wish to escape from your faithful, though dishonoured Eustace." "The Eustace I knew and loved," returned she, "was faithful and honourable. Base seducer, and slanderer of unsuspecting innocence, this subterfuge cannot deceive me a moment; and I once more warn you to let me go, or dread my desperation."
A disposition like Monthault's is rarely threatened out of its deliberate purpose; but, happily for Constantia, the skill of the driver was not proportioned to the expedition he was commanded to use, and he overturned the carriage at the entrance of a small village. Constantia's cries soon drew several people to her assistance, who, supposing her distress proceeded from her alarm at the accident, assured her that the gentleman who lay senseless on the ground was only stunned by the fall, and that the blood which streamed from her own face was caused by a very slight wound. "It is from him," said she, "that I entreat to be preserved; only hide me from him. Let him suppose I escaped in the moment of confusion, and every kind office I can do you in the course of my life will be too little to shew my gratitude. Beside my own prayers, I will promise you those of my dear father, the worthiest and best of men; these he will daily offer to Heaven for the preservers of his only child."
The rustic witnesses of this scene listened with stupid surprise to this address. The women busied themselves in binding up the deep gash in Constantia's forehead; the men, in raising Monthault, and lifting up the carriage. By this time the out-riders were come up, who, faithful to their commission, prepared to place Constantia on one of the horses, when her loud shrieks, the bustle, and crowd, attracted the attention of two gentlemen who were travelling on the road, to whose inquiries of what was the matter, one of Monthault's gang brutally answered, a carriage had been overturned and a gentleman much hurt. "But he is quiet enough," said he; "whereas his wife, who is only a little scratched, screams as if she would raise the dead."
"Her distress at least requires tender treatment," said one of the gentlemen. "Why are they lifting her on that horse?" "To take her to a surgeon, your honour." "What! from her lifeless husband, while she herself is but slightly injured? Something must be wrong here." At the moment Constantia thought herself lost, a strenuous hand grasped the bridle of the horse on which she was placed; and a commanding voice called to the man who held her in his arms to stop at his peril. The villain drew his sword, and attempted to hew down his opposer; but at that instant Constantia had sufficient strength to loosen his clasp and throw herself upon the ground, from which she was raised by the other gentleman, who assured her she should be protected, in a voice which, with rapture, she recognized to be that of the worthy Barton.
"Oh my guardian angel," said she, "are you come to save me again? My second father, hold me in your sheltering arms till you can restore me to my kindred. I have been forced away by brutal ravishers. There lies the master ruffian senseless; and," continued she, waving her hand, "there are his cruel accomplices."
By this time the other stranger had disarmed his antagonist, pulled him from his horse, and committed him to custody. "My Lord," said Barton to him, "this is a most providential adventure. We have again rendered a signal good service to one of those pretty maidens whom you assisted at Halifax." "To which of them?" eagerly inquired the young nobleman. "Mistress Constantia Beaumont," returned Barton. "But where is Isabel?" "Safe at Oxford, and consoling my friends, I trust," replied Constantia. "Oh, Sir! I know not by what name to address you; but if you are the pupil of the excellent Barton, you will, like him, defend the friendless who has been forced away from her natural protectors."
"Most willingly," answered the unknown; "but if that man is your husband, how can I take you out of his power?" Constantia then briefly told her story; her morning walk with Isabel; her seizure; Monthault's protestations; the overthrow of the chaise, and the attempt of the myrmidons to force her away. The rest of these wretches had now made their escape, leaving the one who was in custody and their employer, who began to shew signs of life, to answer for their crimes.
Barton then took upon himself the office of restoring Constantia to her friends, and begged his companion to remain with Monthault to see that he had proper treatment, and was secured from escaping. They drove back to Oxford with such rapidity as to precede the return of Isabel, who had the happiness of seeing the beloved friend, whose loss she came to announce, restored to the embraces of her affectionate family.
While Mr. Barton and Dr. Beaumont were exchanging those sentiments of cordial esteem which mutual worth is sure to inspire, Isabel's eyes inquired if the gallant officer, who had so much interested her, had given no signs of reciprocal recollection. She was dissatisfied that he was not her cousin's escort; and though, in wishing to see him again, she thought she had no other motive than to thank him for past services, she never before felt so much pain from unacknowledged gratitude. Constance was too much overpowered by the remembrance of her own preservation to attend to the silent perplexity of Isabel, whom a secret consciousness of what she could scarce believe to be a fault restrained from a thousand inquiries which she would not have scrupled to make after one to whom she was wholly indifferent.
The transport which Dr. Beaumont felt at the restoration of his daughter was checked by a discovery of the most agonizing kind. Monthault still continued in a languishing condition; but his accomplice underwent an examination as to the purpose of his attempt, and the name of his employer. On promise of pardon the miscreant offered to make a full discovery. His conditions were accepted; and he then named Eustace Evellin as the person who was to receive the advantage of the nefarious action. He asserted, that being overcome with despair at the thought of having forfeited his uncle's favour by his bad conduct, Eustace determined to possess his cousin at any hazard, and that Major Monthault had been wrought upon, by his earnest entreaties, to become his agent. The woman who had personated a trooper's widow, and drawn the two ladies to the retired spot where Eustace was seized, gave such a description of the stranger who bribed her to fabricate a tale of distress as exactly tallied with the person of Eustace, but bore no resemblance to Monthault. Another was brought to swear that he had seen Dr. Beaumont's nephew in Oxford since its surrender to the Parliament. His long silence to his family was an inexplicable mystery; but to visit Oxford without throwing himself at his uncle's feet, and imploring pardon, was such a tacit acknowledgement of conscious unworthiness, as even the candour of Dr. Beaumont could not controvert. In an agony of mind, far exceeding all that he had endured for his despoiled fortunes, and only equalled by what he felt for his persecuted King; he requested Mr. Barton to discharge the accomplices, and hush up the business. He then returned home, clasped the trembling Constantia in his arms, and conjured her never to name her unworthy cousin. "I would bid you not think of him," said he; "but the viper will be remembered by its sting, after we have discovered it to be a poisonous reptile with a beautiful outside. And much gratitude is due to Heaven, that the base infection of his nature has been fully disclosed, before you were bound to him by indissoluble ties." Constantia asked if Monthault was the accuser of Eustace. "Monthault," replied the Doctor, "is silent. A chain of evidence confirms, that he was merely an agent in this iniquitous design of tearing you from me."—"Impossible," replied Constance, "never did agent embark with such eager passion in the views of another. It was for himself, the monster pleaded; and it was only a mean attempt to quiet my cries for assistance, when he talked of carrying me to Eustace.—Fortunate dissembler, how well he contrives to throw the guilt of his own treasons on that ill-fated youth."
"Dear, credulous girl," returned the Doctor, "I have often bid you love young Evellin, and do not wonder that you find it hard to unlearn that lesson. Yet, rest assured, it is not on dubious testimony, that I found my conviction of his being corrupted by the lax morality of these evil times, in which one party deems an attachment to the antient constitution an excuse for debauchery, and the other uses the verbiage of religion as a commutation for obedience to its precepts. It is most true, Eustace was publicly disgraced by Lord Hopton, accused of crimes to which he pleaded guilty, suspected of others which he faintly denied. With horror I must tell you that his unfortunate honourable father had the anguish of witnessing his shame."
Constance raised her streaming eyes and clasped hands to Heaven, exclaiming, "If his crimes have been any thing worse than the precipitation of thoughtless youth, there is no truth in man. Till his fame is cleared I will not name him. But I shall never cease to think of him till this heart ceases to beat, or rather till my intellects are too clouded to discern the difference between error and depravity. You have often said that one of the sorest calamities of this turbulent period is the celebrity acquired by successful wickedness, which encourages offenders to traffic largely in iniquity; but the fate of poor Eustace continues to exhibit the severity of retributive justice. Discarded by both his fathers, and divorced from his love, where has the pennyless outcast funds to feed the craving avarice of criminal associates, to suborn accomplices, and to bribe witnesses? A destitute exile has at least presumptive evidence that he is innocent of stratagems which wealth alone could attempt; and surely wealth is always too selfish to forego the indulgencies which it pawns its soul to purchase."
The sensibility of Constantia Beaumont was as permanent as it was acute; her sense of honour was refined and delicate; but her high-seated love was fixed on those unalterable properties which not only rejected every light surmise to her lover's disadvantage, but also clung to the conviction of his integrity with a confidence which, in the present state of things, looked like obstinate credulity. No chain of circumstances, no concurring testimony could induce her to think Eustace treacherous or depraved. By his own mouth alone could he be condemned. She must see his misdeeds and hear his confession before she would determine to recall her vows. With all the vivid hope of youthful inexperience, she continued to believe that he would return and confute his accusers. Months, nay, years, rolled away; the hope grew fainter. No certain tidings of his proceedings reached them after the fatal battle of Dartmoor, when Lord Hopton precipitately doomed him to ignominy. She had heard that his father commanded him to live and redeem his lost fame; and she often fancied he was busily employed in obeying that command. Indulging this idea, she hoped that his glory would burst upon them with such unquestionable splendour, that every tongue would applaud, while she took her hero by the hand, and asked her father to rescind the injunction which forbade her to avow her unchangeable affection.
CHAP. XV.