The Loyalists Part 13

"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 n.o.ble 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 circ.u.mstances, be insupportable, it was highly desirable that his father should shelter his infirm frame under the roof of domestic friends.h.i.+p; 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 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 wors.h.i.+pping the G.o.d 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 fort.i.tude 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 pa.s.sion, will readily believe, excited still keener anguish.

He was a.s.sured 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sociate 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 a.s.sociate 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 pa.s.sions; 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 appet.i.tes. The beauty of Constantia excited desire, while the avowed contempt with which she treated him convinced him that the blandishments of flattery and persevering a.s.siduity 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 pa.s.s as the widow of a soldier who had fallen at Naseby. A story of sick children peris.h.i.+ng 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 a.s.sistance, 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 munic.i.p.al 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 a.s.sault had hurried her weak spirits, she found herself in a chaise with Monthault, who watched the return of her senses to pour out some pa.s.sionate 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 a.s.sistance, who, supposing her distress proceeded from her alarm at the accident, a.s.sured 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 grat.i.tude. 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 a.s.sured 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 a.s.sisted at Halifax." "To which of them?" eagerly inquired the young n.o.bleman.

"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 wis.h.i.+ng 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 grat.i.tude.

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 languis.h.i.+ng 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 a.s.serted, 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 grat.i.tude 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 pa.s.sion in the views of another. It was for himself, the monster pleaded; and it was only a mean attempt to quiet my cries for a.s.sistance, 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 a.s.sured, 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 const.i.tution 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 a.s.sociates, to suborn accomplices, and to bribe witnesses? A dest.i.tute 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 p.a.w.ns 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 circ.u.mstances, 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.