VOLUME III.

CHAP. XIX.

Teach all men how dangerous it is to step aside out of the path of innocence and virtue upon any presumption to get into it again; since such men usually satisfy themselves in doing any thing to mend the present exigent they are in, rather than think of returning to that condition of innocence from whence they departed.

Clarendon.

The public rebuke of Lord Hopton (in its most opprobrious charge wholly undeserved) and the subsequent interview with his father, produced a marked change in the character of Eustace. He saw that his misfortunes had proceeded from rash impetuosity, extreme confidence in his own talents, and a precipitate estimation of the merit of those he admitted to his friendship. From that period he became wary and circumspect; a pensive gloom clouded his once fervent animation; he looked and felt like one bound to life by an irresistible spell, for in that light he considered his father's command, to live and redeem his honour.

He was not without hope, that the cordial testimony of Governor Arundel in his favour at Pendennis-Castle might prove the means of restoring him to the presence of his friends; but a report at that time reaching him of the high estimation in which Monthault was held by the Beaumont family, added to an assurance that he was the accepted lover of Constantia, determined him against returning to Oxford, to witness the arts by which that now-detected traitor had confirmed his ruin. He had often heard the love of women was not of that ardent nature, which outlives disgrace and misfortune. Perhaps he secretly commended the noble principles which could prevail on a young woman to reject a dishonoured lover, and deem infamy a sufficient plea to rescind the bond of a plighted attachment. He only lamented, that in this instance Constantia had mistaken the dupe for the villain. Disdaining to dispute the point of character with Monthault, and bent on clearing his fidelity to his King, by some indisputable proofs before he claimed his love, he felt as exiles frequently feel, who, liking nothing but that home from which they are proscribed, suffer chance to decide their course. Jobson had attached himself to his fortunes, he had some relations in Wales, and he spoke much of the loyalty of the mountaineers.—Eustace crossed the British channel and took up his abode in the principality, continuing to distinguish himself as long as any resistance was made to the parliament.

During the cessation of hostilities, which resembled rather an armed truce than peace, his yearning heart returned to his beloved family, and his dearest Constantia, who, he now learned, had rejected Monthault. But they had left Oxford in the general dispersion of its sages and divines, and he knew not whither they had shaped their course, neither did he yet think he had fulfilled the injunction of redeeming his shames. Continual talk of risings for the King, made him hope he should again have an opportunity of using his sword, and while this suspence lasted, he accepted the hospitality of a worthy surgeon of the name of Lloyd, who resided in the town of Pembroke, and admired the virtues of this brave out-cast, as sincerely as he pitied his misfortunes.

Eustace left the arms of this foster-parent, at the breaking out of the second civil war, which took place during the King's confinement in Carisbroke-Castle. He was one of the first who appeared in arms, and after many bold, but unsuccessful efforts, he and Jobson were among the number who sustained that memorable siege in Pembroke-Castle, where, after holding out to the last extremity, a selected number of the brave defenders were sacrificed to republican revenge^[1].

I have already stated that the command of the army, destined to subdue the Welsh Loyalists, had been given to Lord Bellingham as a test of his fidelity, or rather a snare to expedite his ruin, and that his Countess was privy to this design, being actually the person who had informed Cromwell of his secret disaffection. The Usurper had recently suffered a severe disappointment; his favourite General Mytton had thrown up his command in disgust, and refused again to subdue his countrymen, since he perceived his hopes of founding a republic, that was to combine every Utopian idea of purity, had issued in the establishment of military despotism. Cromwell resolved henceforth to employ a more subtle policy, and to place a spy on every one whom he entrusted with an important command, whose interest it should be to watch and report all their actions. He had formed a determination not only to annihilate the ancient nobility, but also to create a new house of peers, consisting of men raised by what he called personal merit, in reality a selection from his own creatures, which is often the true explanation of the word merit, when used for party-purposes. No expedient could better serve such a purpose, than that of exhibiting birth and rank, self-degraded in the person of one, who he knew would prove himself unworthy of the trust reposed in him.

When a system of espionage and secret influence becomes the ruling principle of government, it follows that the governed must counteract its designs by a similar process, and thus venality and treachery become legalized by the acknowledged laws of self-defence. Lord Bellingham had his agents in the army, as well as Cromwell, and soon discovered that the sword of Damocles was suspended over his head. Though disaffected to the cause he served, he had not courage to avow his sentiments, or even prudence enough to throw up the command, and embrace the only chance of safety, by choosing a life of retirement. Wedded to the possessions and rank he had so dearly purchased, and full of ill-founded confidence that he could play as successful a game with a close-penetrating tyrant, as he had done with a generous inexperienced King, he thought an air of inexorable cruelty to the royalists must remove, or at least lull the suspicions of the serpent, who lay wrapped round in observant coil, ready to spring upon him. As to the feelings of those whom he persecuted, for the sake of prolonging his own worthless life and preserving his ill-acquired fortunes, he either entirely forgot that they had any, or considered that self-preservation rendered every expedient lawful.

After enduring a siege equalled in horror only by that of Colchester, Pembroke-Castle surrendered on the same terms; namely, that the common soldiers might depart unmolested, and the inhabitants be safe in person and property, while the officers and gentlemen who had borne arms should surrender prisoners at mercy. The generous sentiments of these self-devoted patriots sustained them in the agonizing trial of parting with the bands they had led always to honour, sometimes to victory, by the consideration that, by placing themselves in jeopardy, they had purchased the safety of those whom they could no otherwise protect, and whose services were now useless as the cause was desperate. But far different were the feelings of the soldiers, who were compelled to leave their beloved commanders in this state of peril. The regret of Jobson was peculiarly lively, he wrung the hand of Eustace, implored him to assist him in passing for a subaltern, that he might share his perils, and insisted he was as good a gentleman as many of Bellingham's officers. Eustace attempted to laugh at his apprehensions, assured him that the rumour of the General's intention to decimate the prisoners was suggested by some malicious person, who sported with the feelings of unfortunate people. "The only difference in our fate," said he to Jobson, "is that you are at large with your unhealed wounds to beg or starve, whichever (being your own master) you shall think most eligible, while I shall be well taken care of as a prisoner, probably sent to London, and perhaps, by some fortunate occurrence, may be indulged with a sight of my honoured father. With what transport shall I throw myself into his arms, crave his blessing, tell him I have redeemed my shames, and proved by my sufferings and my blood that I am no traitor."

Jobson took a lingering leave; the commands of Bellingham were peremptory. Every soldier of the King's found in the castle, the evening after its surrender, was ordered to be thrown over the rock into the sea. Cowardice was his motive for this command. He dreaded the fury of even a disarmed and unofficered army, and he resolved to disperse them, previous to his bringing on the premeditated catastrophe of his bloody tragedy.

On the succeeding morning a ghastly-looking figure, whose face spoke some abhorred errand, ordered the captives to attend the council of officers. Bellingham, surrounded with those, who secretly panted for his destruction, acted as their organ, and assuming the consequence of a general, informed his prisoners^[2], "That after so long and obstinate a defence, till they found it necessary to deliver up themselves to mercy, it was necessary that the peace of the kingdom might be no more disturbed in that manner, that some military justice should be executed, and therefore the council had determined that three should be presently shot." The tallies were immediately produced, the victims blindfolded, and Eustace drew one of those marked with the fatal sentence of death. His partners in affliction had nothing remarkable in their appearance to engage peculiar sympathy; but the beautiful countenance of Eustace, faded indeed by severe suffering, yet lighted by the splendor of eyes radiant with intelligence, while all his features spoke sense and feeling, had already drawn the attention of the butchers who sat to see him exposed to the chance of slaughter. With collected intrepidity he stretched his hand, and steadily drew the lot from the fatal urn. When the contents were announced, he tore the bandage from his eyes, and, rolling them in stern defiance of the rebel group, embraced his fellow-victims. A silent appeal to Heaven succeeded; and then, without one supplicatory address for mercy, in a manly tone, he inquired what time would be allowed them to prepare for death. His manner had so far softened their hearts, that a respite of three hours was granted; and Lord Bellingham offered them the assistance of one of his own chaplains to direct their devotions.

It would have been an inestimable consolation to Eustace had the worthy Barton officiated in that capacity; but he was now among the number of respectable characters who were thrown into prison for presuming to intercede in the King's behalf. The person who attended Eustace was an ignorant desperate fanatic, in reality a spy of Cromwell's, whom the arbitrary will of Lady Bellingham compelled her lord to retain about his person. Such an assistant could afford no comfort to a condemned man; in reality he only served to disturb the composure which a long series of sorrows and sufferings had enabled Eustace externally to assume—I say externally, for his soul secretly melted at the unusual misfortunes that had clouded his short existence. He recollected at this trying moment the precious delights and glorious visions of his boyhood. His mind dwelt on the delusive opinion of his own powers, which had endangered his high expectations of renown, the fatal intimacy, and the numerous errors that changed glory into disgrace; and now, when misfortune had taught him wisdom, by the cruel sentence of coward rebels he was doomed, in cold blood, not only to an early, but also to an ignominious grave. He should never more re-join his father! never behold his plighted Constantia! Death he would welcome almost with transport, could he but hear the former pronounce his forgiveness, or the latter vow that she would cherish his memory. To die unknown, distant from all he loved, be ignorant of their present state, and they of his miserable doom—such a combination of excruciating misfortunes required no common fortitude to support the trial, or to divest a soul (which clung to the future with greater eagerness in proportion to the fallacy of past expectations) of those strong attachments to this life which impeded his journey to another. The glow of heroism which animated his face, and warmed his bosom before the council, was succeeded by the chill of despair. The precious moments of preparation for eternity were consumed in a whirl of distracting thought. He stood caressing a favourite spaniel whom he had preserved alive during the severe privations of the siege, watching the swift movements of the clock which numbered the remaining pulses of his heart, wondering if it would thus throb at the moment when he plunged into an unknown existence, endeavouring to recollect a recommendatory prayer, but too amazed and petrified by the cruelty of man to meditate on the mercy of God.

Meanwhile, Henley the chaplain, with the stern austerity of unpitying fanaticism, asked Eustace if he was in a state of grace, or had witnessed the experience of a saving call. Receiving no answer to these inquiries, he began the usual routine of vituperative prayer, and affected to supplicate for mercy on what he styled a child of wrath doomed to perdition, and, by his own consent, in the bondage of Satan. Eustace was roused by this mockery from his apparent stupor. "Call you this," said he, "spiritual comfort for the afflicted, or a requiem for a departing soul? I was educated in the principles of true piety. I know myself to be a frail, responsible being, and that my spirit is composed of those imperishable materials which will enable me to exist in a state of retribution. I trust in the merits of Him who died to save me. I am severed from my dearest connections. My days are terminated in the morning of my life. I am denied the fruition of those glorious hopes which prompted me to distinguish myself by deeds deserving virtuous renown. So wills the Ruler of the universe. Blind and cruel instruments often accomplish the inscrutable designs of Providence; but I have been taught to consider all its purposes as issuing in mercy. I fought for a virtuous King; I die for his exiled son. My name shall live in honour when Bellingham and all the vile associates of Cromwell are consigned to infamy. I am the son of Colonel Evellin, the nephew of Dr. Eusebius Beaumont, both renowned Loyalists. You, Sir, cannot instruct me; for the principles I imbibed from them will support me in my last moments."

The Chaplain listened with surprise to the account which Eustace gave of himself, and thought it expedient to return to his lord before his execution. Bellingham had been much struck with the aspect of the brave youth. The unacknowledged yearnings of nature, excited by his resemblance to his father, made him wish to save his life, while the compunctious visitings of mercy were again repressed by terror for his own. While he thus hesitated, Henley returned, and advised the Earl by no means to preserve such a determined profligate, who had rejected his prayers with disdain, refused to give any account of the state of his soul, persisted in a false exposition of the gospel, and gloried in his relationship to notorious malignants. "He is the son of that desperado Colonel Evellin," said Henley—Bellingham trembled as he uttered that name—"and the nephew of Dr. Eusebius Beaumont," continued the Chaplain. The horrors and fears of Bellingham were wrought to a climax by this information. Those apprehensions which the likeness of Eustace to his injured father, and the similitude of their names excited, were now confirmed beyond all doubt, by his claiming kindred with Dr. Beaumont. Allan Neville was therefore still alive, and no other than the famous Colonel Evellin, at whose name he and many other rebels had often turned pale. Bellingham had frequently revolved in his mind the possibility that the brave Loyalist might be his injured brother. He had lost sight of him before the commencement of the civil wars, and hoped he had fallen a victim to insanity in his mountainous retreat. He now knew he was still alive, perhaps preserved to reclaim his inheritance, at least he was the father of a brave interesting youth whom he had just doomed to slaughter, and dared not pardon. Practised as he was in guilt, his heart revolted at the idea of shedding his blood. Hurried out of his accustomed caution, he faintly acknowledged the prisoner was his nephew; but suddenly re-assuming his wonted duplicity, he desired Henley to hurry back, and inquire if he had any more brothers, observing it was a desperate family, and perhaps sparing the life of one might be the means of getting the rest into the power of Parliament.

Henley had caught the inadvertent acknowledgment of kindred, and was prepared to use it to forward the views of Cromwell. Before he returned to Eustace, he took care to inform the agitators that their General's nephew was one among the captive officers assigned by lot to expiate for the loss of their comrades who had perished in the siege, and that Bellingham was now devising measures to save his life. An universal clamour was immediately raised; the soldiers assembled on the parade, and called for impartial justice. The agitators proceeded in a body to the General's quarters, demanding that the prisoners should be instantly executed, and, that no subterfuge or exchange might take place, they would themselves examine their features, and ascertain that they were those who drew the lots of death.

Meanwhile Henley was holding forth hopes of mercy to Eustace, and drew from him a description of the state of his family. He also inquired if he had any friends in Pembroke. A prudent recollection of the danger to which he might expose Dr. Lloyd, prevented Eustace from requesting the comfort of his attendance. The conference was interrupted by the loud clamours of the soldiers. Eustace knew their meaning, endeavoured to compose his thoughts, and submitted to his fate. It was reported that, as he went to execution, he had the melancholy comfort of seeing his friend among those who came to witness his last moments. If so, his perturbed spirit was soothed with the consciousness that there was one who would record his magnanimity, and rescue his cold remains from barbarous indignity or oblivious neglect.

"I know little more, please Your Reverence," said Jobson to Dr. Beaumont, "than that they were all cruelly shot to death. I have heard that poor Fido sat howling on my young master's corpse, and would not let any body touch it till Dr. Lloyd fetched it away to bury it; and that the Doctor keeps the poor dog still, and will never part with it. Ah! the bloody-minded knaves so hated poor Eustace, that they never would have suffered him to have had Christian burial, had not the officers and soldiers mutinied just at that moment. They said that the General had betrayed them, and that the trouble they had to conquer us was all owing to his favouring his friends in the Castle. There is nothing but lies among the Round-heads; for I'll take my life not a soul of us would have had any thing to do with them, and if starving us to death was a way of shewing us favour, I hope never to meet with such friends any more. So, and please Your Reverence, as soon as poor Mr. Eustace fell, the Devil (whom they talk so much about) got among them, and they began quarrelling and fighting; and a pity it is he did not come a little sooner and carry off that cowardly Lord who let his prisoners be shot in cold blood, because he could not beat them when they had arms in their hands. Had it not been for him, the finest young man Lancashire ever bred would have been alive and merry with his noble father at this moment. I don't wonder Your Reverence weeps and wrings your hands. I would have died a thousand times to save him; and if ever I may shew my face in the open day-light again, I'll go to Pembroke and beg Dr. Lloyd to let me take Fido to Mistress Constantia. Poor Fido! Mr. Eustace hid him all through the siege, or the garrison would have eat him. We gave him a morsel out of our own mess, and that was short commons enough. I fancy I see him walking after Mr. Eustace when he went to be shot, and then sitting on his body. I warrant they found the lock of Mrs. Constantia's hair lying on his heart; for he looked at it every day, and swore he never would part with it. O! that I had died instead of him; there is nobody to grieve for Ralph Jobson!"

Thus imitating the artifice, while unable to catch the spirit of the Grecian painter, I describe sorrow as personified in a faithful attendant, and leave the reader's imagination to picture the frantic father and the fainting mistress of Eustace—affliction wearing the form of a ministering angel in Isabel, and that of a mourning patriarch in Dr. Beaumont—all tracing the ruin of their dearest hopes to the same iniquitous source; yet all agreeing that it was better to die with virtue than to live with guilt; to be immolated on the shrine of alarmed ambition, rather than to be the bloody hierarch who dragged the sacrifice to the altar.

CHAP. XX.

Shakspeare.

Among the victims whom the crimes and fears of Lord Bellingham made supremely wretched, we must rank his amiable and repentant son, who, languishing to cleanse his house from the foul stain of usurpation, had long resolved to do justice to his injured uncle, and to relinquish his surreptitious honours to Eustace, anticipating the friendship of that noble youth, and the hand of Isabel as the best rewards he could receive. No bridal transport, no yearnings of grateful friendship, no cordial thrill of conscious integrity now cheered the gloom of his future prospects. The father had sinned beyond all possibility of the son's atoning for his crimes. Was it possible for Colonel Evellin or Constantia to bear his sight? Could Isabel ever plight her faith to the son of her brother's murderer? These agonizing forebodings were soon confirmed by the receipt of the following letter:—

"Dear Arthur,

"It is impossible for me to leave the secret chamber to bid you farewel. I can sometimes tranquillize my father. I trust in heaven his life will be preserved, and his reason restored. I know you are innocent, and I know too that I shall always love you; but my heart forebodes we must meet no more in this world. I do not bid you forget me—No; I will implore your daily prayers, for I have great need of patience and fortitude. Solicit for me earnestly at the throne of grace, and thus shew your affection to

Isabel Evellin."

"Our sweet Constantia looks like a virgin-martyr, beautiful and resigned. She bids me say she shall always love her kind friend Arthur. Surely you might write to her, and mention what course you mean to pursue."

It would be difficult to say, whether this letter gave De Vallance more pain or pleasure. Hope seldom deserts the lover who knows he is beloved. But why did he feel delight at hearing Isabel acknowledge her heart would ever be devoted to him? Could affection burst the cinctures of the grave, and re-animate the corpse which his father had prematurely sent to that dark mansion? Should he not rather have wished her to determine to tear his image from her heart, and be happy in a second choice? I aim to recommend practical and praise-worthy self-denial, not that romantic strain of extravagant sentiment which enjoins impossibilities and commends absurdities. Arthur's reflections told him that in treasuring the remembrance of Isabel, even in his heart-of-heart, he invaded no one's right, and broke no divine precept. He measured the feelings of his mistress by his own. "Whatever," said he, "may betide me in life, of good or ill fortune, the idea of this virtuous, this heroical maid, shall restrain the arrogance of prosperity, or prevent my sinking under the weight of calamity. I will bring her to my mind's eye, restraining her tears for her murdered brother; supporting her wretched father, imbecile alike in mind and body; consoling the friend of her youth, widowed in her virgin love; and let me add, following her plighted Arthur with pious prayers and devoted affection. If I have now no motive to action in the hope of possessing virtue personified in my Isabel, I still have the incentive of proving myself worthy of her constant attachment."

Determined never more to return to his parents, the sight of whom would have been almost as terrible to him as to the unhappy family with whom he had so long sojourned, if the remorseless Countess and usurping Earl had dared to invade the privacy of their sorrows, De Vallance resolved to leave England, and engage in the service of his exiled King. Should prudential motives cause the King to decline making use of his sword, the war which had for twenty years subsisted between France and Spain would furnish him with employment, and he resolved rather to end his days as a mercenary soldier than to remain in England a rebel to his Prince, and the acknowledged heir of usurped greatness.

Avoiding all expostulation, or indeed all chance of further intercourse with his parents, he removed from Ribblesdale with the utmost privacy. Changing his clothes and assuming a disguise which altered his appearance, he shaped his course toward Liverpool, from whence he hoped to procure a passage to France. He had not proceeded far before he overtook Jobson, who, unable to support the sight of Colonel Evellin's distress, had determined to go back to Pembroke, and gain from Dr. Lloyd a more minute account of the death of Eustace. De Vallance agreed to accompany him and take ship at Milford Haven. Jobson was proud of again serving a loyal gentleman, and Arthur was resolved, for his late master's sake, to assist and protect the brave trooper. "I'll do any thing to serve your honour," said Jobson; "but I hope you will not be offended. My tongue is a little unruly, and apt to slip out now and then. So if, when I don't intend it, I should say harsh things of the cursed rogue who murdered Mr. Eustace, forgetting that he passes for your honour's father, I hope you will not think me less dutifully disposed to you. For Mrs. Isabel long ago told me you was come over to the right side, and would rather fight for a King without a coat to his back, than such upstarts as Old Noll and the Parliament, though all over gold fringe and black velvet. I tell you what, Master Sedley, My Lord Sedley I believe I ought to say——"

"My name is Arthur de Vallance," replied he; "I have no right to any title."

"Bless your honourable nature," said Jobson. "Poor Mr. Eustace, I find, ought to have been My Lord, but as that traitor shot him to get him out of the way, I don't see why you should not be Lord Sedley rather than one of Old Noll's tinkers should, who are sure to catch up all the good things they can lay hold of."

Arthur smote his breast, and with agony reflected, that however his soul abhorred the foul crime, he must (as his father was created a peer by the late King) reap the advantage of it. The horror of this consideration was alleviated by considering that on the death of Bellingham he should have power to rescue Evellin from the protracted misery of a life of concealment, and Isabel from terror, poverty, and a renunciation of even common comforts. While he was engrossed by meditating plans for their immediate relief, Jobson went on, unobserved, raving against the degradation of serving upstarts, and resolving to stand by true gentlemen while he had a drop of blood in his veins.

The remittances which De Vallance had received from his tenants, enabled him to purchase horses and other necessaries for himself and Jobson. Assuming the name of Herbert, he gave himself out to be a gentleman travelling with his servant on a tour of pleasure. They reached Pembroke in safety, but the pious intentions of Jobson were frustrated; he could neither pluck a tuft of grass from his master's grave, nor recover Fido to console Constantia. Dr. Lloyd had left the town, and no one knew where the remains of Eustace were deposited. The graves of his fellow-victims were pointed out by the attentive piety of the young maidens, who adorned them with garlands of flowers, which (according to the custom of the country) were renewed every Sabbath. On that day they duly knelt beside the spot, and with awful veneration kept alive their own attachment to the cause for which these officers suffered, by repeating the Lord's prayer.

It was a matter of the deepest concern to Jobson that the grave of Eustace was not pointed out and adorned with similar honours. He began to conceive an implacable aversion to Dr. Lloyd for not having given him a public interment. "Is it not enough," said he to De Vallance, "to make poor Mr. Eustace walk? One of these gentlemen, to be sure, was a fine corny-faced cavalier, who paid for many a jug of Welsh ale that I drank to His Majesty's health, and the other was a stout desperate lieutenant, that would fight and swear with any body; but not one of them was half so handsome, sweet-speaking, well-born a gentleman as Mr. Eustace."

De Vallance did not apprehend that posthumous honours soothed the separated spirit; and had he not been standing on the awful spot which consummated his father's crimes, he would have smiled at the retention of these old pagan ideas respecting the state of the departed. He questioned the by-standers whether any thing was known respecting the interment of young Evellin. Some said there was a private funeral huddled up in a strange way; but an old woman whispered that it was suspected the Doctor had made him into a skeleton, and being troubled in conscience afterwards for the wicked act had fled the country. Absurd as this suggestion was, it suited the pre-conceived prejudices of Jobson, and in future afforded De Vallance some relief, by diverting part of his companion's curses to another object than Lord Bellingham; for in Jobson's estimation there was little difference between the General who condemned, and the surgeon who dissected his master. Nor was he satisfied about Fido's safety, when he found Dr. Lloyd had been particularly careful to take the spaniel with him. "Ah, the bloody knave," said he, "I know he will cut the poor dog up in his experiments, as he calls them, and then sell his skin. That Doctor is a Jew to the back-bone. If I had gone to him with my lame knee, he would have had my leg off directly to put in pickle, and have made me wear a wooden one instead of it. But sweet Isabel fomented it till it was well, and now I can ride on horseback as well as ever. Bless her kind heart! I do hope she and Your Honour will come together at last. Aye, and I know she wishes so too. 'Jobson,' said she, as she bade me farewel, 'if ever you can serve the worthy son of a wicked father, do it for my sake.'"

The reflections of De Vallance on the mysterious circumstances of Eustace's interment took a different train from those of Jobson; but as his thoughts never could pursue any other subject when the magic name of Isabel spell-bound them to the secret chamber, where filial piety tended its uncomplaining captive, we will follow their course, and return to the Beaumont family.

The pious Isabel with unwearied magnanimity persevered in the duties which her painful situation required. Her nights were uniformly spent in the chamber where her father was concealed, and her days were divided between him and the sad Constantia, who, ever pining for her Eustace, seemed to have no wish but to share his grave. Isabel tried to divert her thoughts to the consoling reflection that his honour was restored, his reputation cleared from the foul charge of treason and the accusations of Monthault; his name inscribed on the roll of England's loyal worthies, and the consecrating seal of death fixed on his memory. Dr. Beaumont endeavoured to make her wishes aspire to that happier world where she would rejoin him. He talked of the "order, nature, number, and obedience of angels^[1];" and of her dear Eustace as now joined to their blessed society. He told her, that her lover and herself were still members of the same family, she suffering, he glorified. He pointed out to her those texts of Scripture which imply recognition in Heaven, and in particular mentioned the hope expressed by St. Paul, of presenting his Colossian converts to his Lord, and the Apostles sitting on thrones to judge the tribes of Israel, who therefore must be respectively known as disciples and countrymen. Sometimes he would try to excite emulation, by pointing out the conduct of Isabel, who endured a similar affliction in the destruction of her fondest hopes, but whose spirits were supported by constant bodily exertion, while her mental faculties were no less exercised by fresh contrivances, at once to amuse her father, and to add to the security of his retreat. These efforts, he said, gave such an energy to her mind, that she was able to give instead of requiring consolation. Dr. Beaumont attempted to revive his daughter's taste for the beauties of nature; shewed her the rich variety of mountains, dales, woods, lakes, and rivers, which embellished the vicinity of her native village, and especially that most exhilarating of terrestrial objects, the sun rising to enlighten a world which bursts at his approach into splendid beauty.

Constantia listened, reproved her own weakness, and wept. Yet the pious admonitions of her father, and the example of her cousin, assisted by the meliorating influence of time, had a gradual though slow effect, in changing grief into meek resignation. Her lute, long endeared by the remembrance of Eustace, was now attuned to deplore the death of him who had restored her the treasure. When sorrow can flow in poesy, it becomes more plaintive than agonizing; and possibly the reader will be pleased to see that the long-protracted years of Constantia's anguish were soothed by those alleviations, which, in mercy to man, are permitted imperceptibly to soften the ravages of death.

It is thus that afflicted survivors, in talking and meditating on those who are gone before them to the unseen world, derive an enjoyment from musing on the past, and from anticipating in the future what the present is not able to afford.

The disturbed state of England at this time permitted no long indulgence of domestic sorrow. "Griefs of an hour's age did hiss the speaker," and pity and sympathy often claimed the falling tear, which had been wrung forth by "own distress." Ribblesdale was again disturbed by the march of hostile troops. The young King had yielded to the solicitations of his Scottish subjects, and transported himself to that country. Less scrupulous than his father, he swore to observe the conditions of their covenant; and in return, they promised to give him their crown, and assist him to recover the English diadem. No sooner was the Royal standard displayed on the hills of Caledonia, than the welcome signal revived the hopes and unsheathed the swords of the southern Loyalists. The brave Earl of Derby left his retreat in the isle of Man, to spend the remains of his noble fortune in his Master's cause; and, as the event proved, to sacrifice his life. He returned eagerly to Lancashire, and collecting what forces the fallen interests of his family could supply, waited the commands of his Sovereign.

In the mean time the indefatigable Cromwell hastened from Ireland; and assuming the command which Fairfax had refused to accept, marched the English forces into Scotland, and defeated the covenanters, who, under pretence of restoring the young King, actually held him prisoner, compelling him to act in such subservience to their designs as to sacrifice those, who, without any sinister views, risked their lives in his support. The humiliation of these pretended friends by the victory of Cromwell enabled the King to burst the fetters of Argyle, and throw himself into the arms of the true Loyalists, with whom he concerted measures and recruited his army, while Cromwell refreshed his fatigued and harassed troops at Edinburgh. Determined to appeal to the loyalty of a nation, now known to be weary of an unsettled government, the King suddenly executed the brave design of passing by Cromwell's army, and marched into England. He was joined in Lancashire by the Earl of Deby: rash counsels were hastily adopted; and, instead of concentrating the force they possessed, and pointing it at one great object, the Earl was required to secure the north-western provinces with a power unequal to the duty; while the King, weakened by his division, marched rapidly towards London, hoping to reach it before he could be overtaken by Cromwell.

The report of an enterprising able young Prince, (for so at this time the second Charles was reputed to be) coming to reclaim by the sword his right to the crown, which had been torn from the lifeless trunk of his father, on whose grave a hecatomb of regicides was expected to be offered, alarmed all those who had participated in the crimes of treason and murder. The forces of the King were, as usual, exaggerated by report, the hopes of the Loyalist turned possibilities into certainties, a general rising was expected, and it was confidently said had already taken place. Rumours were circulated that in subduing Scotland Cromwell had so weakened himself, that it was impossible for him to pursue the King; and while the less criminal entertained hopes of being able to make terms with their Sovereign, the immediate partizans of the Usurper saw no safety, but in supporting the power of one who they knew must (like themselves) be excepted out of every amnesty.

Among those whom guilt had made desperate, we must include Lord and Lady Bellingham. We have seen that the former sacrificed his nephew to avoid being accused as a secret favourer of the royal cause, a charge he knew Cromwell had determined to urge against him, as a safe way of removing a staunch republican, who would oppose the ultimate views of his now ripe ambition. Eustace however drew the lot of death to no other purpose than to increase the remorse which occasionally tortured the bosom of Bellingham. A mutiny broke out the moment after the volley was fired, that sent the brave cavaliers to join in the grave the royal martyr whom they had served and deplored; for the rebel General, had awakened too many suspicions, and had too much offended his soldiers by his temporizing conduct, for this sacrifice to expiate his faults. It was remarked, that he never dealt in invective against his opponents, from whence it was inferred, that he wished to treat with them. He neglected the praying agitators, and therefore they called him Agag, the Amalekite, commanding the host of Israel. He abridged the liberty of the soldiers, and of course straitened the arm of the Lord. He disapproved of plunder and military contribution, consequently endeavoured to make the presbyterians popular at the expence of the godly. At this time these opponents hated each other still more than they did episcopacy; and a presbyterian general, commanding an army who claimed unbounded licence in judgment and conduct, must be condemned for a traitor by that unerring rule, the voice of the majority. Lord Bellingham was therefore arrested by the agitators, and sent prisoner to London at the instant when Eustace fell.

Imprisonment and the scaffold were frequently in those times synonymous. The fallen criminal saw his danger in its full horrors; and, while maintaining an inordinate attachment to this world, he dreaded the future consequence of his unrepented crimes. He had not numbed the early feelings of religion by the cold torpor of Atheism; nor could he persuade himself to indulge in those reveries of election and impeccability, which had now saturated his Lady's mind. He felt himself to be an accountable being, not a collection of animated atoms associated by chance, which, when the vital spark was extinguished, would crumble into dust without record or responsibility. He knew he was a sinner by choice, who had abused his free-will; not a passive vessel of wrath, pre-destined to destruction. No inflating ebullition of enthusiasm told him he was become one of those favourites of Heaven who cannot forfeit salvation. He therefore clung to this wretched life, as to the edge of a precipice that beetled over the gulph of perdition. Despair was with him the substitute of repentance. He looked back on his offences to his King and his friend, convinced that they had exceeded the bounds of mercy. Often did he deplore the utter impossibility of his regaining that state of contented innocence, when he and Allan Neville shared each other's hearts, before the superior qualities and nobler expectations of his friend excited his envy and ambition. He adverted to that time when his love for the beautiful Lady Eleanor was pure and generous, before she had wrought upon him to become the instrument and participator of her criminal ambition and insatiable rapacity. He had not the audacity to think a life stained by perfidy and injustice, made him fitter for the reception of extraordinary grace. The external propriety of his manners, and the patronage he liberally afforded to the divines of the Rump-party, had gained him the reputation of a man of extraordinary piety; but the austerities he practised, and the devotions in which he joined, afforded no balsam to his woes. He had been early taught that restitution to the wronged was one of the evidences of real penitence. His title and fortune were the right-hand; he could not cut off the pride of life to which he was wedded. Had he never known greatness, he would now have been happy as Walter de Vallance, living in a state of respectable competence. He fell into the common fault of incorrigible offenders; lamenting that he had not subdued the first cravings of desire, and wishing to recall the irremediable past, while to reform the present was too vast a labour.

Sometimes he had persuaded himself, that if he knew Allan Neville were alive, he would purchase peace of conscience by relinquishing his usurped possessions; but no sooner was he certified of that fact, and beheld in Eustace the noble heir he had so basely injured, than his base spirit shrunk into its narrow cell, and at that moment he would have given worlds to have had the father and son cut off by any hand but his own. Equally affected by the fear of death and of adversity, he yielded Eustace to a fate which some faint remains of humanity made him deplore, while a consciousness that this slaughter tended to confirm his own title, reminded him that, by reaping the advantage of a cruel unjust sentence which he had power to remit, he was virtually his murderer. Such he knew the world would esteem him, if ever the story transpired; and could it be long concealed? His influence with the ruling powers was evidently on the wane; the star, which was now Lord of the ascendant, shed on him a malign influence. Abjured by those whom he had served, hated by the royalists, and despised by all parties; could a more pitiable object be found, than a timorous, susceptible, falling villain; conscious of guilt, aware of danger, convinced of the necessity of repentance; but too much attached to temporal enjoyments to set about it.

Lord Bellingham's distresses were not alleviated by domestic comfort. I have before observed, that his Lady had embraced the party of Cromwell, and had taken her religious creed from the fanatics, as best calculated to compose her fears, and leave her conduct under the mis-rule of her irregular passions. She had long hated and despised her husband, on whom she threw the whole blame of the crimes she had excited him to commit, at the same time that she took pains to stifle in him all the better feelings of remorse, by telling him that it was his want of faith, which excluded him from reaping the benefit of the promise, that the saints should inherit the earth. When she spoke of worldly riches, of honour, or of pleasure, she called them, "dust in the balance," carnal delights, and Satan's bird-lime, which kept the soul from flying to heaven; yet no miser ever clung to his gold with more tenacity than she to every earthly good, that could in any wise contribute to her own advantage. From a vain dissipated coquette, proud of making conquests, and wedded to a life of frivolity, she was changed to a rapturous enthusiast, certain of divine favour upon grounds equally inconsistent with reason and Scripture. With a still carnalized fancy, she adorned the heaven which she felt sure of eternally inhabiting, with the splendor and luxury she had enjoyed on earth, and thus tricked out a Mahommedan paradise rather than the pure and spiritual enjoyments of glorified beings. With all the zeal and animosity of a new convert, she tried to make her son and husband adopt these notions; and failing of success, she thought herself at liberty to renounce them both; and could she have secured a perpetual residence in this world, or transported her beloved wealth and greatness to the other, the death of Lord Sedley would have given her no more concern than that of the Earl of Bellingham; but looking upon the former as the medium through which her name must be conveyed to posterity, she felt an interest in his preservation, totally distinct from maternal affection; and to this his fine qualities served rather as an alloy, than an incentive. A youth weak enough to be really a convert, or sufficiently base to have affected being one to her opinions, a flatterer of her faults, and the tool of her designs, would have been invested by her erroneous judgment with those high deservings which actually adorned her noble offspring, though she wanted penetration to discern them.

When the agitators arrested Lord Bellingham, he knew that his son had been sent with Cromwell's detachment against the Duke of Hamilton, and that the victorious General returned to London in triumph, while no sure tidings of the illustrious youth's safety cheered the prison-hours of the wretched father. Important events succeeded each other with such rapidity, that there was no time to bring forward the charge against an imprisoned General, whose rank only made him an object of curiosity, while his conduct exposed him to contempt. New modelling the House of Commons; expediting the vote of non-addresses; the trial and execution of the King; the annihilation of the House of Peers; the sacrifice of many illustrious and noble Loyalists, and the complete establishment of military tyranny under the name of a republic, engaged the attention of Cromwell, till a little time previous to his undertaking the reduction of Ireland to the same yoke that England bore with silent but sullen indignation, when he judged it expedient to endeavour to prevent his enemies from taking advantage of his being at a distance from the chief seat of political intrigue. He knew that Lord Bellingham was intrusted with the secrets of the Commonwealth's-men, and determined to pay him a conciliatory visit in prison. He met the captive Earl with mock humility, and sycophantic friendship; talked largely of his talents and deserts; lamented that he should fall into the displeasure of the nation, and spoke of the lenity he was accused of showing to the Loyalists, as a frailty he could pity, having himself fallen into a similar temptation, when he was moved in the spirit to spare Charles Stewart, till the Lord, whom he sought in prayer, showed him it was not to be.

A measured smile smoothed the features of the stern conspirator while he spoke, and his eye seemed with meek simplicity to tell all the secrets of his own soul, while in reality it read that of his observer. Lord Bellingham thought this change from hatred to esteem wonderful; yet the love of life made him a ready dupe, and he fell into the snare which he suspected. He could easily justify himself from the charge of secret attachment to royalty, and Cromwell seemed to require no other test to admit him to his confidence. He told the Earl that he would open to him his whole heart; he deplored the licence of evil tongues, and the endeavours of the malignants to disunite the godly. His own views, he said, had been grossly misrepresented. It was reported, that he wished to make himself King; but he abhorred the name, as anti-christian, and prayed that whenever the heathenish sound was uttered, a Samuel might arise among the prophets, and call down lightning and rain even in wheat-harvest. The Parliament, whose humble instrument he was, had forced honours upon him, and had commanded him to go to Ireland, and extirpate the bloody Papists, as Joshua had done the idolatrous Canaanites. On his return, he trusted he should lay the sword on the mercy-seat, that is, beside the mace of the Speaker, to whom he would on his knees give up all his employments, and apply himself to the care of his own soul, which was a burthen great enough for any man. And he trusted the Lord would give peace to Israel, and build up the desolate places of Zion, to which purpose he would put up a prayer, wherein he required Lord Bellingham to join.

After their devotions, Bellingham assured Cromwell that the wishes of his party went but little further than what he proposed to do. Considering the established forms of Geneva and Scotland as the most scriptural, it was their intention to adopt the same discipline in spiritual affairs. As to temporal rule, they thought a body of wise men, elected by a free people, the likeliest way of rendering England respectable among foreign nations, and happy in itself. He quoted the examples of Greece and Rome in ancient times, and of the Italian republic in modern, to illustrate his sentiments. Cromwell listened with apparent conviction, professed that he had not studied these things, being only in himself an ignorant sinful man, though chosen by Providence to be a mighty instrument to level thrones and pull down the ungodly. He then lamented that so able a counsellor as Bellingham should hang like a bucket upon a peg, instead of being employed to draw water from a cistern; and, promising to endeavour to set him again high among the people, he took his leave. This interview having sufficiently apprized him of the designs of the Rump-party, he resolved to keep Lord Bellingham in safe custody, to remove their adherents from every office of trust, and to prevent all attempts to appeal to the people by calling a free Parliament. And as he intended that his campaign in Ireland should not be protracted by any compunctious visitings of mercy, but that it should more resemble the sweeping hurricane that devastates a province, than the purifying wind that renovates a corrupted atmosphere, he trusted that his habitual celerity, and the vigilance and fidelity of the host of spies he so liberally paid, would enable him to return to England before any measures could be taken to sap the dominion whose foundations were laid in treachery and treason.

The progress of his bloody standard in Ireland was interrupted by the young King's appearance in Scotland. Cromwell transported himself to that kingdom with incredible dispatch, and assumed the command of that division of the army which had been nominally retained by Fairfax, who, tired of his guilty employment, had, since the murder of the King, been evidently indisposed to the service, and now peremptorily refused to continue to act as general. With these forces Cromwell met the army of Scotch enthusiasts at Dunbar. There was indeed equal fanaticism in both armies; but the difference was, the English were soldiers as well as preachers, and their General used fanaticism as an engine to move others, not as the rule of his own actions. He wore piety as a mask; he used it to sharpen his sword, but he never converted it into a pilot. Supreme power was the port at which he aimed, and profound worldly wisdom, and the most acute penetration into the character and designs of others, assisted him to steer his vessel with astonishing security through the rocks and quicksands that opposed his course.

From the retrospective view which the narrative required, I now turn to speak of the alarm caused by the young King's march into England. Though Cromwell was personally in Scotland, he continued to govern in London through his agents, and they urged the approach of the Royalists as a pretence for resorting to severer measures with all who were hostile to their employer. They suggested, that since the King was now openly supported by the Presbyterians, it would be expedient that party should defray the expences of the war. Lord Bellingham, they said, had long been suspected of loyal propensities; and at this moment the sequestration of his effects might answer a twofold purpose—to confirm the fidelity of the army by discharging their arrears—and to punish the Presbyterians through one of their leaders. Advice, sanctioned by the approbation of the General, took the form of a command. The Parliament readily complied with a suggestion that wore in its aspect the pretence of relieving the well-disposed. The estates were immediately voted to belong to the Commonwealth; the Earl was ordered into closer confinement; and sequestrators were sent down to take possession of Bellingham-Castle.

It was by this event that the feelings of the Countess were roused from the long apathy of self-enjoyment. Forgetting that she had herself furnished Cromwell with the information which first excited her suspicions against her Lord, she loudly complained that, not content with keeping him in prison on a charge which could not be proved, they were now injuring his innocent family by seizing their inheritance. The sequestrators were not sent to listen to remonstrances, but to act with speed and decision; and Lady Bellingham now found banishment from her home, and confiscation of all her property, were serious evils, though, when inflicted on others, she had always viewed them with great philosophy, considering them either as judgments on the ungodly, or correctives of carnal appetites, to complain of which showed a want of grace.

Her natural inconsiderateness and self-conceit did not permit her to penetrate into the motives, or to discover the character of, Cromwell. He had plied her with the species of flattery most agreeable to her present turn of thought, pretending to ask her opinion on dark texts, and to be influenced by her judgment of gifted preachers. She never suspected that he had converted her into one of the steps which formed his ascent to greatness; but, believing him her fast friend, ascribed the order of sequestration to their common enemies. He was still in Scotland; but she determined to fly to him, state her wrongs, and implore redress. The danger of the journey less alarmed her than the risk of poverty and disgrace in remaining inactive. A rumour of the King's having arrived in London expedited her resolves. Ever impressed with the idea of her own importance, she even fancied that avowing her fidelity to Cromwell at such a period would give her a claim on his gratitude, and thus insure success to her suit.

She had proceeded in her journey as far as Ribblesdale, when her coach was stopt by an infuriated populace, who, hearing she was a partizan of Cromwell, avowedly, seeking his protection, surrounded her carriage with every mark of derision and insult, and even took off her horses to prevent her proceeding. The cruel depredations which the republicans had committed in their march to Scotland the preceding year, gave a private stimulus to the hatred they felt for the murderer of a King, now justly dear to their recovered reason. Mortified that the dignity of her aspect and the splendour of her suite had not overawed these rustics; alarmed for the safety of her person, and exposed to the certain inconvenience of passing the night, unhoused, in a mountainous country, even if she were permitted to proceed next day, Lady Bellingham sat trembling in her carriage, in which were her waiting-gentlewoman, chaplain, and gentleman-usher, all highly useful to her in their separate departments and joint occupations of submissive flatterers, but all incompetent to advise what was to be done, and incapable of assisting her in this extremity.

Nothing affecting the welfare or the moral character of Ribblesdale was uninteresting to Dr. Beaumont, who, though restrained from receiving the emoluments, was punctual in fulfilling the duties of his pastoral care. At the first intelligence of a riot in the parish, he hastened to Morgan, and endeavoured to make him sensible that it was his duty to protect a helpless woman. Morgan was extremely doubtful how to act; for, not being endowed with the power of looking into futurity, he knew not which party would finally prevail. The magnified reports which he had heard of the King's successes would have made him turn Loyalist, had he not known that Cromwell, with a victorious army, was hastening from the North, and that therefore it would be impolitic to offend him. He thought the best way would be not to interfere; and, secretly cursing the lady for exposing him to this dilemma, he observed the mountain-air for once would brace her nerves, and furnish her with an adventure to talk of as long as she lived. Davies was unwilling to open his doors to a stranger till he knew if she would pay for her accommodations. Dr. Beaumont therefore was left to perform the service of knight-errant all alone.

He arrived on the common where the carriage was stopped in the dusk of the evening, just at the time when Lady Bellingham's fears had so far subdued her haughtiness as to change her threats into tears and intreaties. The Doctor's admonitions soon prevailed on the villagers to repent their conduct. They were ready to restore the horses, and refrain from further molestation; but it was now too dark for her to proceed in safety, and not a creature seemed willing to afford a lodging to one whom they supposed to be no better than a mistress to Old Noll, the good King's murderer.

Dr. Beaumont's finances were now in such a state as compelled him to huswife his hospitality. The money which young De Vallance had insisted on advancing to supply his probable necessities, had been appropriated to the actual wants of the King's army, as it marched through Lancashire; yet the good man's native courtesy still inclined him to assist the perplexities of the affluent, while his benevolence prompted him to relieve the distresses of the poor. He accosted Lady Bellingham with an air of dignified modesty. His means, he said, were scanty, and his humble dwelling was now the abode of care and affliction, yet he thought it would afford her comforts superior to passing the night in her carriage; and he requested, if she condescended to allow him to be her host, she would overlook the homeliness of her fare in his sincere wish to obviate the inconveniences which the rude treatment of his parishioners had brought upon her.

It was not Lady Bellingham's method to look further than to her own comforts. A man whose air and language bespoke a gentleman, but whose coarse thread-bare garb indicated poverty, could not have gained her attention if he spoke with the tongue of an angel, except so far as he ministered to her accommodation. Turning her eyes to the ruins, which he pointed out as his residence, she uttered an exclamation of contempt and surprise, to convince him that she had been accustomed to such magnificence, that it would be an infinite condescension in one of her refinement to stoop to his society. Meantime her retinue, finding the contents of the travelling chest would furnish a sufcient repast, urged her to accept the shelter of a roof however humble; and Lady Bellingham, with a slight inclination of her head, significant of her condescension, ordered the horses to be put to, to draw her to the door. Dr. Beaumont observed that the road would not be practicable for her carriage, on which Her Ladyship required her gentleman-usher to hand her out. "How dreadfully inconvenient," said she, "to walk so far! I wonder, Friend, you did not take care to have a carriage-road." Dr. Beaumont smiled, and replied that public events had pared off all his superfluities; but Lady Bellingham asserted that a drive to your own door was one of the necessaries of life, and her three attendants immediately and unanimously confirmed her opinion.

Mrs. Mellicent had been informed that her brother was bringing a lady of great quality, who was running away from the King to join Oliver Cromwell, to spend the night under his roof; and though nothing could exceed the superlative contempt she entertained for disloyal nobility, the honour of the Beaumont blood, and respect for her brother, determined her to give his guest the best reception in her power. Her banquets, like Eve's, consisted of little beside fruits and herbs, and the only ornaments she could arrange in the apartments were flowers; but she had preserved the damask table-suit of her own spinning; and the gold brocade gown, received as an heir-loom from her mother, was in high preservation. She thought an exhibition of these would convince the rebel lady, that though the King's friends now wore sad-coloured camlet, they had once been people of consequence. She received Lady Bellingham with one of her stiffest courtesies at the door of their best apartment, and motioned with her hand for her to sit down with an air that spoke conscious equality, and a determination not to be disconcerted by one who required her hospitality. Constantia stood behind her aunt, pale, dejected, clad in the deepest weeds of woe. Isabel did not appear. Her beloved father had long required her constant attendance. With infinite gratitude to Heaven, she acknowledged its goodness in again restoring to him the use of that reason which enabled him to appreciate her filial excellence. He had so far recovered the use of his limbs as to be able to walk, supported by her arm; and it was her custom, at the first dawn of morning, to lead him from his narrow cell to enjoy the refreshing breeze, and the exhilarating glory of the rising sun, while old Williams climbed the crumbling battlements of Waverly-hall to give notice if any stranger approached.

Mrs. Mellicent's dress and manner, preserving the memorial of the past generation, drew a supercilious smile from Lady Bellingham, who, in the obscurity and penury to which she perceived a loyal Episcopalian was reduced, plainly discerned a visible judgment. Her satellites easily interpreted her sentiments, and considered the spinster as a fair mark of contempt and ridicule; but as their patroness had not deigned to intimate her opinion of Dr. Beaumont and his daughter, they knew not in what light she would please to have them considered. Her Ladyship threw a cold repulsive glance over Mrs. Mellicent's culinary arrangements, declared, in a tone which belied her expressions, that every thing was very excellent, but that her unfortunate health would not allow her to indulge except in a particular species of food. She then ordered her travelling chest to be opened, and the liqueurs, conserves, and pastry, to be displayed by the side of Mrs. Mellicent's sallads, oat-cake, and metheglin, inviting her, in a most gracious manner, to partake of the pilgrim's wallet. But Mrs. Mellicent had the same antipathy to court delicacies which Lady Bellingham had to country fare; and, with the independent spirit of a Cincinnatus, gravely preferring "a radish and an egg," continued to eat them leisurely with a satisfaction derived from a consideration that they were not purchased by any sacrifice of integrity. She secretly pondered on the base propensities which the rebel cause engendered, when even a woman of rank, who had known better manners, was so vitiated by the company she had lately kept, as to esteem respectable, uncomplaining poverty a fair object of contempt.

It would have been difficult even for modern volubility to have supplied conversation in a group thus circumstanced; but two hundred years ago long intervals of silence in a country-party were not extraordinary. During these pauses Mrs. Mellicent's eyes were fixed on a large blue Campanula that she had trimmed to cover the open chimney; and Lady Bellingham, disdaining to admire any thing extrinsic, directed her's to the diamond solitaire suspended on her bosom. She had given strict orders to conceal her name; and if she had ever heard that her injured brother sought shelter in Ribblesdale, and married the sister of a Dr. Beaumont, the events that consoled his afflictions were much too insignificant to be treasured in her memory. The party therefore met as strangers in opposite interests. The hour of retiring was anticipated. Constantia attended Lady Bellingham to the apartment formerly occupied by her worthy son; and after the common inquiries of courtesy withdrew, much to the discomfort of the waiting gentlewoman, on whom the double fatigue of chambermaid and mistress of the robes now devolved. Lady Bellingham being inclined to silence, the dignified Abigail was restrained from speaking; and having no invitation to share her Lady's bed, with secret indignation at these strange people, not having the forethought to provide her with another, she was compelled to rest herself in the window-seat, and convert the night into a vigil.

A belief in apparitions was at that time universal, and by no means confined to the humble ranks of life. Imagination could not conceive a more suitable scene for the gambols of supernatural beings than the ruins adjoining the humble tenement which the Beaumonts inhabited. The unfortunate, waiting-gentlewoman was kept all night in continual tremor by horrible visions and dreadful sounds: yet to wake her Lady, who went to bed extremely out of humour, was a still more daring exercise of courage than to be a sole witness of the alarming noises produced by the wind rushing through vaults and crevices, or the fearful reflection of a thistle by moonlight, waving on the top of a crumbling arch. After a night spent in the exercise of such comparative heroism, Mrs. Abigail hailed with pleasure the return of dawn; and as ghosts and goblins always post off to Erebus when Aurora's flag gilds the mountains, imagined she might now go to sleep in safety. But she was soon roused by the sound of voices, and beheld an indisputable apparition. An aged grey-headed man, bent double, clad in a loose gown, and leaning on a staff, crept out of the very pile which she had been so fearfully contemplating all night. He was attended by a female figure, who carefully seated him on a bank opposite her window. The occupation of these spectres was no less extraordinary than the time of their appearance, for they seemed engaged in what, she thought, ghosts always omitted—devotion. Yet ghosts they must be, since nothing human could have dared to pass the night in such a scene of desolation. She continued to gaze, in petrified horror, till the female apparition rising from its knees, after adjusting the hair, and wiping the face of its companion, sung the following stanzas, with a voice resembling that of human beings, except that its harmonious notes exceeded in sweetness any thing Mrs. Abigail had ever heard:

The waiting-gentlewoman's astonishment at this vision soon burst out into an exclamation, which unfortunately broke Lady Bellingham's slumber, and drew her also to the window. Her lamentations at the misery of having her rest disturbed, were soon interrupted by consternation at the objects she beheld, which were no other than her brother and his daughter enjoying their morning liberation from the dungeon. The rising sun shone on the countenance of the former, and maugre the ravages of time, grief, and distraction, she recognised his features with a degree of agony which only the guilty can feel. The resemblance of Isabel to her father increased those emotions; the words of her song, uttered with distinct emphasis, were in unison with the suggestions of an awakened conscience. Lady Bellingham gave a loud shriek, and fell into the arms of her attendant, according to whose account the two spirits, at the same moment, sunk into the earth enveloped in flames.

The screams of Lady Bellingham, re-echoed by Mrs. Abigail's, presently drew the Beaumont-ladies into their apartment. They had neglected to apprize Isabel of the arrival of strangers, and were glad to find her morning services to her father had been thus misconstrued. Mrs. Mellicent gravely allowed the possibility of ghosts inhabiting ruins; but observed, that as they had never injured the Waverly family, they had always found them peaceable neighbours; and wondered at the Lady's alarm, since from the little she had said the preceding day, it was plain she considered herself as a favourite of Heaven, and under its especial protection. Mrs. Abigail protested that her Lady was one of the devoutest, sweetest and handsomest creatures in the world; but observed, since she had been obliged to leave Castle-Bellingham, she was grown very nervous. Mrs. Mellicent eagerly inquired if it was Lady Bellingham whom they sheltered; Mrs. Abigail answered in the affirmative, but conjured her not to own that she had made the discovery, or she should be torn in pieces. Mrs. Mellicent indignantly threw down the burnt feathers and sal volatile, which she till then humanely applied, and emphatically observing it was no wonder she feared apparitions, hastened to consult Dr. Beaumont on this emergency.

It was not now a proper time to confront the injured Allan Neville and his unnatural sister; the reported success of the King's enterprise must first be ascertained, and Mrs. Mellicent trusted the time was not far distant when this domestic and public traitress would be made not only to tremble, but to suffer. Recollections of past disappointments made Dr. Beaumont less sanguine, but he agreed, that, confirming Lady Bellingham's alarm, and removing her instantly from their house, was the wisest course; and as soon as she recovered from her fit, she was herself all impatience to quit a mansion replete with horrors, and destitute of comforts. She coldly thanked Dr. Beaumont, who attended her to her carriage, for attempting to be hospitable, but declared her astonishment that his brain was not turned in such a dwelling; and he as coldly answered, that a clear conscience reconciled the body to privations, and endued the soul with fortitude. But neither the eloquence of Dr. Beaumont, nor her own anxiety for the Evellins, could induce Mrs. Mellicent to submit to the civility of an adieu. She even shook her fist at the wicked wretch, as she called her, from the window. "Brother," said she, to Dr. Beaumont, who reproved her for the violence of her indignation, "I only wish her to incur the enmity of the Baal she now worships, and to suffer with him as many years of misery as she has inflicted on the noble veteran whose lonely couch our dear Isabel smooths; and while her youthful beauty withers in a dungeon, pillows a father's destitute head on her uncomplaining bosom."

CHAP. XXI.

Rowe.

The welcome which the young King received from his English subjects did not answer the sanguine expectations of his friends. Contrary to the rumours that were industriously circulated, the system of terror which Cromwell had established prevented any regular levies being made for his assistance. The means of the old royalists were exhausted; they had now little but their lives to offer, and the junction of unconnected individuals afforded but a scanty and ineffectual muster. It was soon found that Cromwell repassed the Grampian hills with inconceivable swiftness, and, pouring along with collected forces, dispersed the scattered troops which the King's friends were endeavouring to collect, even before they could be trained to arms. The King's army, fatigued by a long march, destitute of necessaries, but slowly recruiting in numbers, and virtually diminishing in strength, soon found the design of seizing London beyond its ability. "The loyal city of Worcester," as it has the honour of being pre-eminently styled, opened its gates to refresh its Sovereign, and offered itself as a temporary retreat, where he might muster his forces, and re-consider his measures. Here the King was proclaimed, but the events which attended that solemnity augured ill to the actual duration of his reign. The Earl of Derby, accompanied by a few faithful friends, posted into the town to bring the intelligence of his own defeat, and the consequent relapse of the north-western counties under the yoke of Cromwell. This bad news was rapidly followed by intelligence, that the enemy was in full pursuit. Alarm and suspicion were visible in every countenance; divided opinions distracted the royal councils. Some measures were pursued with rashness; others, more eligible, neglected from timidity. Many were ready to fight and to suffer, but a wise, calm superintendence was wanting to prevent valour and generous loyalty from shedding its precious blood in vain.

The result of the battle of Worcester, the miraculous escape of the King, the death of many faithful adherents, the execution of others, especially of the noble Earl of Derby, in the very centre of his feudal greatness, with every mark of barbarous ignominy, and the reduction of his heroic Countess and her children to the most extreme state of poverty and distress are well known. Arthur De Vallance was an actor in some of these scenes. His plan of quitting England was renounced, when he knew, that, by remaining, he could be of service to his Prince. He repaired to the young King at Stirling as soon as Cromwell's victory at Dunbar had taken him out of the hands of Argyle; accompanied him in his march to the South, and bravely used his sword in his service at that fatal overthrow, which seemed to exterminate the monarchy of England beyond all hope of revival. It is well known that Cromwell, without giving time to his own army to rest, after their long march from Scotland, pounced upon the King's troops at Worcester during their first consternation; and, leaving a part of his forces to contend with that portion of the King's who fought valiantly, entered the city along with those flying fugitives whom the terror of his name had dispersed at the first onset, almost at the same instant that the King, disguised as a peasant, rushed out at the opposite gate, dismissed all his friends and attendants, and concealed himself in an adjoining wood. All command having ceased, and no rallying point being established, it became the duty of all to consult their individual safety. Jobson continued inseparably attached to Sedley's service; he again advised a retreat into Wales, and being well acquainted with the country, they had the good fortune to reach the principality before the enemy had secured the passes, though that was one of their first measures, to prevent the retreat of the King into a part of his dominions where he might be most easily concealed, as well from the nature of the country as from the loyal disposition of the inhabitants.

It was the design of De Vallance to repair to the isle of Man, and offer his services to the Countess of Derby, who, it was reported, was able and determined to retain that insulated spot, and establish it as the asylum of persecuted loyalty. He journeyed through the most unfrequented roads, trusting for his support to the hospitality of a brave, unsophisticated race, who could hardly endure the nominal yoke of regicides, and preserved the sanctuary of their domestic retreats unpolluted by the presence of spies and informers. From these, his occasional hosts, De Vallance learned many woeful particulars of the miseries of the prisoners taken at Worcester, "who were driven like cattle to London, many of them suffered to perish for want of food, or from pestilential diseases arising from crowded prisons, and the survivors sold for slaves to the plantations." Such was the freedom these pseudo-friends of liberty afforded to those who dissented from their opinions; and thus was loyalty (for no other crime was laid to their charge) punished with a severity, which regular governments scruple to use against the most atrocious offenders. Nor should these tyrannous acts be ascribed so much to the rancorous nature of the victors as to the natural tendency of power obtained by illegal violent means. They who rise to greatness by insurrection, find themselves compelled to renounce the principles and violate the promises to which they owed their exaltation. The greatest tyrants have ever been those who experimentally know that rigorous coercion is the only way of restraining popular fury. Fear is the incentive and justifier of cruelty. Man is rarely disposed gratuitously to torment his fellow-creatures. The world has indeed produced Roman, Mahommedan, and Indian, despots, who seemed to receive pleasure from the sufferings of their victims, abstracted from every other consideration; but these instances have been too rare to permit us to consider such an infernal propensity as a just characteristic of human nature. Mercy is more grateful to the feelings of even bad men than rigorous punishment; but as it cannot with safety be exercised in unsettled governments, which must awe the subdued into passive submission, before they can reward the obedient, some of the most powerful dissuasives against exciting popular commotions arise from the despotism in which they are sure to terminate, the malignant passions which they excite, and the horrible atrocities that often spring from no worse motive than the necessity of securing ill-acquired pre-eminence.

The melancholy state of the kingdom, added to the general anxiety for the King's welfare, of whose escape to France no certain tidings had been received, overpowered the hitherto-heroic patience of De Vallance, and made him on a public, as well as on a private, account, feel weary of a world, which seemed left to the misrule of successful guilt and prosperous hypocrisy. He had now travelled into the county of Flint, from whence he hoped to gain a passage to the isle of Man, when he received intelligence that, during his confinement, the Earl of Derby had signed an order for its surrender, together with all his castles, with which his intrepid Countess immediately complied; vainly hoping a sacrifice of the hereditary possessions of the family might be received as a commutation for her husband's life. Mold and Hope were already garrisoned by the Parliament; and thus after a long and difficult journey, during which he had encountered many hair-breadth 'scapes, De Vallance found himself still surrounded with enemies, destitute not only of shelter, but nearly of resources, and with no other alternative, than to be an indigent fugitive, a prisoner, or to try if, by being a participator in the crimes of his parents, he could, by the influence which either of them possessed with the government, procure a pardon for what he deemed the best action of his life, taking arms for his Sovereign.

It was in a little village near Mold-Castle, that these reflections, combining with the effects of fatigue and hardship, produced an indisposition which confined him to the inn, and compelled him to ruminate deeply on his future prospects. It was now plainly seen that the European courts were more disposed to form alliances with a potent Usurper, than to forward the restoration of an unfortunate Prince, to whose connexions a cold protection and scanty support were reluctantly afforded, and even the ties of blood sacrificed to intimidation or ambition. The situation of English Loyalists abroad was in every respect deplorable. They were studiously slighted by the governments under whose wing they sheltered, and exposed to the insults of the triumphant republicans, who, on the contrary, were courted and flattered.

How greatly soever Cromwell subdued and oppressed England by his domestic management, like all other able tyrants, he made the nation he enslaved great and formidable by his foreign policy, using the energies with which despotism had furnished him, to extend her commerce, and support her naval superiority.—Had no peculiar family-circumstances compelled De Vallance to renounce his home, doubtless he would have imitated the vise conduct of Agricola, who is justly celebrated "for not being in that class of patriots, who conceive they gain immortal glory, when by rashness they provoke their fate; but showed that, even in the worst of times, and under the most despotic ruler, it is possible for the man of heroic fortitude to be great and good with moderation." But De Vallance felt he could not compound for an estate to which he had no just title, nor reconcile himself to parents, who were stained with every crime. Could he forget the wrongs and woes of Allan Neville; the death of Eustace; the mournful seclusion and daily anguish of Isabel!—Submission to Cromwell must be combined with a sacrifice of every honest principle, every cherished affection of his heart. England therefore afforded no rest to the sole of his foot, and if he sought the continent, it should be as a military hireling, not as a dependent mendicant; as one who could earn his bread, not as a supplicant, who had no other claim to support than loyalty and indigence.

There were many gentlemen who had emigrated to Virginia, when hostilities terminated in 1646, who were now comfortably established as planters; and he felt he might trust his desire of obtaining a similar situation to his mental resources, and the energy and perseverance of his natural character. The new world was unstained by the contaminating vices of the old. In a society, chiefly composed of Loyalists, he would not be aggrieved by the sight of low-born insolence, trampling on hereditary greatness, nor offended by the perversions of sophists, the cant of hypocrites, and the exaltation of villains. He could there only endure bodily inflictions. What prevented him from thus exonerating himself from the severest visitations of adversity, and immediately transporting himself across the Atlantic? The consideration of that vast world of waters separating him from Isabel Evellin; for though he might no more hope to bind her to him by the tie of marriage, or even to share her dear society, the bond of love was indissoluble. He could not remove to such a distance from her, as would make it impossible to render her any assistance. He might not be able to defend or console her; but, by remaining in England, he could suffer or die for her sake.

Irresolution increased the depression of De Vallance; his bodily complaints gained ground, and Jobson too, though still an affectionate, was no longer a cheerful, companion. His spirits sunk while he was with the King in Worcester; he predicted the loss of that battle, and the evening before his master acknowledged himself unable to proceed, he gave him to understand that he had seen a warning of his approaching death. Instead of rejoicing over their casual comforts, and anticipating better days as he used to do, he was ever prognosticating evils, and lessening their humble comforts, by prophesying their impending loss. Even the full-frothed can and savoury luncheon lost their usual relish; it was always the last good Welsh-ale, or dried salmon, he should have in this world; and if he repeated his farewel libation, till he grew intoxicated, every draught added to his sadness. Instead of roaring out a joyous song, he fell to crying, and talked of the slaughter incident to storming a city, instead of the brave sallies of a garrison.

De Vallance repeatedly asked the reason of this change, and as the increase of his indisposition confirmed Jobson in his opinion of the truth of his conclusions, the latter thought (since his master must die soon) he might as well own how he knew that his recovery was impossible. He then reminded him of his predictions, that the King would lose the battle, and confessed he had received a supernatural intimation that England was ruined, and the poor Loyalists quite undone.—"I would not tell Your Honour," said he, "at the time, because I know you don't credit such things; but I met Fido in the streets of Worcester the night before it was taken by Old Noll—Mr. Eustace's own poor Fido, and I then said the King would be beat."

"I never knew," replied De Vallance, "that the appearance of a dog was oracular."

"Well, laugh on," said Jobson, "and I wish it may do you good. But I say, I saw him again, the night before you was taken ill, and I know by that it is all over with you."

The affectionate Jobson burst into tears as he spoke, while De Vallance was extremely struck at the re-appearance of the animal. He reminded Jobson that dogs were often extremely alike, and inquired how he knew that this actually belonged to Eustace.

"How do I know," replied he, "that I am Ralph Jobson? Why it knew me, and seemed to wag its tail; nay, made as though it would lick my hand."

"And did you not permit him?" said De Vallance.

The terrified trooper turned pale, and his teeth chattered with horror. "I did not say that it was Fido's living self," exclaimed he; "and what would have become of me, had I been touched by a ghost? why my arm would have withered directly. I knew a man in village that had his nose beat flat to his face, only for peeping into the belfry, while a ghost was dancing among the bell-ropes.—No, to be sure, I flung a stone at it, and it ran away setting up a howl."

De Vallance now laboured to convince Jobson, that admitting the reality of spectral appearances in the human form, animals were not endowed with a vital principle, capable of existing distinct from their bodies. Jobson was shocked at his master's presumptuous neglect of warnings, and he vehemently urged the impossibility of a living dog being at Worcester in September, and in Wales at Christmas. He stated the privilege of spirits to take any shape; and not nicely attending to the question of identity, shewed from oral testimony, that they sometimes appeared as a glazed pipkin, and sometimes as the skeleton of a horse's head. The exertion of endeavouring to enlighten wilful absurdity increased the debility of De Vallance. Jobson's forebodings were turned into certainties, and he walked into the church-yard to see in what spot he should bury his master, and hoping to hear the death-watch, as a sign that he should rest beside him.

The landlady at the little inn, where the forlorn Arthur languished, pitying the sufferings of her interesting guest, and the inactive grief of his attendant, requested she might be permitted to send for an excellent gentleman, who was come to live in the neighbourhood, and had done many extraordinary cures.—"You need not," said she, "fear troubling him, he takes no pay but the blessings of those he heals; and he is said to be as useful to a wounded spirit, as he is to a diseased body." De Vallance was weary of life; but the soldier must not quit his post, till his discharge be duly signed by his Commander; he yielded therefore to the proposal. Jobson had a rooted dislike to all doctors; but reluctance to his master's employing one was changed into consternation, when he saw in the benevolent volunteer-Esculapius, the Doctor Lloyd against whom he had conceived an inveterate antipathy, verily believing him capable of poisoning a patient for the sake of converting him into an anatomy. He rushed into his master's chamber to announce his identity, and when he found the intelligence only increased his eagerness to see him, he resolved however to prevent his taking any of his medicines.

The diseases brought on by fatigue and distress are seldom obstinate, when resisted by youth, a good constitution, a clear conscience, and a calm judgment. Dr. Lloyd dealt in potent cordials. He possessed the essential qualities of a true friend; and the behaviour of De Vallance soon induced him to exert his talents in that capacity. He had hardly felt his pulse, before he pronounced that little was necessary besides tranquillity and generous support. Arthur's heart panted with impatience to commence a confidential intimacy; but he recollected he must inspire confidence, before he could venture to require it. A sick stranger, languishing at a village-inn, was as likely to be the enemy as the friend of a cause it was now dangerous to espouse. Strongly pre-possessed in favour of a man, who courageously ventured among a multitude of hostile and infuriated soldiers, avowed his attachment to the victim they had just slaughtered, and bestowed on his corpse the decent sepulture they meant to deny, De Vallance felt no apprehension at trusting his own life ta such tried fidelity. He spoke of himself as friendless, distressed, and in the utmost need of advice and protection. He declared himself to be a Loyalist, who, having engaged in the King's last attempt, would be excepted from the expected amnesty. By this means he drew Dr. Lloyd into a guarded communication of his former residence at Pembroke, and his acquaintance with Eustace Evellin. De Vallance owned himself to be a friend to that family. He even used the word brother. Dr. Lloyd turned on him a significant glance, when, to justify the claim, De Vallance drew from his bosom the letter of Isabel, and explained the hopes that had been defeated by the death of Eustace. "You will not wonder," added he, "that I have a painful eagerness to know every circumstance of that lamentable event."

Dr. Lloyd regarded his patient with scrutinizing attention. "You know," said he, "that the resolute defence of Pembroke-Castle provoked the parliamentary General to adopt measures that were intended to strike terror into the King's party; and from the particular manner in which you apply to me, you possibly also know that, influenced by compassion, I removed the body of Eustace, and performed those offices which friendship required."

The undefined, unacknowledged hopes which had floated in the mind of Arthur vanished at this reply, and as they disappeared, convinced him, that he had cherished a vain romantic illusion. A long pause ensued; De Vallance heaved a deep sigh, and asked if the noble youth was resigned to his fate.

"Life was very dear to him," answered Dr. Lloyd, "and no wonder.—Talent, personal beauty, lively and generous feelings, the purest sense of honour, and the noblest aspirings after fame, were combined in his character. He loved too, and he knew himself beloved. You seem, Sir, about his age; my sensibility has been blunted by time; but I will appeal to your own susceptibility, to conceive the sensations of his impassioned heart, when he found himself suddenly arrested in the bloom of manhood, by a summons to an ignominious death. This, too, at a distance from all his kindred, and after having sustained for many months the most severe warfare, and the cruellest privations. But if you ask me if he discovered any unmanly weakness at this awful moment—I answer none. He looked and moved like a hero going to mount the car of triumph. The lustre of his dauntless eye appalled the musketeers, who were drawn up in the court." 'Take sure aim,' said he; 'Your commander spares not youth and loyalty; therefore be like him, pitiless.'"

"Detestable act, infernal massacre!" exclaimed De Vallance.—"Retributive Heaven, I own thy justice! That murderous volley, Bellingham, slew thy son!" Dr. Lloyd clasped the clenched hands with which he seemed prepared to beat his own bosom, and requested an explanation.

"Do not, do not," said the tortured Arthur, "believe me capable of repaying your kind commiseration with ingratitude, if I own myself descended from the most cruel and treacherous of men. The murdered Eustace was rightful heir to the title and fortunes which, as the son of Bellingham, I might claim. Shall I own, though my heart recoils at the confession, that I strongly fear a base private motive urged my father to select this victim, as a sacrifice to what he called public expedience.—Oh! Dr. Lloyd, had I never been born, had my ambitious parents laid no base projects for my aggrandizement, the noble Eustace had still lived."