"We'll drink--drink,
And our goblets clink,
Quaffing the blood-red wine;
The wenches we'll toast,
And the Roundheads we'll roast,
The Croppies, and all their kind."
"A capital song! And right well you've sung it, Sir Thomas.
_Herrlich_!"
"Your Highness compliments me."
"_Nein--nein_. But who composed the ditty? It's new to me."
"Sir John Dertham. He who wrote the verses about Waller, and their
defeat at Roundway Down--
"`Great William the Con-
So fast did he run,
That he left half his name behind him.'
"Your Highness may remember them?"
"Ha-ha-ha! That do I; and Sir John himself. A true Cavalier, and no
better company over the cup. But come, gentlemen! Let us act up to the
spirit of the song. Fill goblets, and toast the wenches!"
"The wenches! The wenches!" came in responsive echo from all sides of
the table, as the wine went to their lips.
No sentiment could have been more congenial to those who had been
listening to Colonel Lunford's song. For it was this man of infamous
memory who had been addressed as "Sir Thomas." He had late received
knighthood from his King; such being the sort Kings delight to honour,
now as then. And among the _convives_ was a King's son, the embryo
"Merry Monarch," taking lessons in that reprobacy he afterwards
practised to the bestrumpetting England from lordly palace to lowly cot.
It was not he, however, who had complimented Lunsford on his vocal
abilities; the "Highness" being his cousin, Prince Rupert, in whose
quarters they were carousing; the place Bristol; the time some weeks
subsequent to the taking of Monmouth by Massey. But the occasion which
had called them together was to celebrate a success on the opposite
side; its re-capture by the Royalists, for Monmouth had been retaken. A
sad mischance for the Parliamentarians; through no fault of Kyrle, who,
on active duty, was away from it, but the _lache_ of one Major
Throgmorton, left in temporary charge.
Riotous with delight were they assembled within Rupert's quarters. They
had that day received the welcome intelligence, and were in spirit for
unrestrained rejoicing. Ever since Marston Moor the King's cause had
been suffering reverses; once more the tide seemed turning in its
favour.
But nothing of war occupied their thoughts now; the victory on the Wye
had been talked over, the victors toasted, and the subject dismissed for
one always uppermost at a Cavalier carousal.
Several songs had been already sung, but that of Lunsford--so indecent,
that only the chorus can be here given--tickled the fancies of all, and
an _encore_ was demanded. A demand with which the festive Lunsford
readily complied, and the ribald refrain once more received uproarious
plaudits.
"Now, gentlemen!" said the host, on silence being restored, "fill again!
We've but toasted the wenches in a general way. I'm going to propose
one in particular, whom you'll all be eager to honour. A fascinating
damsel, who, if I'm not mistaken, Cousin Charles, has put a spell upon
your young heart."
"Ha-ha!" smirked the precocious reprobate, in a semi-protesting way.
"You _are_ mistaken, coz. None of womankind can do that."
"Ah! if your Royal Highness has escaped her witcheries, you're one of
the rare exceptions. _Mein Gott_! she has turned the heads of more than
half my young officers, and commands them as much as I do myself. Well,
she's worthy of obedience, if beauty has the right to rule, and we
Cavaliers cannot deny it that. So let us drink to her!"
By this all had replenished their cups, and were waiting to hear the
name of her whose charms were so extolled by their princely host. A
good many could guess; and more than one listened to what he had been
saying with a feeling of unpleasantness. For he but spoke the truth
about the fascinations of a certain lady, and more than one present had
felt their spell to the surrender of hearts. Not from this came their
pain, however, but from whisperings that Rupert himself had set covetous
eyes on the lady in question, and well knew they what that meant--a
thing fatal to their own aspirations. Where the sun deigns to shine the
satellite stars have to suffer eclipse.
And just as these jealous subordinates anticipated, the damsel about to
be toasted was Mademoiselle Lalande.
"Clarisse Lalande?" at length called out the Prince, adding--"To the
bottom of your cups, gentlemen!"
And to the bottom of their cups drank they, honouring the toast with a
cheer, in which might be detected some tone of irony.
The usual brief interval of silence, as lull in the midst of storm, was
succeeded by a buzz of conversation, not about any common or general
subject, but carried on by separate groups, and in dialogue between
individuals.
Into this last had entered two gentlemen, who sate near the head of the
table; one in civilian garb, the other wearing the uniform of a cavalry
officer. Both were men of middle age, the officer somewhat the older;
while a certain gravity of aspect distinguished him from the gay
roysterers around. But for the insignia on his dress, he would have
looked more like Parliamentarian than Royalist.
The demeanour of the civilian was also of the sober kind, and marked by
an air of distinction which proclaimed him a somebody of superior rank.
"'Tis no more than the truth," he said, turning to the officer, after
the toast had been disposed of. "The Creole _is_ a fascinating
creature. Don't you think so, Major Grenville?"
"I do, my Lord. Her fascination is admitted by all. But, perhaps, some
of it is due to her rather free manners. With a little more modesty she
might not appear so attractive--certainly would not to most of the
present company."
"Ah! true. There's something in that."
"A good deal, my Lord; despite the old adage. For modesty is a quality
that does _not_ adorn Mademoiselle Lalande. A pity, too! The want of
it may ruin her reputation, if it hasn't done that already."
"What a moralist you are, Major! Your ideas have a strong taint of
Puritanism. I hope you're not going to turn your back on us gay
Cavaliers. Ha-ha-ha!"
The laugh told his Lordship to be in jest. He knew Major Grenville to
be a devoted adherent of the King, else he would not have bantered him.
"But," he continued, reverting to the topic with which they started,
"morals apart, I've never seen a thing to give one such an idea of
woman's power as she does--in that curious Indian dance. 'Tis a
wonderful picture, or rather embodiment, of feminine voluptuousness."
"All that I admit," returned the Major. "But for true womanly grace--
ay, _abandon_, but of a very different kind--you should see a cousin she
has, a real English girl, or, to speak more correctly, Welsh."
"All the same. But who is the cousin so highly endowed?"
"A Miss Powell, the daughter of a wealthy gentleman, who, I'm sorry to
say, is not on our side; instead, one of our bitterest enemies."
"Might you mean Master Ambrose Powell, of Hollymead House, up in the
Forest of Dean?"
"The same. Your Lordship seems to know him?"
"Certainly I do, or did; for it's several years since I've seen him.
But he had two daughters then, Sabrina and Vaga. One is not likely to
forget the names. Are not both still living?"
"Oh yes."
"The elder, Sabrina, was nearly grown up when I saw them last, the other
but a slip; but both promised to be great beauties."
"If your Lordship saw them now, you'd say the promise has been kept.
They are that, beyond cavil or question."
"But from what you've said, I take it you regard one of them as superior
to the other. Which, may I ask? At a guess I'd say Sabrina. As a girl
I liked her looks best; came near liking them too well. Ha-ha! Have I
guessed correctly?"
"The reverse, my Lord; that is, according to my ideas of beauty."
"Then you award the palm to Vaga?"
"Decidedly."
"Well, Major, I won't question your judgment, as I can't till I've seen
the sisters again. No doubt they will be much changed since I had the
pleasure of last meeting them. But they should now be of an age to get
married; Sabrina certainly. Is there no talk of that?"
"There is, my Lord."
"Regarding which?"
"Regarding both."
"Ah! And who the respective favourites?"
"Say respective _finances_, your Lordship. They're engaged. So report
has it."
"And who are to be the Benedicts? Who is Mistress Sabrina to make
happy?"
"Sir Richard Walwyn, 'tis said."
"Dick Walwyn, indeed! An old classmate of mine at Oxford. Well, she
might do worse. And the little yellow-haired sprout? She was a bright
blonde, I remember, with wonderful tresses, like a Danae's shower.
Who's to be the possessor of all that auriferous wealth?"
"One of the Trevors."
"There's one of them on the Prince's staff, I understand. Is it he?"
"No; a cousin--son of Sir William of Abergavenny."
"What! the young stripling who used to be at Court--one of the gentlemen
ushers?"
"The same, my Lord."
"Quite an Adonis he; so the Queen thought, 'twas said. Mistress Vaga
must have all the fascinations you credit her with to have made conquest
of him. But he's not with the King now?"
"No; nor on the King's side neither. He turned coat, and took service
under the Parliament, in Walwyn's troop of Horse. 'Tis supposed the
Danae's shower your lordship speaks of had a good deal to do with his
conversion."
"Very likely that. Cupid's a powerful proselytiser. Well, I should
like to see the Powell girls again; their father too, for old
friendship's sake. By the way, where are they?"
"I am not well informed about their present whereabouts. Some twelve
months ago they were here in Bristol, staying at Montserrat House with
Madame, his sister. When we took the place, Master Ambrose thought it
wise to move away from it, for reasons easily understood. He went hence
to Gloucester, where, I believe, he has been residing ever since--up
till within the last few days. Likely they're at Hollymead just now; at
least I heard of Powell having returned thither, thinking he would be
safe with Monmouth in Massey's hands. Since it isn't any longer, he may
move back to Gloucester; and the sooner the better, I should say. He
has sadly compromised himself by acting on one of the Parliament's
Committees; and some of ours will show him but slight consideration."
"Indeed, I should be sorry if any serious misfortune befell him, or his.
An odd sort of man with mistaken views politically; still a man of
sterling good qualities. I hope, Major, he may not be among the many
victims this unnatural war is claiming all over the land."
"I echo that hope, my Lord."
And with these humane sentiments their dialogue came to a close, so far
as that subject was concerned.
Two men had been listening to it with eager ears--Prince Rupert and
Colonel Lunsford, who sate by his side. Amidst the clinking of goblets,
and the jarring din of many voices, they could not hear it all; still
enough to make out its general purport.
They seemed especially interested when the Major spoke of the Powells
having returned to Hollymead. It was news to them; glad news for a
certain reason. Often since that morning after the surrender of Bristol
had the princely voluptuary given thought to the "bit of saucy
sweetness, with cheeks all roses," he had seen passing out of its gates
for Gloucester. Just as at first sight her sister had caught the fancy
of the brutal Lunsford, so had she caught his; and the impression still
remained, despite a succession of _amours_ and love escapades, with high
and low, since.
In more than one of his marauds through the Forest of Dean, Lunsford
along with him, he had paid visit to Hollymead House; only to find it
untenanted, save by caretakers--the family still in the city of
Gloucester. Many the curse hurled he, and his infamous underling, at
that same city of Gloucester; where the Cavalier who had not cursed it?
Overjoyed, then, were the two by what had just reached their ears, the
Prince interrogating in undertone,--
"You hear that, Lunsford?"
"I do, your Highness."
"_Gott sei dank_! Just what we've been wishing and waiting for. We may
now visit Hollymead, with fair hope of the sweet _frauleins_ being there
to receive us. Then, _mein_ Colonel, then--_nous verrons_!"
After delivering himself in this polyglot fashion, he caught hold of his
goblet, and clinking it against that of Lunsford, said in a confidential
whisper,--
"We drink to our success, Sir Thomas?"
There had been a third listener to the dialogue between Major Grenville
and the nobleman, who also overheard the words spoken by Rupert to the
new-made knight. But, instead of gladdening, the first gave him pain;
which the last intensified to very bitterness. His name made known, the
reason will be divined. For it was Reginald Trevor.