Out of your proof you speak; we, poor, unfledg'd,
Have never wing'd from view o' the nest, nor know
What air's from home. Haply this life is best,
If quiet life be best; sweeter to you,
That have a sharper known: to us it is
A cell of ignorance.
Shakspeare.
Dr. Beaumont's admonitions to Eustace were not uttered at random.
Evellin was determined immediately to put in force the commission he had
received, by joining the Marquis of Newcastle. His Majesty was very
desirous of securing the northern coast to facilitate the introduction
of the succours he expected from Holland with the Queen. Ever since the
arrival of arms and accoutrements, the passion of Eustace for military
fame had become more decided and uncontrolable; he poised his father's
sword, put on his helmet, and talked of the best method of killing all
the rebel generals. The plans he laid for terminating the contest
appeared so feasible to Constantia, that at length (though not without
tears) she consented that he should enter on the Herculean labour of
destroying the many-headed monster, Rebellion. Isabel thought that her
father and uncle were likely to know what was best to be done, but as
often as she ventured to hint that he might be too sanguine, Eustace
reminded her, that girls knew nothing about war and politics, and
directed his observations to Constantia, who had at least the feminine
merit of acquiescing in his opinions.
The evening previous to Colonel Evellin's departure was destined to the
severe task of bending Eustace to obedience. The father began by putting
into his son's hands the miniature of his mother, commanding him
constantly to wear it, and part with it only with his life. Eustace
wept, pressed it to his lips, and asked if that was the only mark of
devoted affection which he could shew to her memory. The Colonel pointed
to Isabel. "She lives in your sister," said he; "duty calls me from her;
you must be her protector." "Oh, my father!" replied Eustace, throwing
himself at his feet; "how better can I protect my sister, than by
combating her enemies."
The Colonel answered,--"My age, my experience, my expertness in military
studies and exercises, impose that task on me. The King, whom I served
in my youth, was a gracious master, and I feel confident that I can
render him assistance. My duty to him, and I will add to you too,
required the tender of my services. They have been accepted; I set out
for York to-morrow, to be employed as my immediate commander, the
Marquis of Newcastle, shall determine."
"And when shall I follow you," inquired Eustace, who read in his
father's eye a prohibition which restrained him from urging his wish to
accompany him.
"As soon," replied Evellin, "as your services can either benefit the
King or yourself."
"I know," said Eustace, "you do not doubt my courage or fidelity; it
must therefore be from the opinion you have formed of my inability, that
you insist upon my spending more of my life in what must now be called
shameful inactivity. I look three years older than I am, and my strength
and ability are as premature as my appearance. Ever since the war broke
out I have been studying histories of battles and sieges, and I can
ride, fence, and fire at a target with dexterity. If at first I were to
commit some mistakes, actual service would improve me. Oh, best and
kindest of fathers, blast not the dearest hopes of your only boy. Fix no
stigma upon him, as if he were a tall puppet fit only to trifle, nor let
him be regarded as a coward, glad to use any excuse that shall purchase
safety. My dying mother bade me supply her place to you. How better can
I obey her than by shielding your head in the day of battle, smoothing
your pillow when you retire to your tent, participating in all your
dangers and sorrows, relieving your anxieties, and lightening your
labours. If I may not go with you, or speedily to follow you, the life
your kindness would preserve from the sword will be consumed by grief."
The Colonel turned away his face to conceal the emotion which his son's
eagerness for action occasioned. "I have promised," said he, "that I
will send for you as soon as you can serve the King or yourself. You
have mentioned your mother--resemble her in this; she never attempted to
shake my settled purposes, but conformed to the opinion which she
doubted not was founded on full deliberation. As a boy, you are all I
wish; but there must be much improvement to realise a fond father's
hopes of you as a man. Employ the years of probation wisely. Submit to
your excellent uncle as to the representative of both your parents; form
yourself by his instructions, and when you are called into action I
shall glory in you."
"But you have named years of probation; must I for years be confined to
Ribblesdale? Will no zeal, no diligence on my part shorten this period,
and enable me to rejoin you?"
"In these disturbed times," said the Colonel, "we can form no guesses of
the future. When we shall meet, or whether ever more in this world, are
chances on which I cannot calculate. Bear in mind this parting
interview; and if you sometimes, in your heart, accuse me of harshness,
soften your opposition to my will by reflecting, that I may have motives
for my determination which cannot now be disclosed to you, and that a
dutiful obedience will render you worthy the entire confidence of one
who has seen too much of man to confide in mere professions of desert
and ability."
The swelling heart of Eustace ill brooked these restrictions. He flew to
his confidante, Constantia, to complain of the cruelty of his father's
injunctions. In the warmth of his expostulations, he uttered something
expressive of distaste for the life he led, which moved the gentle girl
to lament, that what made them so happy should make him wretched. "If
you loved us," said she, "as we do you, it would reconcile your mind to
passing your whole life with us." Eustace smiled on the lovely
moderator, and answered, "I think it is impossible you can love me as
much as I do you, but you must agree, that a life of inactivity is now
disgraceful; and even my pretty Constance would despise me, if she saw
me loitering about, idling away my best days, when all the kingdom is in
arms." "I never can despise a dutiful son," answered she; and Eustace
found in that avowal such an unanswerable argument on the side of filial
obedience, that he was able, not only to see the Colonel depart without
impatience, but also to support his weeping sister.
It was some weeks before his repugnance to a life of inactivity
returned; but as the fiery ardour of his character was only smothered,
not quenched, it burst out again at the time that Dr. Beaumont took his
daughter and sister with him to Lancaster assizes, whither he went to
obtain redress for his injuries. He had diligently employed the time
since Evellin's departure in confirming his authority over his young
charge. Isabel was all cheerful duty and smiling diligence. Eustace was
occasionally impetuous and refractory, but overflowing with sensibility,
and more apt to repent than to offend. The Doctor judged it would not be
inexpedient to try the temper of his pupils by leaving them a little
time to themselves.
Eustace resolved to employ this period of liberty in executing a project
he had formed, and in which he meant Isabel should be his coadjutrix. He
began with observing, "he feared their dear Constance was not quite
happy. She so often regrets her father's library," said he, "that I know
she will never be easy till it is restored. I have examined the ruins,
and calculated what repairs it will want; there are stones and timber
lying about, and I can work it up myself if you will help me." As far as
her strength could go Isabel was perfectly willing, and Eustace promised
her the light jobs, reminding her that she fixed up the pewter-shelves
in their own cottage very well under his directions.
"But," said Isabel, "of what use will the room be when the books are all
destroyed?"--"I have thought of that too," answered Eustace, "and have
contrived accordingly. You know we left three hampers of books in the
mountains; they are safe enough I dare say, because those we gave them
to, as keep-sakes, cannot read, and I dare say will let us have them
back if we say we want them. Now if we work very hard, we shall have two
nights and a day to spare, and I can trot the poney with the market cart
over the fells, and fetch them. To be sure they may not be just the
books my uncle lost, but books are books you know, and I am sure
Constance will look so happy when she sees the shelves filled again, and
all in order."
Isabel was delighted with the project, and promised to assist, though at
the peril of incurring her aunt's displeasure, for not finishing, ere
she returned, a representation of the garden of Eden in satin-stitch,
according to her order. Eustace looked at the plan, and finding it would
save time, they agreed that plain grass would look as well on a
firescreen, as all the crocodiles and elephants which with literal
deference to natural history Mrs. Mellicent had drawn up rank and file,
on each side Adam and Eve. The young architects anticipated the
departure of their friends with eagerness, and set about their scheme
the moment the calash drove off. The business was got through with great
alacrity, and though there were a few mistakes, and certainly no nice
finish as a whole, it was creditable to their mechanical skill, as well
as to their kind intentions.
Determining that the poney knew the road, and hoping to get a little
sleep in the cart, Eustace set off immediately on his mountain-expedition,
and Isabel busied herself in putting all things in order, and preparing
plumb-porridge, and sack-posset, as a festive regale to celebrate the
re-assembling of the family-party, who, she determined, should sup
merrily in the new library.
Eustace arrived first, in high spirits, but with his cloaths torn, and
his face bloody. Isabel was alarmed. "Nothing but a few scratches,"
answered he, "which I can cure with vinegar while you mend my coat. I
will tell you how I got them presently; but do you unpack the books,
while I take care of the poney. Stop a moment; there is something in the
cart you must not meddle with." Isabel inquired what it was. "Women are
so inquisitive," continued Eustace. "Well then, it is a lute;
Constance's own lute, which she lost the night of the fire." Isabel
inquired how he recovered it. "Fought for it," answered he; "I see you
will not be easy, so I must tell you all about it."
"The people of Fourness were very glad to see me, calling me Mr. Random,
and a great many more kind names; so we packed up the books, and they
sent some cheese for my uncle, and apples for Constance." "And nothing
for me?" said Isabel. "Pshaw," returned Eustace, "how you interrupt me;
I believe the apples are for you. So I came driving back very merrily,
and within a few miles of this village, I met a fellow carrying a box,
which I could perceive held a lute. I had plenty of money, for the
mountaineers would not let me spend it; so I thought if I can get this
lute, Constance will like the new library as well as she did the old
one, and I very civilly told the man I would buy it, and give him all he
asked for it.--But in your life you never saw such a sharp bad visage as
the fellow's, and he put himself into the most ridiculous posture,
rolling his goggle eyes, and smiting his breast, and at last roared out,
'O vain youth, covet not musical devices, but tune thy heart to praise,
and thy lips to spiritual songs.'--'Tune thy own lips to civility,' said
I; 'and you shall too before you pass.' 'I can use the arm of flesh as
well as the sword of the spirit,' said he; so to it we fell, and he
scratched and pulled my hair, and tore my coat, just as you girls do,
but I gave him enough to teach him good manners, and at last made him
own he took the lute from my uncle's, the night of the fire, and that
Squire Morgan was to have it. So I threw him a shilling just to mend his
broken head, and have brought the lute to its own home again."
Isabel could not but rejoice that the affray ended in a victory, but
expressed her fears that he might be accused of taking the spoil by
violence. "Who stole it first?" said Eustace; "we may take our own
wherever we find it. And to own the truth of my heart, I am glad of this
opportunity of mortifying Squire Morgan, for if there is a person I hate
in the world, it is he."
"There," said Isabel, "you are both indiscreet and ungrateful, for you
know he and Sir William Waverly have promised to assist my uncle in his
cause."
"I would not give a rush for the friendship of either," returned
Eustace. "A good victory on the King's side is the only way of fixing
Sir William, and as to Morgan, I know it is not love for my uncle brings
him to the rectory. I see that fellow's heart; and I could scarce keep
myself from pushing him out of the room, when he kissed Constance the
other day, and called her his little wife; but she looked so distressed
at the instant, that I thought I had better not seem to observe it."
"I have heard you call her little wife a hundred times," said Isabel,
"and it never seems to affront her."
"One may take liberties with one's relations," replied Eustace, "but I
tell you, young girls should never let men call them wife, especially
such an old, ugly, foolish, fat, vulgar, round-head, as Morgan; and I
had rather my uncle had no restitution, than owe any favour to him."
Anxious to draw her brother from a topic, on which he always was
ungovernable, Isabel begged him to describe the present state of their
mountain-residence. "Is our garden quite destroyed?" said she, "Are the
primroses I planted on the south bank in blow?"--"I observed something
more interesting," answered, he; "my mother's grave is kept quite neat
by the villagers, and the roses we set there are twined all over it.
Nay, Isabel, if you weep so, I cannot repeat to you the verses I made
yesterday, just as I caught sight of our old cottage." Isabel promised
to be composed, and Eustace proceeded--
The sun has roll'd round Skiddaw's breast
Of floating clouds a golden veil,
The heath-cock has forsook his nest,
And mounted on the morning gale;
While bursting on my raptured eyes,
Lakes, hills, and woods, distinctly rise.
And there in mountain-privacy
My father's rustic cot appears,
The haunts of happy infancy,
The fields my childish sport endears;
Where victor of each game I stood,
And climb'd the tree, or stemm'd the flood:
And there, beside the village-spire,
My mother's honour'd ashes sleep,
Who bade my noble hopes aspire,
Who also taught me first to weep,
When, with a kiss so cold and mild,
She whisper'd, 'I must die, my child.'
Oh! fitted for a world more pure,
Sweet spirit, who would wish thy stay,
To witness woes thou could'st not cure,
And dimm'd with clouds thy evening ray;
To see thy ardent boy denied
To combat by his father's side?
Yet, what is death? As seen in thee,
'Twas a mild summons to the grave;
'Tis the sure zeal of loyalty
And honour's guerdon to the brave.
How are the soldier's requiems kept!
By glory sung, by beauty wept.
"My dearest Eustace," said Isabel, "I wish I could send these lines to
my father, yet perhaps they would overcome him as they have done me."
She twined her arms around the neck of Eustace, sobbed for some moments,
and then observed, "I know what suggested the last stanza; it was
Constantia's weeping for the fate of brave Lord Lindsay."
Eustace blushed. "You are a Lancashire witch in more senses than one,
Isabel; but, hush! the calash has just drove up. Say not a word of my
verses to my uncle." "Why?" "I do not wish he would know I am unhappy."
"Keep your own counsel," returned Isabel, "and I am sure your looks will
never betray you."
The return of the party relieved Eustace from all fear of owing an
obligation to Morgan. An ordinance from Parliament had interrupted the
regular returns of public justice, and notwithstanding the King's
command, that there should be no suspension of judicial proceedings,
with respect either to criminal or civil causes, and his grant of
safe-conduct through his quarters to all persons attending the courts of
law, the Parliament had forbidden the judges to appoint their circuits.
In one instance a troop of horse tore a judge from the bench, who had
ventured to disobey their edicts. Except therefore in the few places
that were at the King's devotion, all legal proceedings of importance
were suspended, and the little business which was transacted was managed
by a cabal devoted to the predominant party. From such men Dr. Beaumont
could look for no favour. Ample indemnification was indeed promised, but
it was upon a condition that he could not brook, namely, subscription to
the covenant. As to his two friends, Sir William Waverly and Morgan, the
former was detained at home by an apprehension that he might take cold;
and the latter, though he argued on the justice and policy of
remuneration, by which the party would gain credit, yet on being
questioned about his pastor's principles, confessed he thought him a
malignant of the deepest die, and positively refused to be responsible
for his peaceable behaviour.
Dr. Beaumont had formed no hopes of redress, therefore felt no
disappointment. He was now so accustomed to the temper of the times,
that he was only slightly hurt at being thought capable of compromising
his conscience, by subscribing an instrument he had ever denounced as
illegal, treasonable, and wicked. The dutiful attentions of his nephew
and niece soon changed vexation into pleasure. Mrs. Mellicent'
overlooked the omissions of her crocodiles and elephants, and Constance
touched the strings of her beloved instrument with a smile, sweet as the
strain she drew from its according wires, till Eustace forgot all his
labours and bruises in exulting transport.