Where you are liberal of your loves, and counsels,
Be sure you be not loose; for those you make friends,
And give your hearts to, when they once perceive
The least rub in your fortunes, fall away
Like water from ye, never found again,
But where they mean to sink ye.
Shakspeare.
The evil genius of Colonel Evellin still pursued him. He had not
travelled far before he fell into the power of the rebels, who carried
him prisoner to London. He was recognized as one who had done wonders
for the King; and, in an enemy every where triumphant, to spare his life
was an act of mercy. He was, however, kept in rigorous confinement, and
his name excepted out of every act of amnesty. Whether the Presbyterians
or Independents gained a temporary ascendancy; whether the Rump or the
army struggled to get the King's person into their hands, to give a
colourable pretext to their most unrighteous proceedings, a high-minded
Loyalist was alike dangerous and opposite to the vacillating humours of
men, who, under the pretence of worshipping the God of truth and mercy,
served the abominations of perverted understandings and corrupted
hearts.
Eustace, accompanied by the faithful Jobson, reached Pendennis Castle,
and joined its brave defenders; but Lord Hopton left it before their
arrival, to follow his royal charge, who, in compliance with his
father's commands, quitted England, which now had only chains to bestow
on its Princes. In this strong fortress, celebrated for being the last
that held out for the King, Eustace distinguished himself for patient
bravery and active courage. But he no longer fought in a conspicuous
scene of action, under the eye of a renowned commander, whose praise was
glory, and whose reproof was disgrace. He gained indeed the esteem of
the venerable Arundel, who, at the age of fourscore, bound his
silver-locks with an helmet, and kept the Royal standard flying, till
the enemy, astonished at his fortitude and resources, acceded to the
most honourable capitulation. But as soon as terms were granted, and the
garrison dispersed, Eustace lost all hope of again signalizing himself,
nor could the renown gained within the walls of a fortress expunge the
disgrace which had been promulgated at the head of an army.
While undetermined how to act, or which way to employ the unvalued life
he was bound to preserve in proof of his repentance, Eustace heard of
his father's captivity. Another report at the same time reached him,
which, as any one who has fondly loved in early youth, when every idea
is most likely to be engrossed by the ardent susceptibility of one
predominant passion, will readily believe, excited still keener anguish.
He was assured that Monthault was at that time an inmate in Dr.
Beaumont's family, high in the estimation of all, and even believed to
be an accepted lover of Constantia.
To refute a rumour so injurious to loyal faith and female truth, I must
remind the reader, that immediately after Lord Hopton's defeat, Major
Monthault was ostentatiously pointed out as an object of Parliamentary
vengeance, and thrown into confinement. This was done to give him credit
with the Loyalists, preparatory to his being sent to Oxford, where it
was proposed he should act as a spy, and convey intelligence to the
beleaguering army, specifying also such of the inhabitants as were too
zealous and determined to make safe citizens in the projected
commonwealth. He was soon permitted to break from durance, and arriving
at Oxford under the character of a confessor in the Royal cause, he was
kindly welcomed by Dr. Beaumont. He brought Constantia the first certain
intelligence that Eustace was alive, and had passed through the dangers
of a disastrous campaign with little injury.
The voice of fame, alike busy in circulating good and evil tidings, soon
informed the family of the public censure which Lord Hopton cast on that
unfortunate fugitive, and Monthault would have gained great credit with
the Beaumonts for not having been the first to disclose it, had not his
own conduct been implicated in the same accusation. Isabel eagerly clung
to the visible proofs of his loyalty as an implicit evidence that her
brother had been most basely aspersed. "The misery of these times," said
she, "is surely sufficient; we need not aggravate the misfortunes of our
fellow-sufferers, or the cruelty of our enemies, by crediting the
calumnies of malice, or the unfounded fabrications of busy tatlers. Our
dear Eustace is accused of treason, and his friend and constant
associate is involved in the same charge. Yet if imprisonment and
forfeiture of his estates are not testimonials of loyalty, where shall
we seek more certain attestations? After having fought and bled for his
King, he breaks from captivity and seeks an asylum among us at Oxford.
Equally inconsistent is the charge aimed at my gallant brother. Dearest
Constantia, surely you cannot believe Eustace to be a traitor; yet your
cold looks and marked indifference to poor Monthault, and the care with
which you avoid your lover's name, lest his friend should attempt his
exculpation, indicate, that either you suffer this futile charge to
dwell too much upon your mind, or that you mistook the mere attachment
of kindred for devoted affection."
"Isabel," returned Constantia, with a look of mild expostulation, "I
know not how far to trust rumour, but this I know, that the tongue of
Monthault will corrode the fame of Eustace, either in censuring or
commending him. Do not imagine there is any change in me, or that I
mistook the nature of my own feelings. Whether Eustace deserves reproach
or renown, my heart will never own another possessor. It is either
wedded to his deserts, or so estranged by his faults, that love may as
well light his fire on a monumental tablet as make me again admire in
man, that fair semblance of generous integrity, by which Eustace won me
to select him as the partner of my future life. Him I shall ever love,
or ever mourn. But were he proved guilty of every base crime laid to his
charge, this extortioner, this debauchee, this refractory soldier, nay,
even this traitor, must not be placed by the side of Monthault, unless
it be right to compare the guilt of frail man with the impious
desperation of Satan. My greatest grief and torment proceed from a fact
which I cannot dispute: true, as you say, Eustace selected Monthault for
his constant associate and particular friend."
These remarks of Constance will disprove the rumour which had reached
the ears of her fugitive lover, and prove that Monthault did not succeed
in one of the designs which brought him to Oxford; with regard to the
other, his intended services to the Parliament during the siege were
frustrated by an order extorted from the captive King, requiring that
his garrisons should be immediately surrendered to the ruling party.
Oxford therefore admitted a detachment of the rebel army, but for some
time a spirit of moderation was visible in the treatment bestowed on
this honourable asylum of loyalty and learning. The covenant and other
oaths were indeed sent down, but as they were not enforced, the
conscientious possessors of ecclesiastical and collegiate situations
were not ejected for contumacy. The captivity of the King imposed the
most scrupulous moderation and quiet submission on all his adherents,
and many persons hoped, from this apparent calm, that the national
wounds would speedily be healed.
But the suspended fury of two powerful contending parties, concentrating
their terrors, and perfecting their deep designs to crush each other
before they entirely annihilate a fallen foe, bears no more resemblance
to the wise lenity of a regular government towards the refractory
subjects it has subdued, than the fearful stillness which is the
precursor of a thunder-storm does to the serene tranquillity of a
summer's day. No sooner were the Presbyterian republicans subdued by the
fanatics, who had gained the entire command of the army, than the murder
of the King, and the vindictive persecution of loyalty and episcopacy,
plainly shewed that, in the nomenclature of these men, forbearance and
liberty meant self-aggrandizement and most merciless oppression of all
who dissented from their opinions.
Major Monthault had sufficient political versatility and natural
baseness to be a busy actor in these scenes of perfidy and depravity;
but his talents were too limited to acquire distinction among men of
deep penetration, profoundly skilled in the art of fomenting and
managing the malignant passions; besides, the open scandal of his
profligate manners ill suited the decorous exterior of seeming saints.
His treachery to the Royal cause, therefore, only purchased him the
liberty of compounding for his estate at a less fine than was extorted
from persons of untarnished fidelity; and he was laid by as an
instrument equally mean and vile, incapable of further use. A bad heart
can never taste the pleasures which belong to tranquillity; and inaction
is torture to those who must shun reflection. Monthault had no resource
but in the indulgence of his brutal appetites. The beauty of Constantia
excited desire, while the avowed contempt with which she treated him
convinced him that the blandishments of flattery and persevering
assiduity would never remove the impressions which she had conceived to
his disadvantage. The licence of these disorderly times was favourable
to deeds of violence. Monthault formed the project of carrying off his
mistress by force, and securing her in his parental castle; and
disbanded soldiers were easily found, alike daring and lawless, to
execute such an atrocious design.
The only difficulty attendant on this undertaking seemed to consist in
wresting her from the protection of her friends; for though courts of
law no longer afforded relief to injured loyalists, a police was still
preserved, and the precincts of a college could not be violated with
impunity, or indeed with a prospect of success. He resorted, therefore,
to stratagem, invented a tale of distress, and disguised a female
accomplice to pass as the widow of a soldier who had fallen at Naseby. A
story of sick children perishing for want was likely to operate on the
feelings of humane young women. Constantia and Isabel were soon drawn
beyond the walls of Oxford, and conducted along the banks of the
Charwell, in search of this scene of misery. When they were at such a
distance from the city as to preclude the chance of assistance, several
men, masked and disguised, rushed out of an inclosure, seized their
fainting prey, and bore her from her shrieking companion to a carriage
which waited to receive her. The horses set off at full speed, and
Isabel, in an agony of despair, ran after it till it was out of sight,
invoking the interposition of Heaven, and casting many a vain look
around to see if any human succour was at hand. Tired and exhausted, she
at last recollected, that to return to the city and relate the event,
describing to the municipal officers the road the fugitives had taken,
would afford the most probable means of rescue; and, though it would be
unspeakable agony to meet her bereaved uncle and aunt, she yet
considered that her being with them would afford them some consolation,
beside the advantage of her testimony for the recovery of her dear
companion.
When Constantia revived from the state of insensibility into which the
suddenness of the assault had hurried her weak spirits, she found
herself in a chaise with Monthault, who watched the return of her senses
to pour out some passionate encomiums on her beauty, and protestations
of his insurmountable, though hopeless love. "I will speak this once,"
said she, "and then for ever be silent. Hear, abandoned man and
perfidious friend! I would sooner die than yield to your wishes; and I
know my father would weep less over my corpse, than if he saw me
contaminated by your embraces. Restore me to him; nay, only give me
liberty to fly back to his dear arms, and I will never disclose that you
were the ravisher; but if you persist in your cruelty, it will be of no
other avail than to plunge your soul in additional guilt."
Alarmed by the determined firmness of her manner, Monthault changed his
tone. He protested she misunderstood his expressions; for that, though
he never should cease to adore her, he had merely engaged in this
enterprize as the agent of Eustace, to whom he was going to carry her.
Hopeless of obtaining her father's consent (since he knew his disgrace
had reached Oxford), and incapable of living without her, they had
projected this scheme; and he besought her to be calm, as a few hours
would bring her to her plighted love. "Surely, beautiful Constantia,"
said he, "you would not wish to escape from your faithful, though
dishonoured Eustace." "The Eustace I knew and loved," returned she, "was
faithful and honourable. Base seducer, and slanderer of unsuspecting
innocence, this subterfuge cannot deceive me a moment; and I once more
warn you to let me go, or dread my desperation."
A disposition like Monthault's is rarely threatened out of its
deliberate purpose; but, happily for Constantia, the skill of the driver
was not proportioned to the expedition he was commanded to use, and he
overturned the carriage at the entrance of a small village. Constantia's
cries soon drew several people to her assistance, who, supposing her
distress proceeded from her alarm at the accident, assured her that the
gentleman who lay senseless on the ground was only stunned by the fall,
and that the blood which streamed from her own face was caused by a very
slight wound. "It is from him," said she, "that I entreat to be
preserved; only hide me from him. Let him suppose I escaped in the
moment of confusion, and every kind office I can do you in the course of
my life will be too little to shew my gratitude. Beside my own prayers,
I will promise you those of my dear father, the worthiest and best of
men; these he will daily offer to Heaven for the preservers of his only
child."
The rustic witnesses of this scene listened with stupid surprise to this
address. The women busied themselves in binding up the deep gash in
Constantia's forehead; the men, in raising Monthault, and lifting up the
carriage. By this time the out-riders were come up, who, faithful to
their commission, prepared to place Constantia on one of the horses,
when her loud shrieks, the bustle, and crowd, attracted the attention of
two gentlemen who were travelling on the road, to whose inquiries of
what was the matter, one of Monthault's gang brutally answered, a
carriage had been overturned and a gentleman much hurt. "But he is quiet
enough," said he; "whereas his wife, who is only a little scratched,
screams as if she would raise the dead."
"Her distress at least requires tender treatment," said one of the
gentlemen. "Why are they lifting her on that horse?" "To take her to a
surgeon, your honour." "What! from her lifeless husband, while she
herself is but slightly injured? Something must be wrong here." At the
moment Constantia thought herself lost, a strenuous hand grasped the
bridle of the horse on which she was placed; and a commanding voice
called to the man who held her in his arms to stop at his peril. The
villain drew his sword, and attempted to hew down his opposer; but at
that instant Constantia had sufficient strength to loosen his clasp and
throw herself upon the ground, from which she was raised by the other
gentleman, who assured her she should be protected, in a voice which,
with rapture, she recognized to be that of the worthy Barton.
"Oh my guardian angel," said she, "are you come to save me again? My
second father, hold me in your sheltering arms till you can restore me
to my kindred. I have been forced away by brutal ravishers. There lies
the master ruffian senseless; and," continued she, waving her hand,
"there are his cruel accomplices."
By this time the other stranger had disarmed his antagonist, pulled him
from his horse, and committed him to custody. "My Lord," said Barton to
him, "this is a most providential adventure. We have again rendered a
signal good service to one of those pretty maidens whom you assisted at
Halifax." "To which of them?" eagerly inquired the young nobleman.
"Mistress Constantia Beaumont," returned Barton. "But where is Isabel?"
"Safe at Oxford, and consoling my friends, I trust," replied Constantia.
"Oh, Sir! I know not by what name to address you; but if you are the
pupil of the excellent Barton, you will, like him, defend the friendless
who has been forced away from her natural protectors."
"Most willingly," answered the unknown; "but if that man is your
husband, how can I take you out of his power?" Constantia then briefly
told her story; her morning walk with Isabel; her seizure; Monthault's
protestations; the overthrow of the chaise, and the attempt of the
myrmidons to force her away. The rest of these wretches had now made
their escape, leaving the one who was in custody and their employer, who
began to shew signs of life, to answer for their crimes.
Barton then took upon himself the office of restoring Constantia to her
friends, and begged his companion to remain with Monthault to see that
he had proper treatment, and was secured from escaping. They drove back
to Oxford with such rapidity as to precede the return of Isabel, who had
the happiness of seeing the beloved friend, whose loss she came to
announce, restored to the embraces of her affectionate family.
While Mr. Barton and Dr. Beaumont were exchanging those sentiments of
cordial esteem which mutual worth is sure to inspire, Isabel's eyes
inquired if the gallant officer, who had so much interested her, had
given no signs of reciprocal recollection. She was dissatisfied that he
was not her cousin's escort; and though, in wishing to see him again,
she thought she had no other motive than to thank him for past services,
she never before felt so much pain from unacknowledged gratitude.
Constance was too much overpowered by the remembrance of her own
preservation to attend to the silent perplexity of Isabel, whom a secret
consciousness of what she could scarce believe to be a fault restrained
from a thousand inquiries which she would not have scrupled to make
after one to whom she was wholly indifferent.
The transport which Dr. Beaumont felt at the restoration of his daughter
was checked by a discovery of the most agonizing kind. Monthault still
continued in a languishing condition; but his accomplice underwent an
examination as to the purpose of his attempt, and the name of his
employer. On promise of pardon the miscreant offered to make a full
discovery. His conditions were accepted; and he then named Eustace
Evellin as the person who was to receive the advantage of the nefarious
action. He asserted, that being overcome with despair at the thought of
having forfeited his uncle's favour by his bad conduct, Eustace
determined to possess his cousin at any hazard, and that Major Monthault
had been wrought upon, by his earnest entreaties, to become his agent.
The woman who had personated a trooper's widow, and drawn the two ladies
to the retired spot where Eustace was seized, gave such a description of
the stranger who bribed her to fabricate a tale of distress as exactly
tallied with the person of Eustace, but bore no resemblance to
Monthault. Another was brought to swear that he had seen Dr. Beaumont's
nephew in Oxford since its surrender to the Parliament. His long silence
to his family was an inexplicable mystery; but to visit Oxford without
throwing himself at his uncle's feet, and imploring pardon, was such a
tacit acknowledgement of conscious unworthiness, as even the candour of
Dr. Beaumont could not controvert. In an agony of mind, far exceeding
all that he had endured for his despoiled fortunes, and only equalled by
what he felt for his persecuted King; he requested Mr. Barton to
discharge the accomplices, and hush up the business. He then returned
home, clasped the trembling Constantia in his arms, and conjured her
never to name her unworthy cousin. "I would bid you not think of him,"
said he; "but the viper will be remembered by its sting, after we have
discovered it to be a poisonous reptile with a beautiful outside. And
much gratitude is due to Heaven, that the base infection of his nature
has been fully disclosed, before you were bound to him by indissoluble
ties." Constantia asked if Monthault was the accuser of Eustace.
"Monthault," replied the Doctor, "is silent. A chain of evidence
confirms, that he was merely an agent in this iniquitous design of
tearing you from me."--"Impossible," replied Constance, "never did agent
embark with such eager passion in the views of another. It was for
himself, the monster pleaded; and it was only a mean attempt to quiet my
cries for assistance, when he talked of carrying me to Eustace.--Fortunate
dissembler, how well he contrives to throw the guilt of his own treasons
on that ill-fated youth."
"Dear, credulous girl," returned the Doctor, "I have often bid you love
young Evellin, and do not wonder that you find it hard to unlearn that
lesson. Yet, rest assured, it is not on dubious testimony, that I found
my conviction of his being corrupted by the lax morality of these evil
times, in which one party deems an attachment to the antient
constitution an excuse for debauchery, and the other uses the verbiage
of religion as a commutation for obedience to its precepts. It is most
true, Eustace was publicly disgraced by Lord Hopton, accused of crimes
to which he pleaded guilty, suspected of others which he faintly denied.
With horror I must tell you that his unfortunate honourable father had
the anguish of witnessing his shame."
Constance raised her streaming eyes and clasped hands to Heaven,
exclaiming, "If his crimes have been any thing worse than the
precipitation of thoughtless youth, there is no truth in man. Till his
fame is cleared I will not name him. But I shall never cease to think of
him till this heart ceases to beat, or rather till my intellects are too
clouded to discern the difference between error and depravity. You have
often said that one of the sorest calamities of this turbulent period is
the celebrity acquired by successful wickedness, which encourages
offenders to traffic largely in iniquity; but the fate of poor Eustace
continues to exhibit the severity of retributive justice. Discarded by
both his fathers, and divorced from his love, where has the pennyless
outcast funds to feed the craving avarice of criminal associates, to
suborn accomplices, and to bribe witnesses? A destitute exile has at
least presumptive evidence that he is innocent of stratagems which
wealth alone could attempt; and surely wealth is always too selfish to
forego the indulgencies which it pawns its soul to purchase."
The sensibility of Constantia Beaumont was as permanent as it was acute;
her sense of honour was refined and delicate; but her high-seated love
was fixed on those unalterable properties which not only rejected every
light surmise to her lover's disadvantage, but also clung to the
conviction of his integrity with a confidence which, in the present
state of things, looked like obstinate credulity. No chain of
circumstances, no concurring testimony could induce her to think Eustace
treacherous or depraved. By his own mouth alone could he be condemned.
She must see his misdeeds and hear his confession before she would
determine to recall her vows. With all the vivid hope of youthful
inexperience, she continued to believe that he would return and confute
his accusers. Months, nay, years, rolled away; the hope grew fainter. No
certain tidings of his proceedings reached them after the fatal battle
of Dartmoor, when Lord Hopton precipitately doomed him to ignominy. She
had heard that his father commanded him to live and redeem his lost
fame; and she often fancied he was busily employed in obeying that
command. Indulging this idea, she hoped that his glory would burst upon
them with such unquestionable splendour, that every tongue would
applaud, while she took her hero by the hand, and asked her father to
rescind the injunction which forbade her to avow her unchangeable
affection.