And dost thou mourn the sad estate
Of widow'd love? then silent be;
And hark! while for my murder'd mate
I wake the lute's soft melody.
How dear to me the midnight moon,
As through the clouds she sails along,
For then with spirits I commune,
And Eustace listens to my song.
Oh, not to her who wildly mourns
Her noble lover basely slain--
Oh, not to her the morn returns
With pleasure laughing in her train.
So look'd it once, when Eustace sung
Of plighted love's perennial joys,
Now silent is that tuneful tongue,
That graceful form the worm destroys.
In vain the feather'd warblers soar,
Mid floods of many colour'd light;
I hear them not, but still deplore
The eye of Beauty quench'd in night.
How in the battle flam'd his crest,
Refulgent as the morning star:
But ruthless murder pierc'd that breast,
Which met unhurt the storm of war.
My Love, "how beautiful, how brave;"
Still, still, her oaths thy Constance keeps;
The laurel decks the victor's grave,
O'er thine the faithful willow weeps.
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:
Oh, sooth me with the words of love,
Heal me with pity's balsams dear;
For I have heard the proud reprove,
And felt the wrongs of men austere.
I gaz'd on grandeur's gay career,
Alone distracted and aggriev'd;
None stopp'd to wipe my bitter tear,
My bursting heart unnotic'd heav'd.
The happy hate to see distress,
It tells a tale they dread to know,
And guilt, tho' thron'd in mightiness,
In every victim sees a foe.
Where does the pamper'd worldling go?
To those who spread their banners brave--
Lonely and sad, the house of woe
Is like the robber's mountain cave.
On life's sad annals if we dwell,
Do they not speak of trust betray'd;
Of merit rising to excel,
On which the canker envy prey'd;
Of youth by enterprise upstaid,
Till sad experience broke the spell;
And slighted age a ruin laid,
Fit only for the narrow cell?
Yet of the tortures that betide
A feeling heart, the worst are they
Which bid it never more confide
On those who were its earthly stay.
Once guided by religion's ray,
True as the sun they seem'd to move;
Now led by meteor-lights astray,
Estrang'd in honour and in love.
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."
[1] This subject, we are told by Isaac Walton, employed the dying
Hooker.