Читать книгу Ovingdean Grange - William Harrison Ainsworth - Страница 7

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A WEEK had elapsed since the calamitous day at Worcester—a week, as we have shown, of frightful anxiety and suspense to the principal inmates of Ovingdean Grange—but still no tidings came of Clavering Maunsel, or of his faithful follower, John Habergeon. Neither had news, good or bad, been received relative to the fugitive king.

Somewhat late at night, the old colonel was sitting with Mr. Beard and Dulcia in the great hall of the mansion. Supper had been discussed, though a couple of long-necked flasks with tall glasses were still left upon the huge oak table; prayers had been read by the good clergyman; and the little party were conversing sadly together before their separation for the night. Colonel Maunsel ordinarily retired at an earlier hour than this, but he cared not now to seek his chamber, since he found no rest within it.

The hall in which we discovered the little party was spacious and lofty, with a moulded ceiling, panels of dark oak, a high carved mantelpiece, deep bay- windows, having stained glass within them, and an elaborately carved doorway corresponding with the mantelpiece, and opening upon a corridor. Several old family portraits, male and female, in the costume of James the First’s time, and in that of Elizabeth, adorned the walls. Mingled with these portraits were trophies formed by pieces of old armour, coats of mail and shirts of mail, skull-caps, bucklers, and chanfrons, surrounded by two-handed swords, battle- axes, maces, cross-bows and long bows; while a buck’s head with enormous antlers occupied a conspicuous position opposite the fireplace. The night being chilly, a comfortable wood fire blazed upon the dogs on the hearth, and diffused a cheerful light around. A few high-backed arm-chairs of richly carved oak, cushioned with crimson Utrecht velvet, together with an open cupboard, on the shelves of which were displayed several capacious flagons, parcel-gilt goblets, and other drinking vessels in glass and silver, with a massive salver, gilt like the goblets, in the midst of them, constituted the furniture of the room.

There was one portrait, hung apart from the others, that claims special attention. It was a full-length picture, by no less a painter than Vandyke, of a young and lovely woman, attired in a robe of rich white satin, made very low in front, so as to display a neck of ravishing beauty, and far whiter than the satin, pearl ornaments upon the stomacher, a pearl necklace around the throat, pearl earrings, and bracelets of the same gems on the arms. The features of this charming personage had a somewhat pensive expression that by no means detracted from their loveliness; the eyes were magnificent, and black as night; the hair of raven hue, contrasting forcibly with the dazzling whiteness of the skin. The dark locks were taken back from the centre of the forehead, and disposed in thick ringlets at the sides of the face, their sole ornament being a spray of green leaves placed on the left of the head. This portrait, which bore the date 1630, represented Lady Clemence Maunsel, the colonel’s wife, and when gazing at her bewitching lineaments, no one could wonder that he had passionately loved her, or that he ceased not to deplore her loss.

At the time that his wife’s portrait was painted, Wolston Maunsel was scarcely her inferior in point of personal appearance, and they were noted as the handsomest couple in Sussex. Long years and much suffering, both of mind and body, had done their work with him, but he had still a very noble and striking countenance. His locks were grizzled, and flowed over his neck and shoulders in Cavalier fashion; his beard was pointed in the style familiarized to us by Vandyke. His figure was tall and spare, but his wounds and after sufferings had stiffened his limbs, afflicting him with rheumatic pains, which caused him to move with difficulty, and prevented all active exertion. His features were finely formed, but very thin, his complexion dark, and his black overhanging eyebrows and keen grey eyes gave him a stern and austere expression. His habiliments, we have said, were sable; his black taffeta doublet and vest were of the graceful fashion of Charles the First’s time; his trunk hose had knots of ribbons at the knees; black silk hose encased his still shapely legs; and his shoes were of Spanish leather, high-heeled, and with black roses on the instep. A wide falling band of lawn, edged with lace, set off the old Cavalier’s handsome physiognomy.

A venerable-looking man was the Reverend Ardingly Beard, with a bald head and the snowy honours of age upon his chin, for the clergy of those days wore the beard. Bitter had been his cup, but it had not soured his heart, as was plain from his benevolence of expression and kindliness of manner. Resignation to the will of Heaven was the governing rule of the good man’s life, and the influence of this principle was apparent not only in his conduct, but in his aspect and demeanour. Patience and humility were written in legible characters in his countenance. Prohibited by the enactments in force against the clergy of the Church of England from wearing the cassock, he was compelled to assume the garb of a civilian. His garments were sombre in colour, like those of the colonel, but of a coarser fabric. Little more need be said of the worthy pastor, except that, as his eyesight had begun to fail him, he was obliged to have recourse to spectacles.

Dulcia Beard has already been described as singularly beautiful, but sooth to say, if her anxiety should not be speedily relieved, her beauty will run great risk of being materially impaired. Already, her cheeks have lost their bloom, and the lustre of her eyes is sadly dimmed. Her manner, too, has quite lost its cheerfulness and she heaves deep and frequent sighs. Patty Whinchat, her handmaiden, is in despair about her young mistress, and feels certain, unless Master Clavering should come back, and quickly too, that she will break her heart. Patty cannot understand why Mistress Dulcia should be so foolish, seeing that there are other young men in the world quite as handsome as Master Clavering, but there is no use reasoning with her—pine away she undoubtedly will, in spite of all that can be said.

By degrees the conversation, which, as may be supposed, had never been of a lively character, began to flag, until at length it wholly ceased. Fain would Dulcia have withdrawn, but she did not like to disturb Colonel Maunsel, who remained with his face buried in his hands, as if lost in gloomy thought. After a long pause the old gentleman roused himself, as if by a great effort, and for a moment gazed vacantly at his companions.

“I crave pardon,” he said, as soon as he had collected his scattered thoughts. “I had forgotten that I was not alone; but you will excuse me. In truth, I can bear this state of suspense no longer, and intend to set forth for Worcester to- morrow, and ascertain, if I can, the fate of my son.”

“But consider the risk you will run, my good sir,” mildly objected Mr. Beard; “and how unfit you are for such a journey.”

“Unfit I am for it, I well know,” the colonel rejoined, mournfully; “and like enough the effort may kill me, but I may as well go as tarry here, and die by inches. However, I will take counsel of one who can best guide me in the matter.”

“Ay, take counsel of Heaven ere you decide, sir,” the clergyman said.

“My counsellor is in heaven,” the colonel returned. “Lend me your arm, Dulcia. I would fain arise.”

Thus called upon, the young maiden instantly flew to his assistance, gave him his crutch-handled stick, and helped to raise him from his seat. The old Cavalier got up with great difficulty, and his rheumatic pains extorted a groan from him. After a momentary stoppage he moved on in the direction of his wife’s portrait, halting opposite to it. Dulcia, who still supported him, watched his proceedings with some surprise, but she made no remark. The colonel gazed wistfully at the portrait, and then, in earnest and supplicating tones, but so low as scarcely to be audible to Dulcia, besought his dear departed wife to give him some sign by which he might know whether his design met with her approval.

Filled with wonder at the singularity of the proceeding, Dulcia began to fear that grief had turned the old colonel’s brain; but she had little time for reflection, for scarcely were the words uttered than a noise was heard without in the corridor, and the next moment Patty Whinchat, in a state of the greatest excitement, and followed by an old serving-man wearing the colonel’s livery, rushed into the room.

“That is my answer!” Colonel Maunsel almost shrieked “What is it, woman? Speak!” he vociferated.

“Oh! your honour, John Habergeon is come back,” responded Patty, well-nigh out of breath.

“Has he come alone?” the colonel faltered.

“No, your honour, no!” Martin Geere, the old serving-man, cried. “The wench has lost her wits. John has brought Master Clavering with him, but the young gentleman be in a sorry plight—a woful, sorry plight, for sure.”

“But he lives! he is safe!” the colonel exclaimed, in a transport of delight. “Where is my boy? Bring him to me—bring him to me, quick.”

“He is here, your honour,” responded the sonorous voice of John Habergeon from the corridor.

Heavy footsteps resounded from the passage, and in another instant the old trooper appeared, sustaining his young master with his stalwart arm. Leading Clavering to the nearest chair, he deposited him within it, with as much tenderness and solicitude as could be exhibited by a nurse towards a sick man.

On beholding his son, the colonel uttered a cry, and shaking off in his excitement the rigidity of his limbs, and seeking for no support, rushed towards him with a quickness which, under other circumstances, would not have been possible. Dulcia and Mr. Beard followed, but remained standing at a little distance, unwilling to interrupt the meeting between father and son. In the meantime, several others of the household, male and female, had flocked into the room. These persons, when he had placed his young master in the chair, as before related, John Habergeon took upon him to dismiss.

In good sooth, Clavering Maunsel was in a sorry plight. His apparel was soiled and torn; and the jerkin, over which he had worn a corslet on the field, was stained with blood. His long dark locks were dishevelled and unkempt, as if he had gone bareheaded for days; and such, indeed, was the fact. His lineaments were ghastly pale from loss of blood and other suffering; and his right arm appeared to be broken, for it was bound up, and supported by the very scarf which Dulcia had embroidered for him.

“My boy—my dear boy! how I joy to see thee back again!” the old colonel exclaimed, embracing him, and bending over him with effusion. “I had well-nigh given thee up for lost.”

“You must thank John Habergeon for bringing me to you, father,” Clavering replied. “Without him, you would never have beheld me more. But why come not Dulcia and her honoured father nigh me? I long to greet them, but am too much exhausted to rise.”

Thus summoned, the young maiden was instantly by his side. Clavering extended his uninjured arm towards her, feebly pressing her hand, and fixing a tender look upon her, while she remained gazing upon him with tearful eyes. The good divine next came in for his share of the wounded man’s notice.

“I shall die content now that I have seen you all once more,” Clavering cried, in a feeble voice, and half closing his eyes, as he sank back in the chair.

“Tut! tut! talk not of dying!” Colonel Maunsel exclaimed. “I tell thee thou shalt live—live and grow hearty again, and shalt carry havoc amongst those canting Roundheads and rebels. I was worse hurt at Naseby than thou art, and should speedily have recovered from my wounds, had I been properly tended, and not lodged in that pestilent castle of Chester, where the prison fever took me and brought me to the gates of death, leaving me ever afterward stiff of joint and lame of limb, so that I can neither mount horse nor bear sword. But thou shalt get well again in less than a month, I warrant thee, Clavering, and be ready once more to fight the king’s enemies. Thou hast youth and a sound constitution to back thee, and need’st fear nothing.”

“He looks very faint!” Dulcia exclaimed, anxiously. “A cup of wine, methinks, would do him good.”

“Well thought of, girl,” the colonel cried. “A cup of wine instantly.”

“Captain Clavering is suffering more from weakness and want of nourishment than from his wounds,” John Habergeon said, filling a goblet with sack, and handing it to Dulcia. “Give it to him, fair mistress,” he continued, with a gruff kind of gallantry. “The cup will taste better from your hands than mine;” adding, in a tone calculated only for her ear, “he hath talked of scarce any one else save you since he got his wounds.”

Blushing deeply, but taking no notice of this embarrassing whisper, Dulcia gave the goblet to Clavering, who looked at her fixedly as he raised it to his lips.

Just then, the groom of the kitchen, Giles Moppett, accompanied by Martin Geere and Patty Whinchat, entered the hall, bringing materials for a plentiful repast, which they proceeded to place upon the table with all possible expedition. Fortunately the larder happened to be well stocked. The viands were chiefly of a substantial character—so much the better, John Habergeon thought, as he looked on, almost with a wolfish eye, while the dishes were being set upon the board. There was a mountainous roast round of beef, a couple of boiled pullets, little the worse for their previous appearance at the board, a dish of larks, a huge pigeon-pie, and, better than all, the remains of a mangificent roast bustard—bustards were then to be met with on the South Downs. As soon as the arrangements for this impromptu supper were completed, Clavering, upon whom the generous liquor he had swallowed had produced a very beneficial effect, was borne to the table by his father’s directions, without moving him from the chair wherein he sat. Giles Moppett, who acted as carver, then inquired what his young master would be pleased to take; but Clavering refused to touch anything till John Habergeon had been served, and bade Moppett fill a plate with roast beef for the old trooper. John was far too hungry to be bashful, so he sat down, as he was enjoined to do, and speedily cleared his plate, which was promptly replenished by Moppett. The old trooper was no indifferent trencherman in a general way; but just now he seemed to possess an inexhaustible appetite, eating like one half famished. After doing prodigious execution upon the round of beef, he devoured a leg and a wing of the bustard—no trifling feat in itself—only pausing occasionally in his task to empty a flagon of nut-brown ale, poured out for him by the attentive Martin Geere. Finally, he attacked the pigeon-pie, and soon made a great hole in it. His prowess was watched with infinite satisfaction by Colonel Maunsel, who encouraged him to go on, repeatedly ordering Giles Moppett to fill his plate anew. At first, Clavering ate sparingly and slowly, but as he gained strength his appetite increased, and if he could have used both hands, he might, perchance, have rivalled John Habergeon’s wondrous performances, for he seemed to have fasted as long as the old trooper. But notwithstanding his insatiable hunger, the young man took good care to call in Dulcia’s aid to cut up his meat for him, which he was certainly entitled to do, seeing that he could not perform the task for himself. A pause, however, in this terrible masticating process having at length arrived, on Clavering’s side, at least—for John, it seemed, would never cease—Colonel Maunsel thought he might venture to ask for some particulars of his son’s escape after the battle. The first inquiries however, of the loyal old gentleman were, whether Clavering knew aught of the king?

“I trust his Majesty has escaped his enemies, father,” the young man replied; “but I have heard nothing concerning him since I was separated from him, in the manner I will proceed to recount to you. After the rout on that unlucky day, when all went against us, and the king was compelled to retire, I had the honour of forming part of the small escort that attended him, having previously assisted, with my Lord Cleveland and Colonel Wogan, in covering his retreat from the city. We rode off at nightfall in the direction of Stourbridge, his Majesty having decided upon taking refuge at Boscobel House, whither Mr. Charles Giffard, than whom there breathes not a more loyal gentleman, had undertaken to conduct him.”

“I know Charles Giffard well,” Colonel Maunsel remarked, “and can avouch, from my personal knowledge, that he is as loyal as thou hast described him. I also know Boscobel, and White Ladies, another house belonging to the Giffards, and in either place his Majesty would find a secure retreat. The king could not be in better hands than those of loyal Charles Giffard. But go on, my son; how far didst accompany his Majesty?”

“Within a mile of Stourbridge,” Clavering replied; “when we were attacked by a troop of the enemy’s horse, and the king was exposed to much peril, running great risk of capture.”

“Capture! ‘Sdeath! you would none of you have suffered those vile knaves to lay hands on his Majesty’s sacred person!” the old colonel exclaimed, his eye blazing fiercely, and his limbs trembling with passion. “Oh! that I had been there, with an arm as strong as that which I boasted before Naseby! What didst thou do, boy?”

“That which you would have done yourself, sir,” Clavering rejoined. “I used your sword to some purpose against the crop-eared curs, and made them feel the edge of the weapon. Finding the king beset by the captain of the troop and three or four of his men, who had recognized his Majesty, and were shouting out ‘that the Lord of Hosts had delivered Abijam, the son of Rehoboam, into their hands,’ and were menacing him with death if he did not yield himself up to them, I fired my pistol at the head of their leader, and throwing myself upon the others, assailed them so furiously, that the king was able to extricate himself from them and get clear off.”

“What! thou hast been the happy instrument of saving his Majesty’s life—thou, my darling son?” the old Cavalier exclaimed, in tones half broken by the deep emotion which he vainly endeavoured to repress. “By Saint George! thou hast done well, Clavering—thou hast done well. And if thou hadst perished in the act, thou wouldst have died the death which I myself should have most coveted—a death worthy of one of our loyal house.”

“But, Heaven be praised, my brave young friend is spared to us!” Mr. Beard ejaculated. “May he be preserved to be a prop to your declining years, sir,” he added to the colonel.

“May he be preserved to aid in King Charles’ restoration, that is all I pray for!” the old Cavalier exclaimed.

“I cry ‘Amen’ to that prayer, father,” the young man rejoined, fervently.

Hitherto Dulcia had abstained from speech, though her cheek had glowed during Clavering’s narration. She now ventured to remark:

“But you have more to tell us of that desperate encounter, have you not? It was there that you received your hurts?”

“You are right, Dulcia,” Clavering replied. “His Majesty, whom Heaven preserve! had got off as I have informed you, but I myself was surrounded, and had a sharp conflict with the base knaves, from whom I neither expected to receive quarter, nor would have deigned to accept it, and who, moreover, as you may guess, were mightily enraged at the king’s escape. Ere long my right arm was disabled by the blow of a pike, and being thus at the mercy of the murtherous rascals, I should have been despatched outright, if it had not been for John Habergeon—”

“Say not a word about me, captain, I beseech you,” the old trooper interrupted, looking up with his mouth full of pigeon-pie.

“I marvelled where John could have been all this while,” the colonel observed. “I thought he could not have been far off.”

“John was by my side, sir,” Clavering rejoined. “By my side, did I say? He was in front—at the rear—on the right—at the left—everywhere warding off blows aimed at me, and doing terrible execution upon the rebels. But even John could not save me from being thrown from my steed, and trampled under foot by the Roundhead troopers, who tried to dash out my brains with their horses’ heels. The stoutness of my casque saved me from their malice, and my breastplate protected me from all other harm except some trifling bruises—”

“Call you hurts such as yours trifling, my good young friend?” the pastor cried. “You must needs have a frame of iron to bear such injuries, and speak lightly of them.”

“‘Fore Heaven! Clavering is as tough as his father,” the old colonel remarked, smiling complacently; “and can bear much knocking about. There is nothing like a close headpiece with great cheeks, and a stout corslet and cuissarts, if you have the ill luck to be hurled on the ground and ridden over. Your well- tempered breastplate stood you in good stead on this occasion, boy.”

“It was much dinted, I promise you, father,” Clavering replied. “Howbeit, I escaped with life, though those caitiff troopers declared they would send me to perdition.”

“Heaven open their own eyes and save them from the pit!” the clergyman ejaculated.

“Nay, such spawn of Satan deserve not your intercession for them, reverend sir,” the old Cavalier exclaimed, impetuously. “I would despatch such devil’s servants to their master without an instant’s scruple. Oh! John, my worthy friend,” he added to the old trooper, who was still quietly pursuing his meal, as if in no wise concerned in Clavering’s relation, “I estimated thee aright. I knew thou wouldst be serviceable to my son.”

“I would not have stirred a foot for those cursed Roundhead curs, your honour,” John Habergeon replied; “but I wanted to draw them from Captain Clavering as the sole means of saving his life, so I made pretence of flight, and the rascals galloped after me. They shot my horse, but I got off scathless.”

“Thou art a brave fellow, John,” the colonel said

“Brave, indeed! and trusty as brave!” Clavering cried. “He rescued me from certain destruction. I was unable to stir from the spot where I fell, and if those butcherly Roundheads had returned, or others of their side had come up and found me lying there and still breathing, they would infallibly have knocked out my brains.”

“Now to look at dear, good John Habergeon, no one would guess what a warm heart he possesses,” Dulcia exclaimed. “I ever liked him; but I knew not his true worth till now.”

“Men must not be judged by their exterior, child,” Mr. Beard said. “The sweetest kernel hath sometimes the roughest shell.”

“Just as the best blade may be found in an ill scabbard,” the colonel said. “John is somewhat harsh of feature, it must be owned, but he hath a right honest look. You would never mistake him for a Puritan.”

“I trow not, your honour, if a real Puritan were nigh,” the old trooper replied, with a grin. “But enough, methinks, has been said about me.”

“Not half enough,” Clavering rejoined. “I have not told you a tithe of what John did for me, father. When you know all, you will comprehend how much gratitude I owe him. He bore me in his arms from the scene of strife to a place of safety, where he set my broken arm, and put splints, which he himself quickly prepared as well as any surgeon could have done, over the fracture, bound up the limb, dressed my bruises, and, this done, he again carried me to a barn, where we passed the night, John watching by me all the while. After some hours’ rest I was able to move, and we set out before daybreak across the country, as near as we could conjecture in the direction of Stratford. We made but slow progress, for I was very stiff and weak; but John lent me all the aid he could, cheering me on, and talking to me of home and of those I loved, when I was half inclined to lie down in despair. As the day advanced, he procured me some milk and bread, without which I could no longer have gone on, for I had tasted nothing since the previous morn—the morn, you will remember, of the fatal battle. Having partaken of this food, I was enabled to continue my journey, and ere night we had found shelter in a thicket between Stratford and Long Marston, when John left me for a while to procure fresh provisions for our support. The faithful fellow came back, bringing with him meat and a bottle of stout ale; but though half famished, he would touch nothing himself till I had eaten and drunk. But I must be brief, for this talking is too much for me. During the whole of our toilsome journey hither, exposed as we have been to constant hazard from the Republican troops which are scouring the country in every direction, dreading almost to show our faces lest we should be set upon by some Roundhead churls, resting now in a wood, now beneath a haystack, but never under a roof, obtaining food with difficulty, and the little we got of the coarsest kind—during all these difficulties and dangers, my trusty companion, who might easily have provided for his own safety, kept ever by my side, and tended me, cheered me, watched over me—nay, actually in two instances saved me from capture with his good right hand, for I could do nothing in my own defence—and finally succeeded in bringing me home in safety.”

“Blessings upon him for his noble conduct!” the clergyman exclaimed.

“Ay, blessings upon him!” reiterated both the colonel and Dulcia.

“Well, it is all right now, since I am back again at the dear old house,” Clavering continued. “As to my wounds, I heed them not. They will soon heal. But the thought of how I got them will last during the rest of my life.”

“Thou art a true Maunsel, every inch of thee, Clavering,” his father cried, in approval. “What signifies a limb lost, or a drop of blood the less in one’s veins, if we have done good service to the royal cause. And thou hast saved the king’s life. Think of that—think of that, Clavering Maunsel.”

“I do think of it,” the young Cavalier replied.

“I crave your honour’s leave to propose a toast,” John Habergeon cried, rising.

“Thou hast my full licence to do so,” Colonel Maunsel rejoined. “Fill thine own glass from that flask of Malvoisie to the brim, and all of us will follow thine example. Even fair Mistress Dulcia will not refuse thy pledge.”

“Nay, that I will not, in good sooth, colonel,” Dulcia cried.

“You will all do me reason, I am sure, when you hear my toast,” John said. “A health to King Charles, and may God preserve him from his enemies!”

All arose; the colonel unassisted, for his new-found activity had not yet deserted him; and Clavering contrived to get up from his chair. The glasses being filled, the toast was drunk by the whole company, including even Dulcia, who raised the goblet to her lips. Colonel Maunsel repeated the words pronounced by the loyal old trooper with great fervour and solemnity; adding, “I will put a rider to thy toast, John, and drink to his Majesty’s speedy restoration.”

While the party was thus occupied, none of them were aware that their proceedings were watched from the bay-window on the left by a sallow-faced, sinister-looking personage, habited in a Geneva cloak and bands, and wearing a tall steeple-crowned hat on his head. We have said that this spy was unobserved by all the party; but his presence did not pass unnoticed by the quick eyes of Patty Whinchat, who entered the hall just as the treasonable toast (for such it would sound in the ears of a Republican) had been drunk.

“Mercy on us!” Patty screamed. “There’s a man at the window.”

“What say’st thou, wench? A man at the window!” Colonel Maunsel cried. “Go and see, John. I can discern no one.”

The old trooper did not require bidding twice, but rushed to the bay-window indicated by Patty. However, he could perceive nothing to justify the girl’s alarm, and told the colonel as much.

“What manner of man didst fancy thou sawest, wench?” the colonel cried.

“It was no fancy, your honour; I’m sure I saw him,” Patty rejoined. “I saw his hatchet-face, and his cat’s-eyes, and his tall, sugar-loaf hat, and his Geneva cloak and bands—”

“Oons! that should be Increase Micklegift, from thy description, wench,” the colonel interrupted.

“It was Increase Micklegift whom I beheld,” Patty replied. “I’ll swear to his ugly nose.”

“No occasion for swearing, Patty,” the clergyman remarked. “We will believe your simple affirmation.”

“Go and send some one forth, Moppett,” the colonel said to the groom of the kitchen, “to ascertain whether this pestilent rascal be indeed within the garden, or elsewhere lurking about the premises.”

“I’ll go myself,” John Habergeon rejoined; “and if I catch him, I’ll treat him as I would a hen-roost plunderer.”

“Nay, harm him not,” the clergyman cried; “but admonish him.”

“Ay, ay, I’ll admonish him, your reverence,” John Habergeon replied, “—with a cudgel.”

This incident caused Colonel Maunsel considerable uneasiness, and somewhat abated his satisfaction at his son’s return. Clavering, he well knew, might at any moment be arrested as a traitor to the Commonwealth, for having borne arms for his lawful sovereign, and might even suffer death for a display of loyalty, which the Rump Parliament regarded in the light of high treason. Since Clavering was in this danger, it was necessary that the utmost caution should be observed in regard to him; and though the colonel could rely upon his household to maintain perfect secrecy as to their young master’s return, yet if Increase Micklegift had become aware of the fact, concealment would be hopeless. Moreover, Colonel Maunsel felt satisfied, from his knowledge of the Independent minister’s character, that he would not hesitate to denounce Clavering.

These considerations, as we have said, greatly alarmed the old Cavalier; but he was somewhat reassured by John Habergeon, who, on his return, after some quarter of an hour’s absence, declared that he, with Giles Moppett and Martin Geere, had carefully searched the garden without finding any traces of the supposed spy. But, to make all sure, they had gone up to the old rectory, where the Independent minister had taken up his abode since Mr. Beard’s secession, and knocking at the door, had been answered by Increase himself from his chamber window, who bade them be gone about their business, and not disturb him at that unseasonable hour of the night.

This latter piece of information was well calculated to allay the colonel’s fears, and he began to agree with John Habergeon, that Patty Whinchat, in spite of her positive assertions to the contrary, must have been mistaken, and could not have beheld the mischievous Independent divine. Deeming, therefore, that further precautionary measures were unneeded for the night—whatever might be requisite on the morrow—he saw his son conducted to his chamber by John Habergeon (Clavering’s parting with Dulcia must be left to the fair reader’s imagination), and tarried with him for some time, when he himself sought his couch. Long ere this, all the other inmates of Ovingdean Grange had retired to rest, happier than they had been for many days.