Ovingdean Grange E-Book

William Harrison Ainsworth

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

A historical romance with a lot of local flavor. The action takes place in the South Downs, England. Everything revolves around the Civil War.

Das E-Book wird angeboten von und wurde mit folgenden Begriffen kategorisiert:

Leseprobe

Contents

BOOK I. JOHN HABERGEON

CHAPTER I A View From An Old Barrow On The South Downs

CHAPTER II Ovingdean Grange In The Year Sixteen Hundred And Fifty-One

CHAPTER III Showing What Befel Clavering Maunsel After The Battle Of Worcester

BOOK II. INCREASE MICKLEGIFT

CHAPTER I Showing That A Chimney May Serve For Other Purposes Than As A Passage For Smoke

CHAPTER II What Passed Between The Independent Minister And Dulcia In The Churchyard

CHAPTER III Some Of The Vexations Experienced By A Royalist Gentleman At The Time Of The Commonwealth

BOOK III. HAWKING ON THE DOWNS

CHAPTER I The Ostreger And His Son

CHAPTER II The Proclamation

CHAPTER III The Tartaret And The Heron

CHAPTER IV Captain Stelfax

BOOK IV. THE SEARCH BY THE IRONSIDES

CHAPTER I The Priory Ruins

CHAPTER II Mock-Beggar Hall And Its Inmate

CHAPTER III How Ninian Delivered His Message

CHAPTER IV In What Manner The Captain Of The Ironsides Employed His Time At The Grange

CHAPTER V Showing How Increase Micklegift Did A Turn To Clavering

BOOK V. FOX AND WOLF

CHAPTER I How Clavering Came Down The Chimney; And How Mickelgift Lent Him Aid For The Second Time

CHAPTER II How Mickelgift Was Ignominiously Expelled From The Grange

CHAPTER III How The Captain Of The Ironsides Took Possession Of The Colonel’s Chamber

CHAPTER IV Of The Message Sent By Micklegift To Stelfax; And Of The Plan For Ensnaring The Fugitives Devised By The Latter

CHAPTER V How The Captain Of The Ironsides Inspected The Village Church, And Made Another Capture

BOOK VI. THE DEVIL’S DYKE

CHAPTER I Showing How Ninian Escaped; And How The Other Prisoners Were Taken To The Church Tower

CHAPTER II The Chase Of The Cavalier

CHAPTER III Of The Guests At The Poynings’ Arms

CHAPTER IV The Legend Of The Devil’s Dyke As Related By Master Cisbury Oldfirle, Schoolmaster, Of Poynings

CHAPTER V How Stelfax Took The Cavalier To The Grange; And What Happened By The Way

CHAPTER VI By What Means The Prisoners Escaped From The Church

BOOK VII. CAPTAIN TATTERSALL OF THE SWIFTSURE

CHAPTER I How Sargeant Delves Was Reprimanded By His Leader

CHAPTER II In What Manner Colonel Gunter Was Liberated

CHAPTER III The Night Ride To Newhaven—The Brig And The Frigate

CHAPTER IV The “Star” At Alfriston

CHAPTER V How Mr. Beard And Dulcia Were Taken As Hostages For Colonel Maunsel

CHAPTER VI The Shepherds On Mount Caburn

CHAPTER VII What Happened At The “Dolphin” At Shoreham

BOOK VIII. CHARLES THE SECOND AT OVINGDEAN GRANGE

CHAPTER I The Paper Bullet

CHAPTER II A Royal Wanderer

CHAPTER III An Encounter With The Governor Of Arundel Castle

CHAPTER IV The Blacksmith Of Angmering

CHAPTER V The Patriarch Of The Downs

CHAPTER VI What Happened At The “White Horse” At Steyning

CHAPTER VII Ditchling Beacon

CHAPTER VIII Of The King’s Reception At The Grange

CHAPTER IX How The King Was Shut Up In The Hiding-Place

CHAPTER X The Puritan’s Daughter

CHAPTER XI In Which The Tables Are Turned Upon Stelfax

BOOK IX. BRIGHTELMSTONE IN 1651

CHAPTER I A Glance At Brightelmstone In The Nineteenth Century

CHAPTER II The “George” At Brightelmstone

CHAPTER III Introducing Two Of Captain Tattersall’s Crew

CHAPTER IV Containing Particulars Of The Conflict On Kingston Hill, And Of The Embarkation At Shoreham

L’ENVOY

BOOK I. JOHN HABERGEON

CHAPTER I. A View From An Old Barrow On The South Downs

FAIRER spot than this cannot be found amidst the whole range of the South Downs–nor one commanding more delightful views.

Look at it and judge.

It is the rounded summit of a hill; or, to speak with greater precision, the mid-summit of a series of soft bosomy eminences, springing from a hilly ridge, that trends towards the coast, and rises and falls smoothly and gently in its course, like the waves of a slightly agitated sea. The lovely mount is covered with short elastic sward, redolent of thyme and other sweet-smelling herbs, and is crowned by an ancient bowl-shaped British barrow, on the bank of which we will seat ourselves, and look around.

How pleasing is the prospect! how fresh the air that visits us! No breeze so fine and invigorating as that of these Sussex downs; no turf so springy to the foot as their smooth greensward. A flock of larks flies past us, and a cloud of mingled rooks and starlings wheels overhead. Mark yon little T-shaped cuttings on the slope below us–those are the snares set by the shepherds for the delicious wheatear–our English ortolan. The fairies still haunt this spot, and hold their midnight revels upon it, as yon dark-green rings testify. The common folk hereabouts term the good people “Pharisees,” and style those emerald circles “hag-tracks:” why, we care not to inquire. Enough for us, the fairies are not altogether gone. A smooth, soft carpet is here spread out for Oberon and Titania and their attendant elves to dance upon by moonlight; and there is no lack of mushrooms to form tables for Puck’s banquets.

Own that no hills can be more beautiful than these South Downs. They may want height, boldness, grandeur, sublimity; they possess not forest, rock, torrent, or ravine; but they have gentleness, softness, and other endearing attributes. We will not attempt to delineate the slight but infinite varieties of form and aspect that distinguish one hill from its neighbour; for though a strong family likeness marks them all, each down has an individual character. Regarded in combination with each other, the high ranges form an exquisite picture.

Contemplation of such a scene soothes rather than excites, and inspires only feelings of placid enjoyment. We are called upon for no violent emotion. We are not required to admire Nature in her wildest and most savage aspect. We have a peaceful landscape before us, of a primitive character, and possessing accompaniments of pastoral life. Yonder is the shepherd, with crook and dog, watching his flock browse on the thymy slopes–the unequalled sheep of the South Downs, remember. At our feet lies a well-cultivated valley, with broad patches of turnip and mangel-wurzel on one side, and a large stubble-field on the other, where the ploughman with his yoke of patient oxen is at work. In this valley you may note a farm-shed and a sheepfold, with rows of haystacks and cornstacks at various points, evidencing the fertility of the soil. In front of us is the British Channel. A burst of sunshine illumines the tall white cliffs on the east, and gleams upon the far-off lighthouse. That pharos is on Beachy Head. On the near height overlooking the sea stands a windmill, while a solitary barn forms a landmark on that distant hill. Altogether, a charming picture.

But we have not yet fully examined it.

The beauteous hill, on the brow of which we are seated, has necessarily a valley on either side. On the right, and immediately beneath us, is a pretty little village, nestling amid a grove of trees, above whose tops you may discern the tower of a small, grey old church. With this village we trust to make you more intimately acquainted by-and-by. It is Ovingdean. On the left, and nearer the sea, you may discern another, and considerably larger village than Ovingdean, almost as picturesque as the latter, and possessing a grey, antique church at its northern extremity. This second village is Rottingdean.

Behind and around on every side, save towards the sea, are downs–downs with patches of purple heather or grey gorse clothing their sides–downs with small holts within their coombs, partially cultivated, or perfectly bare–everywhere downs.

Pleasant it is where we sit to watch the clouds chase each other across the valleys, up the hill-side, over the hill-top, then losing them for a while, behold them again on a more distant eminence, producing in their passage exquisite effects of light and shade. Meet emblem those fleeting clouds of our own quick passage to eternity.

Smiling, and sunny, and joy-inspiring are the downs now; but at times they have a graver aspect. At shuddering dawn, or at the midnight hour, they have a solemn and mysterious look, and seem, like the Sphynx, to mutter secrets of the Past. Of most other places in the land the ancient features are changed, disfigured, or wholly obliterated; but the old visage of the Sussex Downs is unaltered. It is the same as when the Celtic Britons held their funeral ceremonies on this green mount; as when the warlike Romans made their camps upon yonder neighbouring hill; as when our Saxon ancestors dwelt in those secluded valleys, and gave names to them which we still retain. What wonder that such ancient hills–ancient, but endowed with perpetual youth–should sometimes discourse of the great people they have known! What wonder when the scene is the same that the shades of the mighty departed should sometimes revisit the theatre of their earthly actions!

Before quitting our seat on this old tumulus, let us hear what delightful Gilbert White has to say about the district: “Though I have now travelled the Sussex Downs upwards of thirty years,” writes this charming natural historian, “yet I still investigate that chain of majestic mountains with fresh admiration year by year, and think I see new beauties every time I traverse it. Mr. Ray was so ravished with the prospect from Plumpton Plain near Lewes, that he mentions those scenes in his “Wisdom of God in the works of Creation’ with the utmost satisfaction, and thinks them equal to anything he had seen in the finest parts of Europe. For my own part, I think there is something peculiarly sweet and amusing in the shapely figured aspect of chalk hills in preference to those of stone, which are rugged, broken, abrupt, and shapeless. Perhaps I may be singular in my opinion, and not so happy as to convey to you the same idea; but I never contemplate these mountains without thinking I perceive somewhat analogous to growth in their gentle swellings and smooth fungus-like protuberances, their fluted sides, and regular hollows and slopes, that carry at once the air of vegetative dilatation and expansion. Or, was there ever a time when these immense masses of calcareous matter were thrown into fermentation by some adventitious moisture; were raised and leavened into such shapes by some plastic power; and so made to swell and heave their broad backs into the sky so much above the less animated clay of the wild below?”

With all our admiration of the amiable author of the “Natural History of Selborne,” we are not disposed to regard our South Downs in the light of vegetable productions or chemical fermentations; but we leave the solution of the question to the geologist.

And now let us descend to Ovingdean, which lies at our feet.

CHAPTER II. Ovingdean Grange In The Year Sixteen Hundred And Fifty-One

SINCE the year 1651 but slight change has taken place in the general aspect of the sequestered little village of Ovingdean (Offingas den, in Saxon), situated in a charming dene, or woody valley, amidst the South Downs, and within a mile of the coast.

During the two centuries that have elapsed since the date assigned to our story, the habitations of this secluded little village, which, notwithstanding its contiguity to the queen of watering-places, Brighton, seems still quite out of the world, have scarcely–with one important exception, namely, the modern mansion known as Ovingdean House–increased in number, or consequence. Indeed, the Grange, which, in the middle of the seventeenth century, was the principal residence of the place, is not only greatly reduced in size, but has entirely lost its original and distinctive character. Still, regarded without reference to the past, Ovingdean Grange, as it now appears, is a fair-proportioned, cheerful-looking domicile, and with its white walls and pleasant garden, full of arbutuses, laurestines, holms, and roses, offers a very favourable specimen of a Sussex farm-house. In one respect, and that by no means an immaterial one, the existing Grange far surpasses its predecessor; namely, in the magnitude and convenient arrangements of its farmyard, as well as in the number of its barns, cow-houses, and other outbuildings, all of which are upon a scale never dreamed of in the olden time.

But as it is with the ancient house that we have now to do, we must endeavour to give some notion of it. Even in 1651, Ovingdean Grange was old, having been built in the reign of Henry VIII. Constructed of red brick, chequered with diamonds, formed of other bricks, glazed, and of darker hue, mingled with flints, it seemed destined to endure for ages, and presented a very striking frontage, owing to the bold projections of its bay-windows with their stone posts and lintels, its deep arched portal with a stone escutcheon above it, emblazoned with the arms of the Maunsels, at that time its possessors, its stone quoins and cornices, its carved gables, its high roof, covered with tiles entrusted with orange-tawny mosses and lichens, and its triple clusters of tall and ornamented chimney-shafts.

Old Ovingdean Grange did not want a rookery. In a fine grove of elms, occupying part of the valley towards the south, a large colony of these aristocratic birds had taken up their quarters. Nor must we omit to mention that many of the trees, in the upper branches of which the rooks’ nests might be seen, had attained a girth and altitude not a little remarkable, considering their proximity to the sea. It has been already intimated that the ancient farm- yard was neither so extensive nor so well arranged as its successor, but it possessed one of those famous old circular dovecots, which used to be the pride of a Sussex country-house, and which, before pigeon-matches were introduced, never failed to supply the family table with a savoury pie or a roast. At the rear of the house was a garden, walled round, and laid out in the old-fashioned style, with parterres and terraces; and beyond it was an orchard full of fruit- trees. Higher up on the down was a straggling little holt, or thicket, the trees of which, by their stunted growth and distorted shapes, manifested the influence of the sea-breezes. When we have mentioned a large close, encompassed by a shaw, or fence of low trees, and displaying within its area a few venerable hawthorns, ancient denizens of the downs, we shall have particularized all the domains of old Ovingdean Grange.

The little village of Ovingdean, consisted then, as now, of a few neatly-kept cottages, clustered like beehives near the mansion, some three or four in the valley, but the most part amongst the trees on the side of the eastern down. These cottages were tenanted by the bailiff, the husbandmen, shepherds, and other hinds employed at the Grange.

But the most pleasing feature of the place, and one by which it is happily yet distinguished, was the church. Scarce a stone’s throw from the Grange, at the foot of a wooded escarpment, on the western side of the dene, and on a green and gentle declivity, stood, and still stands, the reverend little pile. Grey and old was Ovingdean church at the time of our story, for its architecture is Norman and Early English, but it is upwards of two centuries older now, and somewhat greyer in consequence, though Time has dealt kindly with it, and has touched it with a hand so loving and tender, that if he has robbed it of aught, he has only added to its beauty. Peace rests upon the antique little fane, and breathes from out its hoary walls. Peace rests upon the grassy mounds and carefully-tended tombs lying within its quiet precincts. Nothing more hushed, more sequestered, more winningly and unobtrusively beautiful, can be conceived than this simple village churchyard. The grey old walls that surround it, and shut it in like a garden, the trees that shade it, and completely shelter the holy edifice on the north, give it a peculiar air of privacy and tranquillity. Subdued by the calming influences of the spot, the heart becomes melted, the thoughts soar heavenward. Truly, a quiet resting-place after the turmoil of life.

Nor will the devotional feelings inspired by a pause within these hallowed precincts be lessened by an entrance into the sacred edifice itself; for there, if you love simplicity, you shall find it; there you shall behold a primitive little village church, without ornament, yet possessing the richest ornament in the absence of all decorative artifice; lacking not the graces of ecclesiastical architecture as displayed in the rounded arches dividing its nave from the chancel, and elsewhere in the structure; there, nothing shall disturb your religious train of thought; there, you shall find a rustic congregation, and shall listen to rustic voices chanting the holy hymn; and above all, you shall hear our Church’s noble service well and worthily performed, and shall have good ghostly council from a good man’s lips.

Though sufficing for the thinly-peopled parish in which it stands, the dimensions of Ovingdean church are modest enough, the nave and chancel, taken together, being little larger than those of many a private chapel. Aisles it has none, though it may once have possessed a south wing, marks of an arch being still discernible on the external wall on this side of the edifice; the roof is open, and crossed and supported by stout beams of oak; and the low square western tower, entered from within, serves the joint purposes of vestiary and belfry. We should prefer the true colour of the stone and timber to whitewash, but the latter, at all events, is clean and cheerful to look upon, and serves to display the many hatchments and marble tablets reared against the walls. Over the screen separating the nave from the chancel may be read these comforting words: “Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” Together with this verse from the Psalms, well suited to the place: “This shall be my rest forever: here will I dwell, for I have a delight therein.”

But though we love the old pile, we must not linger within it too long, but go forth into its quiet churchyard, now basking in sunshine, and visited by the sweet and delicate air of the downs. If there be a gleam of sunshine in the skies, it seems to seek out this favoured spot; while, when the rain descends here, it falls gently as the tears of a mourner. Would you see, ere we pass out by the arched gateway leading to the rectory, two relics of two centuries ago? you may perceive them in yon pair of decayed elder-trees, whose hoar, gnarled, corrugated trunks, and fantastically twisted branches, flung out like huge antlers, have but little vitality about them, and yet are deservedly spared for their age and picturesque appearance.

Where the present cheerful and commodious parsonage-house now stands, stood, in earlier days, a small monastic-looking structure, of higher antiquity even than the Grange; and this time-honoured edifice, all traces of which, except some portions of its garden walls, have disappeared, had served as an abiding- place for many successive pastors of the neighbouring church.

But alas! in the unhappy and distracted times of which we propose to treat, this little manse sheltered no minister of our Church. A woful change had come over it. The good pastor, who for years had dwelt there, honoured and beloved by all who profited by his teaching; who was pious, charitable, tolerant, and irreproachable in conduct; this excellent man, with whom no fault could be found, save that he was a firm and consistent supporter of the established Church of England, and a resolute maintainer of its tenets and of episcopal jurisdiction, was deprived of his benefice, driven from his dwelling, and no longer permitted to exercise his sacred functions within those walls where his voice had so often been heard. The Reverend Ardingly Beard, for so was named this sufferer in a good cause, bore his own crosses without a murmur, but he ceased not to deplore the fallen state of the Church, now become a prey to ravening wolves. When condemned as an obstinate and incurable prelatist and malignant, and dispossessed of his church and living, he had the additional grief and mortification of finding his place occupied by the Reverend Master Increase Micklegift (as the latter chose to style himself, though his real name was Zaccheus Stonegall), an Independent minister, and a zealous expounder of his own doctrines, but whom Mr. Beard regarded as a hypocrite, and highly dangerous to the spiritual welfare of his somewhile flock.

But the deprived clergyman did not retire altogether from the scene of his labours, though prevented from continuing them as heretofore. He obtained an asylum at the Grange, with its owner and his assured and sympathizing friend, the Royalist Colonel Wolston Maunsel. For many years a widower, the good pastor had found solace in the companionship and affectionate attentions of the only child left him, his daughter Dulcia. At the time of his suspension from his religious functions, which unhappy event occurred about four years before the date of our story. Dulcia Beard had just reached her fifteenth spring, and though she felt the blow at the moment with as much acuteness as her father, yet with the happy elasticity of youth she speedily shook off its effects, and regained her wonted buoyancy of spirit. In sooth, there was not much to make her regret the change of abode. Apartments were assigned to her father and herself at the Grange, where they might dwell as retired as they pleased, and in order to remove any sense of dependence on the part of his reverend guest, Colonel Maunsel appointed him to the office of his domestic chaplain. Thus, though forbidden, under the penalty of fine and imprisonment, to preach to his somewhile flock in public, or even to perform the church-service covertly, our good clergyman was enabled to address in private such as were not backsliders or apostates, and prevent them from wavering in the true faith. Greatly beholden, therefore, did the worthy man feel to him who, under Providence, afforded an asylum fraught with so many advantages to himself and his dearly beloved child.

In all respects Dulcia Beard merited her father’s love. A gentler, sweeter disposition than hers could not be found; purer and higher principles than she possessed never existed in female bosom. As she grew towards womanhood her personal charms became more fully developed. Soft and delicate in mould, her features expressed in every line the amiability and goodness of her nature. Impossible to doubt the candour of her clear, blue, earnest eyes. Equally impossible to misunderstand the serenity of her marble brow, or the composure of her classic countenance. Calm was her countenance, but not cold; classic were her features in form, but with nothing rigorous in their outline. If her features corresponded with her nature, so did her person correspond with her features. Graceful in the highest degree, her figure was tall, and of exquisite symmetry. Her manner was entirely unsophisticated, and captivating from its very simplicity. The very reverse of a modish gentlewoman was Dulcia Beard, and owed none of her attractions to art. Whether any other image beside that of her father had found a place within that gentle bosom, will be seen as we proceed.

Colonel Wolston Maunsel of Ovingdean Grange has been described as a Royalist, but his description of himself, “that he was a Cavalier to the backbone,” would be more correct. Colonel Maunsel hated the rebels and Roundheads and the whole Republican party, civil, military, and religious, as he hated poison; but if he had a special object of aversion it was Noll Cromwell. The execution of Charles deepened the colonel’s animosity towards the regicides, and after the direful tragedy of Whitehall, he assumed a mourning habit, vowing never to put it off till the death of the martyred monarch should be fully avenged upon his murderers.

Colonel Maunsel was descended from a good old Sussex family; the branch he belonged to having settled at Ovingdean. Though not brought up to the profession of arms, but rather from habit and position disposed to lead the life of a country squire, our loyal gentleman, on the outbreak of the Civil War, alarmed by the imminence of the crisis, and instigated by his own strong Cavalier feelings, had deemed it incumbent upon him to abandon a home he delighted in, together with a wife whom he passionately loved, and joined the standard of the king. For several years Wolston Maunsel served under Prince Rupert, and shared in the victories as well as in the defeats of that great, though somewhat rash, commander. He fought at the famous battle of Edgehill, where Rupert’s matchless cavalry did such signal execution upon the Parliamentarians, at Lansdown Hill, and at Chalgrove Field; was present at the sieges of Bristol and Bolton, at the important but ill-starred battle of Marston Moor, and at Ledbury, after which engagement he obtained from the Prince the command of a regiment of dragoons. Colonel Maunsel’s last appearance on the battle-field was at Naseby, where his regiment was completely cut to pieces by Fairfax, and he himself severely wounded and made prisoner. With other captives he was sent by the victorious Parliamentary leaders to the castle of Chester, and detained long enough there to shatter his health. Heavy fines were inflicted upon him, which greatly impoverished his estates, but after nearly a year’s confinement he was released, and retired to his residence at Ovingdean, where we have found him.

But other calamities, besides defeat and loss of property, had befallen the unfortunate Cavalier. During the time of his immurement within Chester Castle, his beloved wife, who was not permitted to share her husband’s captivity, had died from grief and anxiety. An only son, then just sixteen, was, however, left him. Had the Civil War continued, this high-spirited youth, who inherited all his father’s principles of loyalty, and hated the Republicans as heartily as his father, would have followed in the old Cavalier’s footsteps; but when Colonel Maunsel was set free, the struggle was well-nigh over, the Royalist party was crushed for the time, and did not rally again for nearly five years, when Charles the Second was crowned at Scone, and entered England at the head of a small army, with the futile hope, as it proved, of conquering his rebellious kingdom.

Then it was that Clavering Maunsel, who by this time had become a remarkably handsome young man of one-and-twenty, and was as eager for the fray as a war- horse stirred by the trumpet, was despatched by the colonel to aid the youthful monarch. If his father had tried to restrain the young Cavalier, the attempt would have been ineffectual; but the loyal old colonel did no such thing. On the contrary, he commanded him to go; gave him his own sword, and bade him use it against the enemies of the king, and the slayers of the king’s father. While straining his son to his breast at parting, the gallant old Cavalier declared that he envied him, his sole grief being that he could not accompany him. “But of what use to his Majesty would be a battered old soldier like myself, who can scarce move limb without help?” he cried. “So go, my son, and fight for me in the righteous cause. Strike down those accursed traitors and parricides–slay them, and spare not.”

With his son, Colonel Maunsel sent a veteran follower, to whose care he knew the young man could be safely confided; and the measure was very judicious, as the event proved. The faithful attendant to whom Clavering Maunsel was entrusted was an ancient trooper in the king’s service, named John Habergeon, who had fought with the colonel in many a rude engagement with the rebels, and had bled with him at Naseby. Though numbering more years than his old master, John Habergeon’s strength was by no means on the decline. Hoary was he as an Alp; his gigantic frame was as hard as iron; and few younger men could cope with him in personal encounter. John Habergeon’s exterior was by no means prepossessing. His features were harsh, and his manner crabbed and stern. His figure was gaunt and tall; and he stood so stiff and erect that he lost not an inch of his stature. Yet under his rugged exterior there beat a heart tender as a woman’s; and follower more faithful and devoted could not be found than trusty John Habergeon.

It was not without some difficulty and danger that Clavering and his companion managed to reach Worcester, in which loyal city the adventurous young king had established his head-quarters. Though the new comer brought him no important levy of horse or foot, but only a single follower, Charles received the young man with great satisfaction, and well aware of his father’s high character, misfortunes, and fidelity to the royal cause, at once bestowed upon him the command of a troop of horse under Colonel Wogan.

It is not our purpose to describe the events preceding the disastrous day of Worcester, nor to furnish any details of that fatal engagement, when the hopes of the young monarch and his adherents were utterly destroyed. Having as little sympathy as the Cavaliers themselves with the Republican army and its victorious general, it is no pleasure to us to record their successes. Suffice it then to say, that while preparations were making by Charles and his generals for the coming conflict, Clavering exhibited the utmost ardour and impatience; and when at length the luckless 3rd of September arrived, proved himself by his fiery courage, and perhaps by his rashness, to be his father’s son. Some intelligence of his brave doings during the battle had been received at Ovingdean Grange, but what became of him afterwards was not known. His name did not appear amongst the list of the slain; but such lists in those troublous times were ever imperfect. Wogan’s regiment, it was known, had suffered severely in covering the king’s retreat; and what so probable as that foolhardy and inexperienced Clavering had fallen then. So at least feared his father. So feared another, whose gentle heart was distracted by doubt and anxiety.

Sad presentiments had filled Dulcia’s breast when young Maunsel, full of martial ardour and enthusiasm for his cause, had set out on the expedition. She had accompanied him to the summit of the down overlooking the neighbouring town of Brightelmstone, then giving little promise of its future magnitude and importance, and chiefly noticeable from this point by a cluster of quaint old houses, with red-tiled roofs and gables, grouped around the ancient church on the hill, together with a short scattered street, consisting mostly of cottages and mean habitations, running towards the sea:–she had accompanied him, we say, to this point, and after a tearful parting–tearful on her side, at least–had gazed wistfully after him till he gained the brow of the opposite hill, when he waved a farewell with the scarf she had embroidered for him, and disappeared from view.

Had he disappeared for ever? was the question that occupied Dulcia, as she returned to the Grange with her attendant, Patty Whinchat. Very beautiful and very picturesque did the old house appear, embosomed amidst its trees, and with the old church adjoining, as viewed from the high ground she was traversing, but she looked not towards it, for her thoughts were wandering in another direction. Patty, a lively little damsel, and disposed to take a cheerful view of things, chattered away, and assured her mistress that Master Clavering would soon be back again, after killing all the Roundheads; but after a while, receiving neither response nor other encouragement to talk, she became silent, and tried to shed a few tears for company.

Often did Dulcia recur to this parting with Clavering, and never without reviving the sad forebodings which she had then experienced. These, however, were vague fears, and easily shaken off. But when she heard of Worcester’s disastrous fight–when rumours of dreadful slaughter of the Royalists reached her–when day after day passed, and no tidings came of Clavering–we may imagine how much she suffered. She dreaded to receive confirmation of her worst fears, and yet this suspense was well-nigh intolerable. By day a pallid image with stony eyes was ever before her; and at night she beheld the same figure in her dreams, stretched like a blood-stained corpse upon the battle-plain.

As to Colonel Maunsel, though anxiety as to his son’s fate was naturally uppermost in his bosom, the consideration of what he deemed to be a great national calamity weighed so heavily upon him, as in some degree to absorb his private griefs. The issue of the battle of Worcester he deemed fatal to his country. England was dishonoured; its glory obscured. Right, religion, loyalty, were trampled under foot. Republicanism was clearly in the ascendant: the star of monarchy, which had shone for a moment with its accustomed splendour, had set, he feared, for ever. While deploring the prostrate condition of his own party, now at the mercy of its hated opponents, he felt yet more acutely the terrible jeopardy in which the head of that party was placed. What had become of Charles, after the conflict on which he had staked his fortunes, the colonel could only conjecture. But he felt certain that the royal fugitive had as yet contrived to elude the vigilance of his enemies. Charles’s capture would have been too loudly proclaimed not to be quickly known throughout the realm. But it was almost equally certain that the young king was yet within the country, and his retreat might, therefore, at any moment be discovered. A large reward was offered for his capture; and the penalties of high treason, loss of life and forfeiture of estate, were adjudged to such as should harbour him, or aid in his escape. Colonel Maunsell was well aware, from his own feelings, that no personal risk would prevent any loyal subject from assisting his sovereign; but he naturally dreaded lest the reward offered by the council of state might tempt some sordid knave to cause Charles’s betrayal. All these considerations sorely perplexed and grieved the old Cavalier’s spirit. The burden of his anxiety was almost greater than he could bear, and threatened to bow him to the ground. He began to fear that the messenger who brought him word that his son had been found amongst the slain, would tell him that the king had been captured. Such tidings, doubly calamitous, he was well assured, would prove his own death-blow.

CHAPTER III. Showing What Befel Clavering Maunsel After The Battle Of Worcester

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.”