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<h3 class="chapter">Chapter Fifty One.</h3> <h4 class="event">In Carousal.</h4> <blockquote> “We’ll drink - drink, And our goblets clink, Quaffing the blood-red wine; The wenches we’ll toast, And the Roundheads we’ll roast, The Croppies, and all their kind.” </blockquote> “A capital song! And right well you’ve sung it, Sir Thomas. Herrlich!” “Your Highness compliments me.” “Nein—nein. But who composed the ditty? It’s new to me.” “Sir John Dertham. He who wrote the verses about Waller, and their defeat at Roundway Down— <blockquote> “‘Great William the Con- So fast did he run, That he left half his name behind him.’ </blockquote> “Your Highness may remember them?” “Ha-ha-ha! That do I; and Sir John himself. A true Cavalier, and no better company over the cup. But come, gentlemen! Let us act up to the spirit of the song. Fill goblets, and toast the wenches!” “The wenches! The wenches!” came in responsive echo from all sides of the table, as the wine went to their lips. No sentiment could have been more congenial to those who had been listening to Colonel Lunford’s song. For it was this man of infamous memory who had been addressed as “Sir Thomas.” He had late received knighthood from his King; such being the sort Kings delight to honour, now as then. And among the convives was a King’s son, the embryo “Merry Monarch,” taking lessons in that reprobacy he afterwards practised to the bestrumpetting England from lordly palace to lowly cot. It was not he, however, who had complimented Lunsford on his vocal abilities; the “Highness” being his cousin, Prince Rupert, in whose quarters they were carousing; the place Bristol; the time some weeks subsequent to the taking of Monmouth by Massey. But the occasion which had called them together was to celebrate a success on the opposite side; its re-capture by the Royalists, for Monmouth had been retaken. A sad mischance for the Parliamentarians; through no fault of Kyrle, who, on active duty, was away from it, but the lache of one Major Throgmorton, left in temporary charge. Riotous with delight were they assembled within Rupert’s quarters. They had that day received the welcome intelligence, and were in spirit for unrestrained rejoicing. Ever since Marston Moor the King’s cause had been suffering reverses; once more the tide seemed turning in its favour. But nothing of war occupied their thoughts now; the victory on the Wye had been talked over, the victors toasted, and the subject dismissed for one always uppermost at a Cavalier carousal. Several songs had been already sung, but that of Lunsford—so indecent, that only the chorus can be here given—tickled the fancies of all, and an encore was demanded. A demand with which the festive Lunsford readily complied, and the ribald refrain once more received uproarious plaudits. “Now, gentlemen!” said the host, on silence being restored, “fill again! We’ve but toasted the wenches in a general way. I’m going to propose one in particular, whom you’ll all be eager to honour. A fascinating damsel, who, if I’m not mistaken, Cousin Charles, has put a spell upon your young heart.” “Ha-ha!” smirked the precocious reprobate, in a semi-protesting way. “You are mistaken, coz. None of womankind can do that.” “Ah! if your Royal Highness has escaped her witcheries, you’re one of the rare exceptions. Mein Gott! she has turned the heads of more than half my young officers, and commands them as much as I do myself. Well, she’s worthy of obedience, if beauty has the right to rule, and we Cavaliers cannot deny it that. So let us drink to her!” By this all had replenished their cups, and were waiting to hear the name of her whose charms were so extolled by their princely host. A good many could guess; and more than one listened to what he had been saying with a feeling of unpleasantness. For he but spoke the truth about the fascinations of a certain lady, and more than one present had felt their spell to the surrender of hearts. Not from this came their pain, however, but from whisperings that Rupert himself had set covetous eyes on the lady in question, and well knew they what that meant—a thing fatal to their own aspirations. Where the sun deigns to shine the satellite stars have to suffer eclipse. And just as these jealous subordinates anticipated, the damsel about to be toasted was Mademoiselle Lalande. “Clarisse Lalande?” at length called out the Prince, adding—“To the bottom of your cups, gentlemen!” And to the bottom of their cups drank they, honouring the toast with a cheer, in which might be detected some tone of irony. The usual brief interval of silence, as lull in the midst of storm, was succeeded by a buzz of conversation, not about any common or general subject, but carried on by separate groups, and in dialogue between individuals. Into this last had entered two gentlemen, who sate near the head of the table; one in civilian garb, the other wearing the uniform of a cavalry officer. Both were men of middle age, the officer somewhat the older; while a certain gravity of aspect distinguished him from the gay roysterers around. But for the insignia on his dress, he would have looked more like Parliamentarian than Royalist. The demeanour of the civilian was also of the sober kind, and marked by an air of distinction which proclaimed him a somebody of superior rank. “’Tis no more than the truth,” he said, turning to the officer, after the toast had been disposed of. “The Creole is a fascinating creature. Don’t you think so, Major Grenville?” “I do, my Lord. Her fascination is admitted by all. But, perhaps, some of it is due to her rather free manners. With a little more modesty she might not appear so attractive—certainly would not to most of the present company.” “Ah! true. There’s something in that.” “A good deal, my Lord; despite the old adage. For modesty is a quality that does not adorn Mademoiselle Lalande. A pity, too! The want of it may ruin her reputation, if it hasn’t done that already.” “What a moralist you are, Major! Your ideas have a strong taint of Puritanism. I hope you’re not going to turn your back on us gay Cavaliers. Ha-ha-ha!” The laugh told his Lordship to be in jest. He knew Major Grenville to be a devoted adherent of the King, else he would not have bantered him. “But,” he continued, reverting to the topic with which they started, “morals apart, I’ve never seen a thing to give one such an idea of woman’s power as she does—in that curious Indian dance. ’Tis a wonderful picture, or rather embodiment, of feminine voluptuousness.” “All that I admit,” returned the Major. “But for true womanly grace—ay, abandon, but of a very different kind—you should see a cousin she has, a real English girl, or, to speak more correctly, Welsh.” “All the same. But who is the cousin so highly endowed?” “A Miss Powell, the daughter of a wealthy gentleman, who, I’m sorry to say, is not on our side; instead, one of our bitterest enemies.” “Might you mean Master Ambrose Powell, of Hollymead House, up in the Forest of Dean?” “The same. Your Lordship seems to know him?” “Certainly I do, or did; for it’s several years since I’ve seen him. But he had two daughters then, Sabrina and Vaga. One is not likely to forget the names. Are not both still living?” “Oh yes.” “The elder, Sabrina, was nearly grown up when I saw them last, the other but a slip; but both promised to be great beauties.” “If your Lordship saw them now, you’d say the promise has been kept. They are that, beyond cavil or question.” “But from what you’ve said, I take it you regard one of them as superior to the other. Which, may I ask? At a guess I’d say Sabrina. As a girl I liked her looks best; came near liking them too well. Ha-ha! Have I guessed correctly?” “The reverse, my Lord; that is, according to my ideas of beauty.” “Then you award the palm to Vaga?” “Decidedly.” “Well, Major, I won’t question your judgment, as I can’t till I’ve seen the sisters again. No doubt they will be much changed since I had the pleasure of last meeting them. But they should now be of an age to get married; Sabrina certainly. Is there no talk of that?” “There is, my Lord.” “Regarding which?” “Regarding both.” “Ah! And who the respective favourites?” “Say respective finances, your Lordship. They’re engaged. So report has it.” “And who are to be the Benedicts? Who is Mistress Sabrina to make happy?” “Sir Richard Walwyn, ’tis said.” “Dick Walwyn, indeed! An old classmate of mine at Oxford. Well, she might do worse. And the little yellow-haired sprout? She was a bright blonde, I remember, with wonderful tresses, like a Danäe’s shower. Who’s to be the possessor of all that auriferous wealth?” “One of the Trevors.” “There’s one of them on the Prince’s staff, I understand. Is it he?” “No; a cousin—son of Sir William of Abergavenny.” “What! the young stripling who used to be at Court—one of the gentlemen ushers?” “The same, my Lord.” “Quite an Adonis he; so the Queen thought, ’twas said. Mistress Vaga must have all the fascinations you credit her with to have made conquest of him. But he’s not with the King now?” “No; nor on the King’s side neither. He turned coat, and took service under the Parliament, in Walwyn’s troop of Horse. ’Tis supposed the Danäe’s shower your lordship speaks of had a good deal to do with his conversion.” “Very likely that. Cupid’s a powerful proselytiser. Well, I should like to see the Powell girls again; their father too, for old friendship’s sake. By the way, where are they?” “I am not well informed about their present whereabouts. Some twelve months ago they were here in Bristol, staying at Montserrat House with Madame, his sister. When we took the place, Master Ambrose thought it wise to move away from it, for reasons easily understood. He went hence to Gloucester, where, I believe, he has been residing ever since—up till within the last few days. Likely they’re at Hollymead just now; at least I heard of Powell having returned thither, thinking he would be safe with Monmouth in Massey’s hands. Since it isn’t any longer, he may move back to Gloucester; and the sooner the better, I should say. He has sadly compromised himself by acting on one of the Parliament’s Committees; and some of ours will show him but slight consideration.” “Indeed, I should be sorry if any serious misfortune befell him, or his. An odd sort of man with mistaken views politically; still a man of sterling good qualities. I hope, Major, he may not be among the many victims this unnatural war is claiming all over the land.” “I echo that hope, my Lord.” And with these humane sentiments their dialogue came to a close, so far as that subject was concerned. Two men had been listening to it with eager ears—Prince Rupert and Colonel Lunsford, who sate by his side. Amidst the clinking of goblets, and the jarring din of many voices, they could not hear it all; still enough to make out its general purport. They seemed especially interested when the Major spoke of the Powells having returned to Hollymead. It was news to them; glad news for a certain reason. Often since that morning after the surrender of Bristol had the princely voluptuary given thought to the “bit of saucy sweetness, with cheeks all roses,” he had seen passing out of its gates for Gloucester. Just as at first sight her sister had caught the fancy of the brutal Lunsford, so had she caught his; and the impression still remained, despite a succession of amours and love escapades, with high and low, since. In more than one of his marauds through the Forest of Dean, Lunsford along with him, he had paid visit to Hollymead House; only to find it untenanted, save by caretakers—the family still in the city of Gloucester. Many the curse hurled he, and his infamous underling, at that same city of Gloucester; where the Cavalier who had not cursed it? Overjoyed, then, were the two by what had just reached their ears, the Prince interrogating in undertone,— “You hear that, Lunsford?” “I do, your Highness.” “Gott sei dank! Just what we’ve been wishing and waiting for. We may now visit Hollymead, with fair hope of the sweet fraüleins being there to receive us. Then, mein Colonel, then—nous verrons!” After delivering himself in this polyglot fashion, he caught hold of his goblet, and clinking it against that of Lunsford, said in a confidential whisper,— “We drink to our success, Sir Thomas?” There had been a third listener to the dialogue between Major Grenville and the nobleman, who also overheard the words spoken by Rupert to the new-made knight. But, instead of gladdening, the first gave him pain; which the last intensified to very bitterness. His name made known, the reason will be divined. For it was Reginald Trevor. <hr /></div> <div class="page-break"></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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