Francesca Carrara/Chapter 63
CHAPTER IV.
"A careless set they were, in whose bold hands
Swords were like toys."
That transient but most lovely hour which follows the sunset was now melting away in the far recesses of the forest. A few gleams of richer hues still lingered in some of the crimson clouds which yet treasured up a sunbeam; but the great expanse was filled with that pure and pale purple, so soon to merge in deeper gloom, or to tremble into silvery light beneath the radiant and rising moon. The glorious dyes of autumn—autumn, that comes in like a conqueror, but departs like a mourner—were upon the boughs, but lost in that undistinguishing light which subdued all things with its own gentle tinting.
Again, in that little lonely glade, which to them was as a temple, Lucy met that young cavalier, now full of the excitement of his adventure; while she, alive only to its dangers, would fain have found words to implore him to desist. And yet, for a moment, each yielded to the softening influence of the scene—each forget that there was a world beyond that singing brook, whose tiny waves went murmuring along, scarce so loud as the beating of the heart. Every bough drooped in complete repose. Not a bird was on the wing to disturb the sleeping leaves—not a wind was abroad to make music among the branches.
Lucy stood looking down on the brook where was outlined the noble figure of her lover; while he gazed upon her, though he could catch only the profile, and the crimsoned cheek of the averted face.
The moon, which had been slowly ascending, now shone through an open space between the trees; and the rippling waters of the brook gave back her light in luminous vibrations.
Evelyn started. "I shall be late!" exclaimed he. "My own sweetest Lucy, farewell!—you shall hear from me to-morrow."
No longer sustained by his arm, she leant for support against an oak beside; while he loosened the bridle of his horse, which had been fastened near, and, springing at once into the saddle, inclined into the gesture of farewell, and darted off with furious speed along one of the narrow roads.
Lucy strove to raise her hand to wave but one parting sign—down it sank, powerless. At last a violent burst of tears expressed rather than relieved the feelings with which her heart was overcharged; and slowly she turned from the little brook which she had kept watching, as if she expected it still to retain the image of Evelyn. Anxiety preponderated over hope; and it was scarcely possible for Evelyn to encounter a danger not previously conjured up by the alarmed fancy of his mistress.
Leaving her to pursue her disconsolate path homewards, starting at every shadow that fell upon her way, and turning pale at the slightest sound, we will accompany Evelyn on his ride through the forest.
It has often been said, and so truly that one is perpetually tempted to say it again, that nothing exhilarates the spirits like a brisk gallop; and I believe, if ever we feel the enjoyment of mere existence, it is when, with foot in the stirrup and hand on the bridle, the ground seems to fly beneath the fiery creature, which is urged to its utmost speed. The air blows fresh against your face—the scene changes every instant. There is a sense of freedom and of power—a lively stir of all the bodily faculties, which sends the blood dancing in a cheerful current, little known to the dull monotony of common hours. Evelyn saw the moonlit glades disappear one after another, as he dashed on, careless of the many obstacles that opposed his speed; but the horse which he rode was forest bred—and it is strange with what fearless sagacity these animals thread their native paths.
At length Evelyn dropped the reins; and leaping to the ground, led his docile follower quietly along, that he might be cool previous to the coming pause. The narrow path suddenly opened upon a little glade, the smallest heath-blossom of which was visible in the flood of clear moonlight which rested upon it. It was the dell of Rufus's stone, around which some dozen dark figures were congregated; but an occasional laugh, and the sound of animated discourse, gave an almost unnatural cheerfulness to the place.
Conspiracies, like all other exercises of human ingenuity, are of very different kinds. The gloomy plots arranged in old Italian halls—the dungeon, sudden and silent as the grave, beneath their feet—the worm-eaten tapestries mouldering on the walls, and many a dark stain on the time-worn floor,—were formed by the Venetian noble in the black robe, so emblematic of his dreary state, with the rack in perspective, and the dagger and the poisoned bowl, at once his enemies and his auxiliaries. These were very opposite affairs to the reckless and daring attempts of the merry and bold cavaliers, whose inspiration was the red wine, whose faith was in their own good sword, and whoso loyalty made up in gaiety and disinterestedness what it lacked in prudence and forethought.
The whole party hastened to greet Evelyn. "What news?" exclaimed one youth, who, in his hurry, allowed the flask which he held to waste its rosy contents on the spotted moss.
"Good!" said Evelyn; "Sir George Booth has surprised Chester."
"A favourable omen for Southampton," replied another.
"And," continued Evelyn, "the King"—at the name every cavalier took off his plumed cap: and the sudden wave of their white plumes in the moonbeam was like a flash of lightning—"Awaits at Calais the success of to-night's enterprise. Southampton seems a safe landing-place, and Louis has ordered a choice detachment of troops to attend his will."
"Now, by St. George!" exclaimed Charles Goring, the youth who had before spoken, "we need no swords but our own to strike for our lawful monarch!"
"Faith, those cursed Roundheads," answered Evelyn, "Are strongly placed. No cause, however good, is the worse for help. But now, gentlemen, to decide on our proceedings."
A unanimous exclamation called upon Evelyn himself to speak; and, after a minute's politic pause, he went on to state his plan.
"You are aware that Colonel Mainwaring will to-night attempt to land from the Isle of Wight, with a small but picked body in the disguise of smugglers. A bright light flung in the air will announce the success of their landing, when they will disperse through the town; and one, a cool, bold fellow, whom I know well, will unlock the town gate, and—for he has various talents—hopes, through his influence with a pretty daughter of one of the wardens, to leave unbarred a certain wicket in the postern on the seaward side. Our part is now to ride with all speed to Southampton. We shall assemble in the avenue leading to the town; for though I hear no tidings of troops in the neighbourhood, it is best to be cautious; and, to avoid suspicion, we will separate and seek our rendezvous in parties of two and three. And now, gentlemen, for the avenue of Southampton!"
A general murmur of assent arose from his little auditory.
"I will ride with you," whispered Charles Goring. "I see that we have each on the uniform of our old regiment; we have fought side by side before now, and will again."
Evelyn clasped the hand which was warmly extended to him; and, turning to the rest, said, "One health, cavaliers, before we part! I see you have kept out the night air by a gallant array of flasks."
Charles Goring stepped forward, and filling a silver cup, offered it to Evelyn, who, bending on one knee, drank, "To the health of King Charles, and to a gay supper to-night in Southampton Castle!"
The toast was drunk unanimously, and the glade rang with acclamations. For a moment all was tumult: the hurried sound of steps, the trampling of the horses, while the birds, disturbed from their quiet roost, fluttered amid the boughs, followed by a shower of dry leaves; and the deer, sleeping in the thickest brakes started up, and galloped off through the crackling bushes.
"God and King Charles! is the watchword," said Evelyn. "Gentlemen, forward!"
"Now, by that God whose name ye so rashly profane, I adjure you to pause, and at least hear the words of his humblest minister, before you adventure forth on your rash and ill-advised expedition!”
For a moment all stood still, and gazed with surprise at the intruder who risked so strange an interference with their counsel. He was a young man, pale with strong excitement, and whose black dress bespoke his calling. Taking advantage of the surprise, which assured him at least transient attention, he continued, addressing himself particularly to Evelyn.
"It matters little," and here a flitting crimson passed over his countenance, "by what means I became acquainted with your present purpose,—Providence directs our weakness to its own wise ends; but I do know that you are bound on an errand of blood, dangerous to others, fatal to yourselves. Let not your rash ambition again bring death into our land. We are now, after sore troubles, at peace; in peace let us remain. What wild and vain hope tempts you to rekindle the flame of civil war so recently extinguished? Why would you again arm father against son, and brother against brother? Our midnights pass now in security. Do none of ye, as children, remember how ye trembled as the horizon in the distance reddened, and told that the enemy was at hand—and that enemy your own countrymen? For the love of the Saviour, draw not those swords from their scabbards to dye them in English blood!"
But Charles Aubyn (for it was he) had, like most enthusiasts, overcalculated the influence of his eloquence; surprise had alone procured him a hearing, and the bold cavaliers around were little in the mood for a homily.
"Time is too precious to be wasted in words," said Evelyn, who was the first to recover himself. "Secure the meddling fool!" and Aubyn found himself the next instant pinioned between two of the company.
"I misdoubt me much that he is a spy!" whispered one of the elder cavaliers.
"If so," exclaimed Goring, "but that I disdain to soil steel on such ignoble prey—"
"Dead men tell no tales," replied the other, drawing his sword and approaching their luckless adviser.
"Not so," interrupted Evelyn, who feeling interested, despite of himself, in the calm courage of the young priest, was reluctant to see him murdered before his eyes, and who had reason of old to know the ferocious temper of his companion. "Leave it to me; I know how to manage these têtes-montés. Release your prisoner!"
Charles Aubyn was left at perfect freedom; but he stood firm, and gave the young chief a look as collected, if less haughty, than his own.
"Mr. Aubyn," said Evelyn, "for I believe it is that gentleman whom I have the honour of addressing, and whose acquaintance I had hoped to make under different circumstances, I esteem the motives of your interference; but, however opposed our sense of duty, it is as strong as your own. That duty, sir, leads us to peril life and liberty in the service of that earthly sovereign whom we hold to be the representative of our heavenly one. You cannot hope that a few words will change the settled purpose of years. You can do us no good—you may do us harm; but Mr. Aubyn's known character is our guarantee against treachery. You are at perfect liberty; to your honour alone we trust that you will not betray those to whom you owe your life. Good night, sir. And, once more, forward, cavaliers!"
Again came the hurried trampling of the steeds, the crash of the branches, the sound of the receding hoofs; but in less than five minutes all was still. The moonlight fell on the stone of the murdered king, calm as if its silvery flood had not been broken by shadows of men agitated by bold ambition and daring design, and bound on a fearful service, whose end, to some, at least, must be death!
With feelings of mixed sorrow and mortification, Charles Aubyn stood gazing on the lonely dell. His knowledge of the conspirators' intentions had arisen from an interest, scarcely avowed even to himself, in Lucy Aylmer. Accustomed to loiter round her path—living for days on the hope of a brief "good morrow," kindly uttered as he crossed her way—he had been the unintentional witness of her last interview with Evelyn. His first impulse was to join the drooping maiden, and conduct her home with at least a brother's care; but his second bore with it the sterner call of a duty:—surely he might warn and expostulate with the thoughtless band, about to throw the chances of life and death, as if they were the dice with which they beguiled an idle evening. He had grown up in a part of the country which had suffered the most from civil war, and its horrors were deeply rooted in his imagination. Too enthusiastic for fear—and, we must add, for discretion—he resolved on seeking the place, and urging the dangers which encompassed them round about; and he reached it almost as soon as Evelyn, who, to avoid the public road, was obliged to take a very circuitous route. The result is already known; and all that Charles Aubyn gained by his interference, was a nearer view of his graceful rival, and a deep conviction of his generosity. No wonder that he left the glen with a hasty step, and sought his own home, fevered with disappointment and regret.