The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  Sergeant Delves executed his commission with great promptitude. Notwithstanding the precipitous nature of the ascent, he very soon gained the summit of the hill, and presenting himself before Colonel Maunsel, delivered his leader’s message to him. Knowing that refusal was impossible, the old Cavalier expressed his readiness to accompany the sergeant — the more so, he said, as he was actually intending to proceed in that direction — and only stipulated that he and the young lady might be allowed to descend at a point where the declivity was less abrupt. To this the sergeant made no objection, and a bridle-road being indicated by Eustace Saxby, the whole party soon afterwards reached the valley without misadventure.

  Captain Stelfax made no advance to meet the colonel, but remained lolling back listlessly in his saddle, with his left hand on the hinder bow, while the greater part of his men having lighted their pipes, puffed away at them vigorously. On approaching the Roundhead troop, Colonel Maunsel haughtily demanded of the officer wherefore he had been sent for?

  Without changing his position, or making him any reply, the captain of the Ironsides regarded him insolently for a moment, and then casting his eye upon Dulcia, appeared much struck with her charms. He did not care to conceal his admiration, but gazed at her with much boldness.

  “Is this comely damsel your daughter, Colonel Maunsel?” he inquired.

  Offended by the question, as well as by the other’s deportment, the old Cavalier felt disinclined to answer. Putting a constraint upon himself, however, he rejoined coldly, “She is the daughter of the Rector of Ovingdean, who has been deprived of his benefice, and who resides with me.”

  “Ardingly Beard, is he not named?” the other rejoined. “I have him upon my list of suspected. And his daughter is called Dulcia. I like not the name. It is heathenish, and beseemeth not one so richly endowed with good gifts. Nay, avert not your face from me, damsel. A rough soldier’s talk need not offend you. Perchance you have heard of Hezron Stelfax, captain of the Lord-General’s chosen troop of Ironsides? I am he.”

  “Ask me not, then, what I have heard of you, sir,” Dulcia replied, sharply, “or I may be forced to utter that which will not sound pleasing in your ear.”

  “You can say naught that will be displeasing to me, I am well assured,” he rejoined. “But what have you heard of me? Speak out, and fear not.”

  “I have heard that your whole troop are cruel and blood-thirsty,” she replied; “and that you are the cruelest among them.”

  “Ho! ho!” Stelfax laughed. “Cavaliers’ tales, believe me. I am cruel only to my foes — bloodthirsty only in the field. And so is every soldier, malignant as well as Parliamentarian. But since you reside with Colonel Maunsel, damsel, you must have known his son, Clavering?”

  Dulcia made no reply, but her check burnt hotly.

  “What of him?” demanded the colonel, who had with difficulty controlled his anger during this discourse.

  “Have you not heard?” the other said, looking at him steadfastly.

  “Heard what?” the colonel cried.

  “Your son fought at Worcester,” Stelfax rejoined; “on that great day when the Lord of Hosts so wonderfully manifested his power, covering our heads in the conflict, and enabling us utterly to overthrow our enemies. Praise and glory to His holy name for the great success given us. ‘Thou didst march through the land in indignation. Thou didst thrash the heathen in anger. Thou wentest forth for the salvation of thy people; thou woundedst the head out of the house of the wicked.’”

  “It is not your intention, I presume, Captain Stelfax, to hold forth to me like a preacher at a conventicle,” the old Cavalier observed, contemptuously. “What have you to tell me concerning my son?”

  “I do not desire to give you needless pain, colonel,” Stelfax. “But it is plain you have not received intelligence of your son’s fate. Learn, then, that he was amongst the slain at Worcester.”

  “My son amongst the slain!” the colonel exclaimed.

  “His body was found, recognized, and buried on the field of battle,” Stelfax returned. “But you need not repine. Many an adherent of the Man Charles Stuart suffered greater loss on that day — glorious to us, if disastrous to your cause. Neither need you grieve, fair damsel, for this poor youth,” he added to Dulcia, “A better man may be found to supply his place.”

  “Were he lost, his place could never be supplied to me!” Dulcia murmured.

  “Colonel Maunsel,” Stelfax now said to the old Cavalier, “I sent for you to give you a warning. You are known to be ill-affected towards the Commonwealth—”

  “I am known for my loyalty to my king, whom Heaven preserve!” the colonel cried.

  “Take heed you give not Charles Stuart shelter. Take heed you aid him not so that he escape beyond sea,” Stelfax said, sternly, “or you will find little mercy from your judges.”

  “I expect none,” the colonel rejoined— “neither mercy nor justice. Have you done, sir?”

  “For the present — yes,” Stelfax rejoined.” Yet hold! It is part of my duty, Colonel Maunsel, to make a strict inquisition of your house — Ovingdean Grange, I think ’tis called — to ascertain whether any fugitive malignant be concealed within it. Should you find me there on your return, you need not feel surprised. And now, my men, forward! — Farewell, sweet Dulcia! We shall soon meet again.” So saying, he departed with his troop towards Iford.

  Colonel Maunsel rode on in silence and great anxiety towards Kingston, until the Parliamentary leader and his men had disappeared from view. He then said to the younger Saxby, “Thou art swift of foot, Ninian. Dost think that thou canst reach the Grange before yon redcoats?”

  “Ay, marry can I,” the young falconer rejoined.

  “Off with thee, then,” the colonel cried. “On the instant of thine arrival, seek out John Habergeon — thou wilt find him in my chamber — and acquaint him with the intended visit of this rebel captain. Say to him — and say to the whole house — that my son is reputed to have been slain at Worcester — dost understand?”

  “Perfectly, your honour,” Ninian replied. And mounting Kingston Hill with the lightness and swiftness of a deer, he ran across the summit, and then dashed down on the further side of the eminence.

  Meanwhile, Colonel Maunsel and Dulcia, attended by Eustace Saxby, rode on towards Lewes.

  BOOK IV. THE SEARCH BY THE IRONSIDES

  CHAPTER I.

  The Priory Ruins

  APPROACHING Lewes by the picturesque suburb of Southover, the little party halted near the ruins of the once magnificent priory of Saint Pancrace.

  Here, quitting the road, the colonel and Dulcia, followed by the ostreger, with the merlin on his fist and the spaniels at his heels, entered a smooth, green area, of several acres in extent, surrounded by crumbling walls and arches, partly overgrown by ivy and brambles, and giving some slight evidence of the vast dimensions of the majestic pile formerly occupying the spot.

  The Priory of Lewes, the first of the Cluniac order in England, was founded in the latter part of the eleventh century by William de Warenne and Gundreda his wife, daughter of the Conqueror, and was ruthlessly destroyed at the period of the Reformation by command of Thomas Lord Cromwell. The size and splendour of the conventual church — a portion only of the monastery — may be estimated by the report of Cromwell’s commissioner, John Portmarus — a name to be held in abhorrence by the antiquary — who thus wrote to his employer in 1538: “I advertised your lordship of the length and greatness of this church, how we had begun to pull the whole down to the ground, and what manner and fashion we used in pulling it down. I told your lordship of a vault on the right side of the high altar, that was borne with four pillars, having about it five chapels, which be compassed in with the walls, 70 steps of length, that is feet 210. Now we are plucking down a higher vault borne up by four thick and gross pillars, 14 foot from side to side, about in circumference 45 feet.”

  From the measurement furnished by this Vandal, we learn that the circumference of th
e conventual church was 1558 feet; the thickness of the steeple walls 10 feet, and the height of the steeple above the roof of the stately fabric, which was near 100 feet high, 90 feet. Of these ponderous pillars, storied windows, vaulted chapels, embowed roof, high altar, steeple, cloisters, and proud monuments, all are gone. Even the bones of the illustrious founders of the hallowed pile have been disinterred, and conveyed to another resting-place!

  Out of the disjointed fragments left — here a range of thick walls, with gaping apertures — there a solitary, misshapen piece of grey masonry — further on a yawning pit — it is scarcely possible for the eye of fancy to reconstruct the magnificent edifice. The knave Portmarus did his work effectually, and the only regret is, that he did not obtain the same reward for his services from Cromwell which the latter obtained from his master.

  But though nothing but a few venerable walls told of the former magnitude and grandeur of the ancient priory and its church, still those ruins were picturesque and beautiful. A clear rill flowed through the spacious court, washing the base of the ivy-grown fragments, and into this rill the dogs instantly plunged to drink and bathe. A herd of goats wandered amidst the broken walls, nibbling the rich pasture afforded by the turf.

  Within a bow-shot of the priory, on the south-west, stood a very singular structure, which has now totally disappeared. This was an immense pigeon-house, built of brick, in the form of a cross, with a tower in the centre. The structure was as large as many a church — much larger, indeed, than our diminutive church of Ovingdean — and its proportions will be readily conceived when we mention that it contained upwards of three thousand holes for pigeons, constructed of hewn chalk-stone. Around this gigantic dove-house clouds of pigeons circled; and when by accident the whole flock arose together, the air was almost darkened, while the flapping of wings was prodigious.

  Hard by the priory ruins on the east, and overlooking them, stood that remarkable mound, the construction of which has been attributed to one of the Earls of Dorset; though the hillock was probably, as has been conjectured, thrown up in monkish times, and designed for a Calvary. Undoubtedly, no better position whereon to rear cross or chapel could be found than is afforded by this artificial eminence. The large but shallow excavation at its foot — jocosely designated the Dripping-Pan — shows whence the soil was taken to compose the mound.

  Colonel Maunsel’s sole purpose in seeking this retired spot being to leave Dulcia within it during his visit to Zachary Trangmar, he presently dismounted, and consigning old Rupert to the charge of the ostreger, and promising speedy return, he went his way.

  Amid a scene so beautiful, and on a day so bright and sunny, with so many objects of great and peculiar interest around her — the ruins of the antique priory, with its historical associations — the gigantic dove-house, with its myriad occupants, in itself a never-wearying spectacle — the neighbouring mound — the old and picturesque town of Lewes, with its quaint, climbing houses and its towering castle — the noble amphitheatre of downs encircling her, and now glowing radiantly in the sunshine — with this picture before her, Dulcia might have been glad to be left to its contemplation for a while, had her mind been at ease. But, alas! ever since the interview with the terrible captain of Ironsides new fears had beset her, and full of anxiety for Clavering and her father, she found it impossible to enjoy the various objects of attraction displayed before her.

  After gazing listlessly around, scarcely noticing the cloud of doves hovering overhead, or alighting on the ruins, and which specially attracted the attention of Eustace Saxby, making him long to try the merlin at such a wonderful “flight,” Dulcia fixed her eyes on the little rill flowing at her feet, and pensively awaited the colonel’s return.

  CHAPTER II.

  Mock-Beggar Hall And Its Inmate

  THE pleasant suburb of Southover, now constituting an important portion of Lewes itself, consisted, at the time of which we write, of a few scattered houses, some of which skirted the road leading past the church dedicated to Saint John the Baptist, where now rest the bones of William de Warenne and Gundreda; while others were built on the south side of the gently sloping and well-wooded hill. A clear brook flowing through a charming valley separated the suburb from the parent town. Towards this valley our old Cavalier now wended his way. Traversing a road shaded by noble trees, and crossing a little bridge over the brook, he presently reached the porch of an ancient mansion.

  Though ancient, the house was in excellent preservation; the hard grey Caen stone of which it was constructed looking as fresh as if it had only just let the mason’s chisel, and promising to resist the destructive action of the weather for centuries to come. On either side of the porch — to approach which a couple of steps leading into a small court had to be descended — was a far- projecting wing, furnished with bay mullioned windows. The wings had gable roofs, and on the northerly side of the habitation there was a massive stone chimney of very ornamental construction. A tolerably extensive garden was attached to the house, laid out in the old-fashioned style, planted with yew- trees and evergreens, possessing good walls for fruit, and watered by the brook that flowed through the valley.

  Hospitality on a profuse scale might have been anticipated from such a goodly exterior as was presented by Mock-Beggar Hall — for so was the house designated, perhaps in derision — but slight hospitality was practised within it. The door did not stand wide open so as to admit a view into a spacious hall, thronged with servingmen. On the contrary, it was closely barred. No smoke issuing from the massive stone chimney told of preparations for good cheer. Most of the chambers were dismantled, while the few that were still occupied were meagrely furnished. In the kitchen, where many a noble sirloin and fatted haunch had erstwhile been roasted, little cooking now went on. The house looked starved. In it dwelt a hard, griping usurer and miser.

  Old Zachary Trangmar had known how to profit by the troublous times in which he lived. When men are driven to extremity, money must be had at any rate of usance, or at any sacrifice, and the desperate circumstances of most of the adherents of the royal cause had been the old usurer’s gain. A loan under such circumstances had put him in possession of Mock-Beggar Hall — heretofore known as the Priory House. He had sold its handsome furniture and fine pictures, and meant to sell the house itself, as soon as a favourable opportunity for doing so should offer. Meantime, he occupied it himself. Old Zachary’s establishment consisted of three persons only, an aged domestic and his wife, who having lived with him for many years, were accustomed to his thrifty and penurious habits, and a stout porter, Skrow Antram by name, whom he thought it necessary to maintain as a protection against robbers.

  Colonel Maunsel knocked at the door of Mock-Beggar Hall, and presently afterwards a little grated wicket was opened, and a surly, ill-favoured countenance appeared at it. After scrutinizing the colonel for a moment, Skrow Antram, for it was he, grunted out a word of recognition, shut-to the wicket, and departed, as was evident by his retreating footsteps, to consult his master. Ere long, he returned and unbarred the door. Thus displayed to view, Skrow Antram proved to be a powerfully built man, of middle age, and dark, sinister aspect, who, it would seem, could scarcely have been hired on the strength of his honest looks. He wore a leathern doublet with pewter buttons, with petticoat breeches of green serge tied at the knee. Making a clownish obeisance to the colonel, Skrow forthwith proceeded to usher him into his master’s presence.

  Old Zachary Trangmar occupied a room on the ground floor, looking into the garden. It had once been a library, but books and book shelves were gone; and the sole piece of furniture placed against the bare walls was a large dingy oak press. The old usurer was seated at a table covered with deeds and papers. Within reach of his hand was a pair of small scales, nicely adjusted for weighing gold. Further on lay a pile of account-books with sheepskin backs. Close behind the money-lender, on the floor, was a large chest, bound with iron hoops.

  Though between seventy and eighty, old Zachary was as qu
ick of intellect as ever, and keen were the glances which he cast from beneath his grey overhanging eyebrows at the colonel, on the entrance of the latter. Old Zachary wore a black velvet doublet, much frayed, and over it a loose murrey-coloured robe, which, like the doublet, had seen better days. A black silk skull-cap protected his bald head. His shrunk shanks were encased in nether-hose of lambswool, and his feet thrust into a pair of pantoufles. His features were sharp and pinched, his frame excessively thin, and his skin as yellow as the parchment of deeds lying beside him.

  Silently saluting his visitor, old Zachary motioned him to a seat. Colonel Maunsel bowed gravely and somewhat haughtily, and took the chair, but uttered not a word till Skrow Antram had retired.

  The usurer then looked at him with a shrewd smile.

  “The old business, I presume, colonel? More money — ha! Nothing else would bring you to Mock-Beggar Hall, as fools call my dwelling. You couldn’t have come at a worse time. All going out — not a doit coming in. As I hope to be saved, I haven’t received a noble for this fortnight past!”

  “What of that, thou avaricious rascal?” cried the colonel. “Thy strong-boxes are replete with rose-rials, broad pieces, and angels. I know it well, man — so attempt not to plead poverty with me.”

  “Heaven forfend that I should plead poverty!” Zachary returned. “I meant not that. Money enough is owing to me in all conscience; and if I only get my dues I shall account myself rich. But ready money is what I lack. You are mistaken if you suppose my chests are full, colonel. They have been well-nigh emptied by you and your brother Cavaliers, and my goodly jaco-buses and caroluses, my rose- rials and spur-rials, my angels and double crowns, have been turned into musty parchments.”