Part 11 (2/2)
”I consider it so,” answered Constantia; ”nothing can dissolve it but death, or some palpable proof of gross unworthiness.”
”Suppose,” said Monthault, ”a more enlarged view of mankind should discover to you a worthier lover; one whose pa.s.sion for you is founded on discriminating preference, not the cold impulse of satiated habit; one who could give distinction to beauty, and lead it from obscurity into the splendour it deserves; should such a one sue for the favour of the divine Constantia:”----
”I would answer, if I aim perfidious to Eustace, I cannot be divine.”
”But love is a potent and untameable pa.s.sion, disdaining the narrow limitations of preceptive constancy. The acknowledged privilege of sovereign beauty is to inspire and encourage universal love.”
Constance looked offended, and expressed a hope that she might never possess an empire which could only gratify vanity and pain sincerity.
Monthault found he had gone too far, and tried by badinage to divert her resentment. ”If,” said he, ”praise is only timeable to your ear when uttered by one voice, I must not tell you, even if I heard our young Prince, who is an acknowledged wors.h.i.+pper of beauty, speak in raptures of the unparalleled loveliness of Dr. Beaumont's daughter.”
”No,” said she, sternly, ”indeed you must not. My humble station prevents him from saying any thing of my person but, what would be offensive for me to hear; and I wish not to have the loyal attachment I feel for my Sovereign's son diminished, by knowing that he indulges in any improper licence of conversation.”
”Nay,” replied Monthault, ”what he observed was only in reply to one who is your most devoted slave, predicting that the chains you formed never could be broken.”
”I perceive,” answered she, rising to leave the room, ”that if I give you more time for the fabrication you will contrive a very amusing fiction. I must therefore silence you by saying, that, little as I know of court-gallantry, he who talks to me in this style, cannot be the friend of Eustace.”
Monthault flew into heroics, and struggled to detain her. ”Cruel Constantia,” said he, ”know you not that love is an involuntary pa.s.sion which reason vainly tries to subdue? Cannot you, who see the conflict in my soul, pity me without doubting my friends.h.i.+p or my honour?”
”I confess I do doubt both,” was her reply; ”but provided you no more offend me with such language, I will not mention my suspicions to Eustace. I am, 'tis true, a simple girl, yet not so weak as to value myself on an extrinsic appendage which, if I possess, I share with the b.u.t.terfly. If beauty renders me more amiable in the eyes of those I love, it is a welcome endowment; but I never will patiently hear it commended at the expence of any better quality.”
It is probable that, after this repulse, Monthault would never more have thought of Constance if some other pursuit had intervened. But, in the leisure of suspended warfare, a vacant understanding and depraved appet.i.te sees no resource from _ennui_ but gallantry. He had tried flattery; but it failed to excite vanity, or to lead his intended prey into the toils of ambition. He resolved to pursue another scheme, by which he hoped that beauty might be separated from its plighted love.
While Oxford resounded with preparations for the removal of the Prince and the commencement of the campaign, Monthault affected regret at leaving Eustace. ”I wish,” said he, ”you could accompany me to see actual service; you would then feel a just contempt for military martinets and parade exercise. Goring would, I know, delight in bringing forward a spirit like yours. But it is impossible. The barriers which detain you are insuperable. I myself know too well the power of beauty; yet, if you knew all that was said, even for Constantia's sake you might resolve, for a few months, to tear yourself from her arms.”
”I cannot understand you,” answered Eustace. ”True, I am contracted to Constantia; but it is not she who detains me at Oxford. We are not to be married till we are both at full age; nor even then unless the times wear a happier aspect.”
”Her character!” retorted Eustace; ”can that need any other vindicator than my honour? or rather, does any man impugn it? We have loved from our childhood; but it has been with that innocence which enables us to look forward to years of happiness, unembittered by reproach.”
Monthault smiled, said he rejoiced at this expurgation, but added, ”Can you wonder Oxford is now the metropolis of slander, since it is full of court-ladies who have now no revels or maskings to amuse them, and never leave reputations in quiet when they are out of humour. But, to put a stop to defamation, let me advise a military excursion.”
Eustace explained, that it was the will of an absent father, and not amorous dalliance, which kept him from the field. It was doubtful whether that father lived; for he was engaged in most severe service.
”Meantime,” added he, ”my uncle is bound by a promise to keep me from dangerous enterprises; but as I now begin to think it is disloyal for any one on the verge of manhood to refuse rallying round the King at his greatest need, I trust the prohibition will soon be removed. The last time that I urged Dr. Beaumont on the subject, he answered, that it was not courage, but bravado, to buckle on the sword, while the discussion of a pending treaty afforded a prospect of its being speedily ungirded.
But as the Parliamentary commissioners are returned to London, I am determined again to ask leave to join the army.”
”And if refused,” said Monthault, ”would you stay at Oxford, like a tame lion in a chain, caressed by old women, and wondered at by spectacled fellows of colleges.” Eustace paused. ”I see, my brave fellow,” resumed the tempter, ”you are determined to be one of us. I know your heart, and can predict that the consciousness of positive disobedience will make you miserable. Go, then, in the hope that your uncle would not have restrained you. Are you not old enough to judge for yourself? They have permitted you to chuse a wife; why not also choose your profession?”
”You have determined me,” said Eustace, ”I will only bid adieu to Constantia.”
”A most lover-like determination!” was Monthault's reply, ”and made with a right prudent command of the impulses of valour. I antic.i.p.ate the result. In another hour you will return; press me to your heart; look a little ashamed; wish me good success; and then sigh out, 'I cannot bear to leave her.'”
”No,” said Eustace; ”to prove that I am not a woman's slave, I will only look the adieu, which may be our last, without telling her my purpose.
Had you a treasure, Monthault, which you valued more than life, would you not bathe it with a parting tear as you placed it in a casket, while about to enter on a dangerous undertaking, where your first step may be to meet death?”
Monthault answered, that soldiers never thought of dying. They separated; Eustace, to bid a mental farewel to his kindred, home, and love; and Monthault, to prepare the Prince and Lord Goring to welcome a pleasant addition to their party in a spirited youth, who had resolved to escape from the restrictions of austere friends, and to try the agreeable freedom of a military life. In this view these defenders of the Crown and the Church of England looked on the last resources which a falling King committed to their care.
[1] This paragraph is copied from Fenelon.
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