Part 18 (1/2)
”No, no, no,” said Evellin; ”he never cursed him.”
”I wish,” cried Jobson, ”the poor gentleman had known that; it might have saved his life.”
”Is he dead?” exclaimed the father, in an agony that lifted his debilitated frame from its rec.u.mbent posture.
”Shot in cold blood after the taking of Pembroke-Castle.”
”By whose order?”
”A devil's-born traitor, as bad as those who cut off the King's head; Lord Bellingham they call him.”
Evellin clenched his fist; his teeth were set; his eyes rolled in terrific wildness; Jobson thought him in a fit, and advanced to support him. But with the reckless strength of frenzy, the distracted father grasped the tottering veteran. No object but Bellingham presented itself to his perverted imagination; and in the fury of rage, blended with anguish, he redoubled his blows on Jobson, exclaiming, ”Accursed Bellingham, give me back my son!”
The vehemence of the Colonel's execrations brought Arthur de Vallance to the a.s.sistance of Jobson, who, in terrified accents, declared the good gentleman was suddenly gone mad, and he could not hold him. It might be expected, that the entrance, at that instant, of the son of Eustace's murderer would have increased the paroxysm, but nature was exhausted; he fixed his eyes upon him, till anguish changed to glaring inanity, and he sunk lifeless on the pallet.
Arthur's first care was to call Isabel, in hopes her tender ministrations would restore her father. Her efforts were attended with success. Evellin opened his eyes, saw his daughter and her lover supporting him; he looked alternately at each; no language can describe the expression of those looks, while he vainly struggled for utterance.
Withdrawing his hand from the pressure of Arthur's, he threw it round the neck of Isabel, and with the feebleness of an apparently dying accent, inquired if she loved that man. Astonishment kept her mute; Evellin sobbed aloud. ”By _his_ father, girl, your brother has been murdered in cold blood.”
If a painter wished to portray a scene of superlative misery, which the pen cannot describe, the present might employ his strongest powers of pathos.--The pleading eye of Arthur fixed on the face of Isabel, while she gazed on her father with the blank features of astonishment and despair. Jobson now understood the development he had caused, and shared the anguish which it excited. He brushed the tears from his eyes; they filled again. He sobbed aloud, and thought such sorrow worse than the severest warfare he had ever sustained.
The first return of recollection suggested to young De Vallance the necessity of withdrawing from the presence of his uncle. He sought Dr.
Beaumont, but that universal comforter could not relieve such despair.
He had, himself, the dreadful task of disclosing the death of Eustace to Constantia, and of sustaining the keen anguish of her first sorrow, before he could intrust her to the care of Mrs. Mellicent, and a.s.sist Isabel in the secret chamber, where the loud cries and groans of Evellin exposed them all to the most imminent danger of discovery.
Before Dr. Beaumont could visit his frantic friend, rage had again exhausted his strength; he lay apparently lifeless, and Isabel was weeping over him.--In cases of extreme distress, to talk of comfort and prescribe composure, is impertinence. Nature will claim her rights, and a true friend respects them in silence. He directed his attention to the narrative of Jobson, from whose report he gathered those particulars of the fate of Eustace, which, with other circ.u.mstances that afterwards transpired, shall be narrated in the subsequent chapter.
[1] This disposition was a prominent feature in the character of Sir Matthew Hale.
END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.
VOLUME III
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAP. XIX.
CHAP. XX.
CHAP. XXI.
CHAP. XXII.
CHAP. XXIII.
CHAP. XXIV.
CHAP. XXV.
CHAP. XXVI.
CHAP. XXVII.
CHAP. XXVIII.