Ovingdean Grange by W. Harrison Ainsworth

It was not without some difficulty and danger that Clavering and his companion managed to reach Worcester, in which loyal city the adventurous young king had established his head-quarters. Though the new comer brought him no important levy of horse or foot, but only a single follower, Charles received the young man with great satisfaction, and well aware of his father’s high character, misfortunes, and fidelity to the royal cause, at once bestowed upon him the command of a troop of horse under Colonel Wogan.

It is not our purpose to describe the events preceding the disastrous day of Worcester, nor to furnish any details of that fatal engagement, when the hopes of the young monarch and his adherents were utterly destroyed. Having as little sympathy as the Cavaliers themselves with the Republican army and its victorious general, it is no pleasure to us to record their successes. Suffice it then to say, that while preparations were making by Charles and his generals for the coming conflict, Clavering exhibited the utmost ardour and impatience; and when at length the luckless 3rd of September arrived, proved himself by his fiery courage, and perhaps by his rashness, to be his father’s son. Some intelligence of his brave doings during the battle had been received at Ovingdean Grange, but what became of him afterwards was not known. His name did not appear amongst the list of the slain; but such lists in those troublous times were ever imperfect. Wogan’s regiment, it was known, had suffered severely in covering the king’s retreat; and what so probable as that foolhardy and inexperienced Clavering had fallen then. So at least feared his father. So feared another, whose gentle heart was distracted by doubt and anxiety.

Sad presentiments had filled Dulcia’s breast when young Maunsel, full of martial ardour and enthusiasm for his cause, had set out on the expedition. She had accompanied him to the summit of the down overlooking the neighbouring town of Brightelmstone, then giving little promise of its future magnitude and importance, and chiefly noticeable from this point by a cluster of quaint old houses, with red-tiled roofs and gables, grouped around the ancient church on the hill, together with a short scattered street, consisting mostly of cottages and mean habitations, running towards the sea:—she had accompanied him, we say, to this point, and after a tearful parting—tearful on her side, at least—had gazed wistfully after him till he gained the brow of the opposite hill, when he waved a farewell with the scarf she had embroidered for him, and disappeared from view.

Had he disappeared for ever? was the question that occupied Dulcia, as she returned to the Grange with her attendant, Patty Whinchat. Very beautiful and very picturesque did the old house appear, embosomed amidst its trees, and with the old church adjoining, as viewed from the high ground she was traversing, but she looked not towards it, for her thoughts were wandering in another direction. Patty, a lively little damsel, and disposed to take a cheerful view of things, chattered away, and assured her mistress that Master Clavering would soon be back again, after killing all the Roundheads; but after a while, receiving neither response nor other encouragement to talk, she became silent, and tried to shed a few tears for company.

Often did Dulcia recur to this parting with Clavering, and never without reviving the sad forebodings which she had then experienced. These, however, were vague fears, and easily shaken off. But when she heard of Worcester’s disastrous fight—when rumours of dreadful slaughter of the Royalists reached her—when day after day passed, and no tidings came of Clavering—we may imagine how much she suffered. She dreaded to receive confirmation of her worst fears, and yet this suspense was well-nigh intolerable. By day a pallid image with stony eyes was ever before her; and at night she beheld the same figure in her dreams, stretched like a blood-stained corpse upon the battle-plain.

As to Colonel Maunsel, though anxiety as to his son’s fate was naturally uppermost in his bosom, the consideration of what he deemed to be a great national calamity weighed so heavily upon him, as in some degree to absorb his private griefs. The issue of the battle of Worcester he deemed fatal to his country. England was dishonoured; its glory obscured. Right, religion, loyalty, were trampled under foot. Republicanism was clearly in the ascendant: the star of monarchy, which had shone for a moment with its accustomed splendour, had set, he feared, for ever. While deploring the prostrate condition of his own party, now at the mercy of its hated opponents, he felt yet more acutely the terrible jeopardy in which the head of that party was placed. What had become of Charles, after the conflict on which he had staked his fortunes, the colonel could only conjecture. But he felt certain that the royal fugitive had as yet contrived to elude the vigilance of his enemies. Charles’s capture would have been too loudly proclaimed not to be quickly known throughout the realm. But it was almost equally certain that the young king was yet within the country, and his retreat might, therefore, at any moment be discovered. A large reward was offered for his capture; and the penalties of high treason, loss of life and forfeiture of estate, were adjudged to such as should harbour him, or aid in his escape. Colonel Maunsell was well aware, from his own feelings, that no personal risk would prevent any loyal subject from assisting his sovereign; but he naturally dreaded lest the reward offered by the council of state might tempt some sordid knave to cause Charles’s betrayal. All these considerations sorely perplexed and grieved the old Cavalier’s spirit. The burden of his anxiety was almost greater than he could bear, and threatened to bow him to the ground. He began to fear that the messenger who brought him word that his son had been found amongst the slain, would tell him that the king had been captured. Such tidings, doubly calamitous, he was well assured, would prove his own death-blow.