The Loyalists, Volumes 1-3 | Page 6

sentiment,
rather than an assumed costume. The most powerful peer in England
had not a more independent mind than Dr. Beaumont. His fortune was
sufficiently ample to supply his modest wants and large benevolence;
they who envied his popularity knew not how to weaken it except by
imitating the virtues in which it originated. Placed in that respectable
mediocrity which was the wish of Agar--too exalted to fear an
oppressor or to invite insult; too humble to make ambition look like
virtue, or to fall into that forgetfulness of his Maker, which is often the
damning sin of prosperity; accustomed to those habits of wise
self-control that fit the mind and body for their respective functions;
and perfectly possessed with a most conscientious resignation and
confidence respecting future events--he was free from those cares
which corrode the temper and contract the understanding. Next to his

church, his study was his earthly paradise; but the same calm principle
of self-discipline attended him there, and regulated his enjoyment of
lettered ease. He left his beloved authors without a sigh, as often as
active duty called him to attend the sick cottager, to heal contention
between his parishioners, to admonish the backsliding, or to defend the
cause of the oppressed.
Such was the man who presented himself to the agonized Evellin; nor
was the latter surprized at the visit, or at the serious admonition which
he received. Parochial care was not then regarded as a novelty, when it
extended beyond the altar or the pulpit; and the graceful stranger felt
himself reproved by one who had a right to exercise the functions of
spiritual authority. He bowed to the pastor's instructions, with a respect
which characterized those times, when the power of the church was
supported by superior holiness, and acknowledged even by those who
in their lives disobeyed her precepts. His subsequent behaviour made
Dr. Beaumont not only pardon the infirmities of a wounded spirit, but
also apply the balm of friendship to them, by giving the stranger a most
cordial invitation to the glebe-house, where he promised him a friendly
welcome as often as he was disposed to relish the quiet habits of his
family.
It so happened, that after Evellin had twice or thrice passed the little
wicket that separated the parson's garden from the village green, he
disliked taking any other road. Yet though Mrs. Beaumont's person was
of that description which subjects Lancashire ladies to the imputation
of witchcraft, (a charge too clearly proved against them to be denied,) it
was not the fascination of her eyes which drew the loitering step, fixed
the unconscious gaze, and almost charmed to repose the stranger's
untold sorrows. The wife of his friend excited only the respect and
esteem of this antique courtier; but a young unaffianced Arachne sat
spinning by her side, discreet and ingenious as Minerva, rosy and
playful as Hebe. This was Isabel, the younger sister of his reverence,
who, not inwardly displeased that the family party was enlarged by
such an agreeable guest, nor wholly unconscious of the power of her
own charms, strove with all the unsuspecting confidence of youth to
amuse a visitor whom her honoured brother pronounced worthy of

esteem and pity, and willingly exerted her arch vivacity to divert a
melancholy of which no one knew the cause. Evellin soon discovered
that he interested the fair recluse, and though she was not the first lady
who viewed him with favour, he was flattered by an attention which he
could not impute to extrinsic qualities. "She certainly pities me,"
observed he, on perceiving an unnoticed tear steal down her cheek,
when with unguarded confidence, momentarily excited by the benign
manners and calm happiness of his host, he inveighed against the
treachery of courts and the weakness of Kings. "Can she love me?" was
his next thought; "or why this lively interest in my sorrows?" This
doubt, or rather hope, was suggested by hearing Isabel sob aloud while
he told Dr. Beaumont not to look for any earthly return for the kindness
he shewed him. "Were my fortunes," said he one day to his hospitable
friends, "equal to my birth, you should find me a prodigal in my
gratitude, but my own folly in 'believing integrity of manners and
innocence of life are a guard strong enough to secure any man in his
voyage through the world in what company soever he travelled, and
through what ways soever he was to pass[1],' furnished my enemies
with weapons which have been used to my undoing. For this last year I
have suffered alternate hopes and fears. Whether my heart is sick of
suspence, or the clouds of mischance really thicken around me, I can
scarcely ascertain, but my meditations grow more gloomy, and I
believe myself doomed to