University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

King Lear.

It was the third day only after Cromwell's interview
with Charles that Ardenne, who had purchased
a small house in the Strand, with pleasant
gardens sloping to the river, making it his continual
abode when not engaged in military duties, was
walking on the terrace close to the water's edge,
in one of those abstracted and half-melancholy
moods which had become almost habitual to him,
except when circumstances calling for sudden action
roused him at once to all his former energy.
The day had been one of storm, more like a winter's
tempest than a mere summer's shower—the
rain, driven along the river's course by a cold eastern
gale, had fallen constantly since daybreak; and,
though toward evening it had ceased, and the wind
sunk, a thick chilling mist crept up the stream, at
the first clinging only to the opposite shores and
curtaining the distant objects, but increasing gradually
in its volume, till the whole space from bank
to bank was filled with a gray mass of fog, so palpable
and dense that barge and wherry passed and
repassed unseen, although the near dash of their
oars and the loud voices of the rowers showed that
they could scarcely be at ten yards distance. A
transient gleam of sunshine had drawn forth Sir
Edgar from his solitary studies; and, once plunged

in his gloomy reveries, he continued to walk to and
fro, scarce conscious of the increasing badness of
the weather; but suddenly, as he paused near the
little wharf to which his barge was moored, a
stern voice, whose accents of command he recognised
at once, rose from the misty river above the
splashing of the oars which had for some time been
approaching.

“Ho! put in here, thou stupid knave; here, at
this private stair; 'tis here we would be landed.”

It was, he could not be mistaken, the voice of
Cromwell; and immediately the sharp beak of a
wherry ran upon the steps, pulled by two watermen,
with two more men, soldiers it seemed, reclining
in the stern. Oliver, for one was indeed
he, leaped out forthwith, and addressed Edgar hastily,
as if afraid that he should speak the first, and
in a tone so loud that it was evident he wished the
boatmen to hear what he said.

“Is not this, I beseech you, the dwelling of
brave Colonel Ardenne? We have come hither
from the army—two of the adjutators—to bear tidings
to him.”

“It is, sir,” Edgar replied, quickly comprehending
Cromwell's wish. “And I am Colonel Ardenne.
I pray you walk up to the house, you and
your comrade.”

“Surely, most surely,” Oliver replied, with well-feigned
bluntness; “we have come by the river up
from Brentford, and I profess that I am chilled,
and yearning for the creature comforts. How say
you, Fast and Pray, think'st thou a quartern of
strong waters would go down amiss? You, watermen,”
he added, “make fast your boat there to the
stairs, and follow us to the house; we cannot tarry
here in this foul mist to pay your fares.” They
were joined, while he was speaking, by the other

soldier, whom, despite his dress, Ardenne at first
sight discovered to be Ireton; and, although not a
little wondering at their visit, and the disguise they
had adopted, judging the garden no place for inquiry,
he led them in all haste toward the house.
Both wore coarse scarlet cassocks, with buff
breeches and immense jack-boots, the uniform of
privates in the ironsides off duty; long tucks, with
iron scabbards, hanging from their buff belts, and
clattering on the pavements as they strode along;
and broad-brimmed hats of felt, the flaps unlooped,
and covering their brows as if to guard against the
weather. They both were furnished with tobaccopipes—short,
dingy iron tubes—and smoked almost
incessantly, as well to cloud their features as to
afford a plausible excuse for silence; but, as a
farther safeguard against inquiring cyes, Cromwell
had cast about him a stained and weather-beaten
dragoon cloak of frieze, with its cape muffling
him wellnigh to the mouth. Ireton carried
in his hand a package of some size, wrapped in an
oilskin cover; and, on a casual meeting, even an
intimate acquaintance would have detected nothing
in their air or demeanour by which to judge them
different from what they seemed. The moment
they had entered—“Let your domestics instantly
take arms,” said Cromwell, “and lay these watermen
by the heels; they might blab else, although
I think they know us not; and let your trusty
steward alone attend us; and bid him see your
doors be locked, and that no one of your attendants,
on any pretext, this night cross the threshold.”
Leading his guests himself into a small library refired
from the street and looking out upon the garden,
Edgar went out to give his orders. Before
returning he had seen the boatmen, after a slight
struggle, secured in a remote chamber, with an
abundance of strong liquors, which he judged rightly
would at once console them and effectually close
their mouths, and two stout watchmen posted at
the door—had given his directions to old Anthony,
who, since Sir Henry's death, followed his fortunes
—and held the keys of every door and shutter in
his own possession.

“Rude greeting, this,” said Oliver, as he returned;
“but, of a truth, there is deep need of it.
In brief, I will acquaint you with the matter, for
time presses. Three days since Charles accepted
fully the conditions of the army, as I wrote you on
Monday! The adjutators are brought over! the
parliament must come to our terms! So far all's
well! But, with the dawn to-day, a letter came to
me at Windsor—from one who has conveyed us
much intelligence, and never has deceived us—a
friend in the king's bedchamber—verbum sat! He
writes us that Charles Stuart hath been all yesterday
in deep debate with Ashburnham, that firebrand
of the queen's—that their resolves are taken
—and a letter—of a surety in cipher, but, then,
we hold the key, the Lord be thankful for it—prepared
for Henrietta, to be conveyed right cunningly
this night to Dover by an unconscious messenger.
What the contents may be our friend might not
discover, though, as he writes, he left no stone unturned;
but of this he is certain, that it is all-important,
and decisive of the king's intention as to
the pending treaty. This letter we must intercept;
and, therefore, we rode straight in this disguise to
Brentford, and thence took boat, to baffle prying
eyes; and, so far, all goes rightly. Now attend—
the bearer of this letter will come at ten o'clock tonight,
carrying a saddle on his head, to the Blue
Boar in Holborn, thence to take horse for Dover.
The man will wear a green plush riding-coat, and

breeches of the same; the elbows of the doublet
and the seams of the trunk-hose guarded with neat-skin
leather; a stammel waistcoat, and a red riband
round his hat, which is of common straw. The
saddle will be old, and somewhat patched and ragged;
and, in the off-side lap, between the tree and
pannel, the letter is concealed. The man knows
not that it is there, deeming he goes to buy a famous
hunting-horse from one John Styles, a horse
courser. He is to put up at the Red Lion inn in
Dover; and there will be one, knowing his description,
who shall search the saddle and—find nothing!
for we must have the packet! How goes
the night, Sir Edgar?”

“Past seven, I am sure; nay,” after looking at
his watch, “but it lacks scant a quarter of an
hour to eight. I thought not that it was so late!”

“Nay, then, we are but just in time; you will
go with us, sir, and aid us. We must have three,
and know none else in whom we may so perfectly
rely. You are aware that Charles is on parole not
to hold secret interview with France—his parole
broken, there is no breach of honesty or honour in
seizing and perusing his despatches. That package—open
it quickly, Ireton—contains a dress like
these that we now wear—the uniform of one who
hath about your inches, borrowed for the nonce.
It savours somewhat of tobacco-smoke and stale
October, but we must not be nice. I pray you
don it speedily. Nay, Ireton, you forget; where
is the net to gather up his lovelocks, and the peruke?
quick! quick!” he cried, impatiently binding
up Edgar's flowing hair, and covering it with a
foxy wig, close-clipped, and cut into a hundred little
peaks, like those which Cleaveland mentions in
his Hue and Cry, deriding them as `Hair in characters
and luggs in text.' ”

Some pigment was laid on his eyebrows, whiskers,
and mustaches, suiting them to the colour of
his false hair. A kerchief of coarse cotton next
replaced his collar of fine lace, and a garb similar
to that of his companions his well-fancied habits.
A clumsy broadsword was produced, with a wide
leathern shoulder-belt, from under Cromwell's
cloak; and this, with an old pair of his own military
boots, carefully soiled for the occasion, and fitted
with rough iron spurs, and an unpolished headpiece,
completed his attire.

“Mind, now, your bearing,” Cromwell said, as
they left the house; “smoke without ceasing;
jostle a little those whom we meet with in the
streets, and quote the strongest texts you may remember.
When that we reach the inn, the great
gate will be closed, the wicket only open. We
will all enter in, and drink till half past nine of the
clock—then go forth you, as if upon some errand
—loiter about the gate until you see our man—follow
in after him, and, when he passeth up the yard
—for he will go directly to the stables—bar instantly
the wicket, and advise us! Now let us
move on somewhat smartly.”

Without more words, they took their way across
the town toward Holborn, through quarters which,
though now the very heart and the most populous
portion of the giant city, were then but sparsely
built upon, with frequent gardens intervening between
the scattered tenements, and miry lanes, unlighted
and ill paved, instead of regular streets.
The night continued dark, and so unpleasant that,
when they reached at length the mighty thoroughfare
of Holborn, the street was half deserted and
nearly silent. Smoking much as they passed
along, and speaking little, they reached the well-known
hostelry. Its gate, as Cromwell had foreseen,

was closed and locked; but a low wicket
door gave ingress to the yard, a long irregular space,
surrounded on three sides by the rambling buildings
of the inn, with three tiers, one above the other,
of open galleries, through which was the access
to the chambers, and bounded at the end by a long
range of granaries and pack-stables. The yard
was nearly dark—for but one lamp shone dimly
over the entrance of the public room, just at the left
hand of the gateway as they entered; and, except
the lanterns of the hostlers flitting about the farther
buildings, no other lights were visible within;
but, as if to make up for the deficiency, a large
glass lamp on either side the gateway rendered
the street in front of it as light as day. Abruptly
entering the taproom, in which some four or five
grave-looking citizens were comforting themselves,
after the business of the day, with poached eggs
and canary, buttered ale, burnt sack, and half a
dozen other drinks and dishes fashionable in those
days, but long ago forgotten—

“Ho! landlord!” shouted Cromwell, “bring us
three cans of your best double ale—good measure,
and be quick about it! Surely, my flesh doth
thirst for a cool drink, even as the faint spirit
thirsteth for a soul-searching exposition of the mysteries
that be essential to salvation.”

“Such as Lieutenant Profit-by-the-word poured
forth to our great edifying yester even,” Ireton answered;
“verily, good man, he was upheld most
marvellously—four hours did he hold forth steadily,
not waxing faint in flesh nor weary in well-doing,
but borne along in spirit with exceeding fervour,
and his voice ringing like a trumpet, louder at every
close. Truly, a second Boanerges.”

“Ay! and he touched with the true unction on
that hard rock that splits all weaker vessels, the full

justification of the soul by faith—the utter needlessness
of works to save, when that the soul is
filled—ay, as a tankard that doth overflow its
brim—and lo! my can is out. Ho! tapster, fill
us the good black gallon jack, and fetch us more
tobacco—or as a milldam that doth burst its banks
—with the true grace of God!”

“Yea!” answered Ireton, “yea! verily he did;
but I bethought me somewhat that he o'ershot the
mark when he did undertake to prove that those
who have been once in grace may never relapse
into sin, and that unto the pure all things are pure
and holy.”

“Why, you must be an infidel,” returned the
other; “what, know you not that vice and virtue
be but names—not of aught tangible or real—not
of things that exist without the body—but of mere
fantasies, abstractions whose seat is the mind.
Surely it is the spirit in which a thing is done, and
not the thing itself, that makes the virtue or the
vice. Lo! when you slay a man in hand to hand
encounter, fighting, it may be, in the deadly breach,
or riding on the cannon's mouth, truly it is imputed
not as an act of sin, but an heroical and manly deed
of glory—as when strong Samson killed his thousands—ay,
or, yet more to the point, when Heber's
wife the Kenite smote Sisera within the tent and
slew him, though a suppliant and guest; but had
she driven in that selfsame nail to satisfy vile lust
of gain or murtherous revenge, then had it been
guilt in her—shame while on earth and infamy—
and, though we should not judge—judgment hereafter
and perdition. Thus, in the soul is the distinction;
it maketh its own righteouness, it maketh
its own sin! All that is done for virtue becomes
virtue. To whom all things seem pure, verily, all
are pure! Yea, if a man have the grace given

[OMITTED] passed by him near a lighted shop; he suffered
him to get some dozen paces in advance, and then,
with a slow sauntering gait, pursued him. He saw
him stoop beneath the wicket, and, without looking
to the right or left, walk up the yard toward a
group of hostlers playing at odd or even on a
horseblock round a dingy lantern. Silently and
unseen he dropped the bar across the wicket, and
looked into the taproom.

“Tarry,” said Cromwell, “tarry yet a while—
the bird is ours!”

In a few minutes the sound of a horse's hoofs
were heard upon the pavement. “Now, then,”
cried Oliver, “now!” and, instantly unsheathing his
long tuck, he darted through the doorway, followed
immediately by Ireton and Sir Edgar, likewise
with drawn swords. Cromwell had reached the
man before they overtook him; but Ardenne heard
him say, “You ride forth late, my friend, but we
be placed here in the name and by the orders of
the parliament to search all goers out. But, verily,
thou lookest like an honest lad. Thou hast, I
warrant me, nothing that thou wouldst care to
hide!”

“Not I, i'faith,” replied the stranger, bluntly;
“search away, Master Soldier, if such be your orders,
but I pray you delay me not, because I am in
haste.”

“Lead the man's horse into the stable, Fast and
Pray,” said Cromwell, glancing his eyes toward
Ireton, “'twere shame to let the dumb beast stand
here in the pelting rain; and thou, good Win-the-fight,
come in with us. Verily, friend, we will not
long detain thee—but a horn of ale will not harm
thee this dark night, I trow.”

“Not it, not it!” replied the fellow; “what
would you have now?”

“Oh! turn thy pockets out. Surely we will not
be too hard with thee. Well! well! this is a
purse—good lack, a heavy one!—`to this a letter
—`to Master Styles, horse courser, Dover!' Look
sharp that he be not too deep for thee, this John
Styles — he played our Colonel Whalley a foul
trick with a spavened jade some two years past.
He is a keen blade. Well! this is a pipe—and
this a bacca-box—so! so!—in these there is no treason.
Truly, I said thou wert an honest fellow;
and I was not deceived. Another cup of ale?
Tush, never mince the matter, 'twill warm thee
more than thy plush jerkin. Upseys! So! down
with it like lamb's-wool. Well—thou mayst go
now, so thou wilt not tarry and have a rouse with
us. Ho! Fast and Pray, bring out the worthy fellow's
horse; he is not such as we be sent to look
for, and—now I think of it—our time of watch is
ended!” A quick glance interchanged with his
son-in-law assured the general that the letter was
secured; so, slapping the messenger upon the back,
he bade him mount, and God go with him; and
as he rode away, unconscious that his journey was
now useless, the three companions hurried to Ardenne's
house, where they might profit by their
prize in safety.

A short half hour's walk placed them before his
door—so quickly, goaded to their utmost speed by
anxious curiosity, did they retrace their steps.
Lights were set in the library, the curtains closely
drawn, the door locked, and then Ireton produced
the packet; it was a small despatch, and fastened
with a plain flaxen cord and ordinary seal, addressed
to “Master Ephraim Mackleworth”—evidently
a feigned name—“at the Red Lion, Dover.”
Within this was a small letter, simply directed to
H. M. R., bound with a skein of white floss silk,

and fastened with the impression of a finely-cut
antique upon green wax. Oliver caught it with an
impatient gesture from the hand of Ireton, broke
the seal, cast his eyes hastily upon it, and exclaiming,
“Nay, it is not in cipher,” read thus aloud:—

With a calm voice, though bitter in the extreme
and scornful, Cromwell read out this document.
Ireton's eye flashed fire, and, as his father-in-law
ended, he violently dashed his hand upon the table—

“Whose dogs are we,” he cried, in fierce and
ringing tones, “that we should be thus scandalously
dealt with? As the Lord liveth he shall
die the death!”

“But three days since,” said Cromwell, “hypocrite
that he is, base knave, and liar, he proclaimed,
through me, his full acceptance of the army's terms
—his last words were, `and for myself henceforth
I hold me bound by them!' and I, fool that I was,
I did rejoice, and triumphed in my heart that England
should have peace! and now—he will hang
both of us! ay, HANG! Can there be any trust in
such a man?”

“None!” answered Edgar, mournfully, “there
can indeed be none! It is long since I have even
dreamed there could! He is unstable as the sands
of the seashore, and false—as fortune!”

“Alas! alas! for England!” Oliver exclaimed,
in deep impressive tones. “If it be thy will,
mighty Lord, that this thy servant be a prey and
victim to this man of Belial, truly I am prepared.
But for this goodly and regenerate land, for this oppressed

and miserable people, in whose behalf already
many times thou hast displayed the wonders
of thy might—the miracles of thine invincible
right hand—not for myself—not for myself, oh
Lord, poor sinner that I am and leaky vessel, do
I presume now to remonstrate—to strive earnestly
—to wrestle, as did Jacob in the dark—against thy
great decrees—but for this lovely isle—this precious
England!”

“With Caiaphas I say,” returned the fiery Ireton,
“with Caiaphas! Jew though he was, unrighteous
judge, and murtherer of the Lord's
anointed! `Ye know not'—'tis to you I say it,
my friends and fellow-soldiers—`nor consider that
it is expedient for us that one man should die for
the people, and that the whole nation perish not!”'

This bold speech for that night ended the debate.
Cromwell was silent—though the remarkable
and resolute compression of his mouth, and
the deep frown that furrowed his high forehead,
and the determined gleam of his hard eye, showed
that his silence was produced by any thing rather
than doubt or fear—and Ardenne, at this last and
heaviest blow, was, for the moment, wholly overcome!
He saw the certain peril, the imminent
and overwhelming ruin, but he saw neither refuge
nor escape. He felt that, while Charles lived, England
could never be at rest; but he did not feel
that his death would give her that repose which
she desired now more almost than liberty.

In gloom that evening they had met—in deeper
gloom they parted—save Ireton alone, who seemed
elate and almost joyous; for, fraught with a sincere
unselfish patriotism that would not have disgraced
an ancient Roman—a wild and daring theorist—a
confident and bold believer in the perfectibility
of man and in the supreme excellence of

democratic forms—he fancied that he now foresaw
the advent of his dearest wishes—the overthrow of
monarchy and aristocracy for ever—the birth of a
seagirt republic—the creation of a British state,
unequalled in the annals of the world! more wise
and eloquent than the free Athens!—in morals
more severe than Sparta!—in grace more elegant
than Corinth!—in empire, arms, and glory more
magnificent than Rome!