 | Her majesty the queen |  |
2. BOOK II.
1. I.
DREAMS AT CECIL COURT.
May of this troubled year 1642 came into the
world, and found me still weak and feeble,—scarce
able, indeed, to rise from my bed. As June approached,
however, I grew somewhat stronger, began to move
about the grounds, and slowly my hurt healed,—with
which came a sense of exquisite enjoyment.
I look back upon those summer days at Cecil Court
as among the happiest of my life. Everything was
charmingly fresh and buoyant; and my brief experience
of the bustle of courts had only intensified a
sentiment always powerful in me, my love for the scenes
and occupations of our English country life.
It is certain that one is born with this sentiment and
never loses it. I have seen all phases of life in my
time,—the splendid court at Versailles, the rush and
whirl of battle; have talked with dukes and countesses,
flirted the fans of court beauties, and taken part
in royal processions:—all the fine pageant of the life of
cities has passed before me, with waving banners, triumphant
music, gorgeous silks and velvets, and jewels,
and floating plumes; but the whole has been for me a
better, and returned to with ever-increasing fondness,
was the calm, untroubled life of the fields and forests,—
the fields and forests of dear, ever-blessed England.
It was these fresh scenes that I looked on now from
the doorway of the old mansion of my fathers on the
banks of the Avon. My illness seemed to have sharpened
every faculty of enjoyment. Through my very
pores I seemed to absorb the delightful influences of
the vernal season. The songs of the birds in the elms,
the daisies starring the turf, the skylark circling in
the clouds,—all were sources of the sweetest happiness;
and I thrilled with an enjoyment which no words can
express.
The banks of the great river of Virginia, wherefrom
I write, are beautiful, and Virginia is surely a charming
country; but, go where you will, friend, there is
no place like home. A kind heaven made my home in
Old England,—with green turf, and blooming hedges,
and great trees, and cawing rooks swarming in and
out of their nests on the summits of the lofty oaks,
beside the little sheet of water on which some swans
sailed serenely to and fro. Every spot around the old
house had some family incident or memory of my own
youth connected with it. There were the apple-trees
where I had gathered the ripe red fruit in autumn;
there was the spot in the hedge where I had hung with
delight over the dove's nest, with its two milk-white
eggs; there was the crotch in the great apple-tree,
where I had robbed the blackbird's nest of its speckled
treasure; yonder the old pony had rolled me on the
grass, when an idle urchin; at the quiet nook in the
pool, I had fished with a pin-hook and brought home
in triumph my willow twig full of trout. Thus every
locality was full of memories of my childhood. And
boyhood had its souvenirs, no less vivid and delightful.
The child had become a youth, and his heart had expanded
amid these same scenes. The dreams of the
great poets, the first vague thrills of romance, visions
of beauties with great soft eyes and flowing hair,—
these too were framed as it were by the green fields
and woods around Cecil Court. Stealing off in those
days to the banks of the little stream, I would throw
my line in the water where the shadow of a great elm
darkened the limpid surface, stretch myself on the
turf, with the leaves whispering over me, and hour
after hour of the long summer days would flit by like
dreams,—or call them birds, sailing away on silent
wings into the past. Then the blue sky was a wonder,
with its fleecy cloud-ships; the far coo of the dove
came to my ears like dreamy music; the water rippled;
the rooks cawed in the tops of the great elms:—I was
an English boy in my English home, filled in all my
being with the exquisite happiness which comes, to me
at least, only amid the dear scenes of Old England.
As I pass away from this tranquil and charming
period of my life,—I mean the days of my convalescence,
when the old scenes came back so vividly to
me, and I was a boy again,—I lean my head upon my
hand, muse idly as I remember, and again see the
youth lying on the turf beneath the oak, reading
Shakespeare's dramas, and thinking of his own life's
drama,—brief as yet, and just begun. See, I have
arouses many memories. The fame of my father's
neighbor and friend has grown quite gigantic now, but
at that time he was much less renowned,—indeed, I
might say, was little read. 'Tis so dangerous to one's
fame to be its cotemporary and move about in flesh
and blood! No man is great to those who talk with
him and see him laugh and eat his dinner! “That a
heaven-born genius?” you say: “absurd! 'tis only a
man like myself!” So those who lived near Mr.
Shakespeare were not so very enthusiastic about him.
He was delightful company, my father said, and of
excellent wit and humor; made you laugh very often,
and was altogether gay, and healthy, and natural; but
he was surprisingly simple, seemed never to have
imagined himself of much importance, thought little,
it would appear, of his dramas, and preferred Stratford,
where life was quite humdrum, to London, where
they fêted him and placed crowns upon his forehead.
He came often to see my father at Cecil Court;
laughed at everything and everybody, with a pleasant
wit which did not wound; took an interest in horses,
and calves, and the very spring flowers; smoked his
tobacco-pipe, and never alluded to Macbeth or Hamlet
in his life.
Such was Will Shakespeare, as old neighbors still
called him; and I think my father was one of the few
persons who divined the supreme genius of his writings.
I was early impressed with their charm, and read him
constantly: Titania and Miranda and Ophelia filled
my early dreams. Thus the soul of Shakespeare grew
as 'twere into my young life; and to-day, reading his
Elsinore and Duncan's castle and Bosworth field I see,
as Cecil Court in England, where, stretched on the
turf, I looked upon all these visions!
Need I add that in that spring I saw other heroines
in my dreams than Shakespeare's? Frances Villiers!
—I write that name, and leave the picture of the disconsolate
lover to be painted by the imagination. I
will not dwell upon that. I grow old, alas! and romantic
writing from an old gentleman would make his
grandchildren laugh. 'Tis the grand privilege of
youth to be absurd gracefully,—to go into raptures
over Dulcinea, and talk nonsense as fresh and charming
as the passion it describes. Romance-writers share
that privilege, 'tis true; and were I composing a romance,
I might enlarge upon Frances Villiers and my
hero's feelings. If I were only writing the adventures
of an imaginary Mr. Edmund Cecil! Then the
reader should be told everything: my hero's heart
should be laid bare,—his romantic passion should gush
forth in burning words,—and behold, beloved reader,
you would have a love-romance to amuse you. But
this is my own life, you see. I grow ashamed when I
speak of my own feelings: would you like a third person
to be listening, whilst you poured out in some
shady nook the passion of your heart into the ears of
the chosen one? 'Tis thus a sort of shame which seals
my lips: enough that, asleep or awake, Frances was in
my thoughts.
The Cecils are light-hearted, and take trouble easily.
What unhappiness lives forever? what year is all
clouds? The sun will shine at length; and 'tis the
the clouds, and think, “'Tis coming out soon!”
So fled the spring and early summer. I have told you
of my occupations and dreams at Cecil Court, and have
not said one word of the troubles of the time. They
did not find me indifferent; and twice I mounted my
horse to rejoin the king in the north, only to faint as
often, be borne home, and find my illness renewed. I
was thus forced to wait, but with impatience, throughout
that fiery summer which burnt into all hearts. My
quiet sports had become a weariness then, and more
than one event occurred even in our country nook
which indicated the tumult surging beyond.
To that I pass now. I have pleased myself by speaking
of those spring days at Cecil Court. It was but an
eddy in the torrent: the stream soon swept me on
again.
2. II.
A FRIEND OF THE KING.
All at once, late in summer, came the intelligence
that his majesty had erected his standard at Nottingham,
and that his faithful subjects were flocking to him
by tens of thousands, to defend him against the “conspirators
of the Parliament.”
That version of affairs was somewhat glowing, as
events of speedy occurrence sufficiently proved; but
everybody placed credence then in the hopeful prospects
Ireton by name, galloped over to congratulate my
father. Sir Jervas was a large florid man, of portly
and imposing appearance. He was not very popular,
but was prominent in the county.
“Let us rejoice, Mr. Cecil,” he cried, shaking my
father's hand violently, with an up-and-down pump-handle
movement, “that his sacred majesty is about to
punish these pestilent knaves of the parliament!”
My father remained unimpressed, and did not seem
to share his visitor's enthusiasm.
“Is it so certain?” he said. “And after all, I
think, Sir Jervas, there are men in the parliament who
are not knaves.”
Sir Jervas stared. “You astound me! Then you
are one of the `Godly'!”
My father smiled. “I am for the king,” he said,
“but without believing him altogether in the right.”
Thereat, Sir Jervas exploded, and made an oration
of the most violent character. His majesty was a persecuted
saint! the parliament was a gang of miscreants!
every gentleman and honest man should
adhere to his majesty, who would soon show the rascals
that he had might as well as right on his side!
Then Sir Jervas puffed and rolled about, so to say,
in the excess of his ardor. He remained an hour
longer, blazing with loyalty and enthusiasm. Then he
mounted his horse and galloped off to congratulate
some other friend of the king.
As time wore on,—miserably spent by the reader's
humble servant in longing for strength to mount his
horse,—the royal prospects appeared day by day less
to be but small, his resources very limited, and
the enthusiasm in his cause far from general.
Followed thereupon a second visit from the worthy
Sir Jervas, who was much more moderate in his expressions,
and less convinced of the justice of the royal
cause. He had been mistaken, he said, in regarding
the merits of this unhappy misunderstanding as so
wholly on the side of his majesty. The collision between
king and parliament was truly unfortunate; the
royal authority should be vindicated in its just extent,
but he did not hesitate to say that a body of men so
virtuous, intelligent, and law-abiding as the great English
parliament could not be guilty of wrong or injustice.
The public troubles were distressing—most
distressing—to all good citizens, and it was to be hoped
that his majesty would not persist in armed opposition to
the peaceful execution of the laws of the realm. Thereupon
Sir Jervas Ireton bowed to my father, who had
listened without a word, and rode away. As he disappeared,
my father raised his finger, pointed after him,
and said to me,—
“There is a worthy personage who is going to turn
his coat.”
The reported forces of his majesty continued to
dwindle. It began to appear that the parliament was
the stronger; and one morning we heard that Sir Jervas
Ireton had gone to London on private business.
“He is going to ascertain which side to take,” my
father said.
But I had no time to think now of Sir Jervas, who,
as was shown afterwards, had been to London and returned.
horse, and prepared with ardor for my journey to join
the Guardsmen again.
I was soon ready. My valise was packed, my sword
burnished, my pistols loaded,—for it was said that the
country swarmed with friends of the parliament now,
prepared to arrest all who attempted to join the royal
forces,—and the evening preceding the day fixed on
for my departure came.
On this evening Sir Jervas Ireton reappeared at
Cecil Court.
3. III.
A FRIEND OF THE PARLIAMENT.
The worthy Sir Jervas had evidently imbibed an undue
amount of claret. His countenance was rubicund,
and his eyes twinkled. Twice he called my father
“Cecil,” to that gentleman's extreme disgust, and
finally spoke of public affairs, up to that moment
passed over sub silentio, alluding to the king's friends
as “malignants,” bent on the destruction of “the
godly,” that is to say, the friends of the parliament.
My father bowed, but only said, with provoking
coolness,—
“Well, sir?”
“But the godly are more than a match for you malignants!”
cried the inebriated knight.
“You appear to take pleasure in bestowing nicknames
coldly.
“Fight the devil with fire!” cried Sir Jervas, starting
up. “When a public ruler disregards all dictates
of morality and honor,—when pledge after pledge is
violated, and the liberty of the subject is in danger,—
when papists and heretics and murderous emissaries are
let loose upon an unoffending people,—what, I ask, sir,
can be the course of the friends of law and order?”
My father had remained calm until this moment.
Now his face flushed; but he controlled himself.
“'Tis distasteful to me to hear his majesty denounced
thus, Sir Jervas Ireton,” he said; “and you will pardon
me for adding that I esteem his supporters to be as
little `malignant' as your friends to be `godly.”'
“A month, or two at most, will decide which is
strongest!”
“Ah!” my father said, with some disdain; “then
'tis a question of strength, not right! The strongest
side is the right,—that to which all moral and prudent
gentlemen should adhere!”
Flushed with wine as he was, Sir Jervas understood,
and was stung by, the taunt.
“Your meaning, Mr. Cecil!” he said, red and irate.
“I mean,” returned my father, “that I had supposed
Sir Jervas Ireton to be a friend of his majesty.
'Tis scarce a month since you lauded him as the
model of a prince, and no insults were too gross for
the parliament people in your estimation, sir. Mr.
Hampden was a knave;—I was compelled to defend
that high-minded gentleman against your denunciations;
Mr. Pym was a wretch; Mr. Cromwell a
of his majesty's cause are the knaves! Well, beware,
Sir Jervas: there are friends of yours who will call you
turncoat. I will not, sir, for you are beneath my
roof!”
The knight started up at this, and exclaimed,—
“I leave your roof, but give you some counsel first.
The eyes of the godly are upon you—”
My father was on his feet too. “In your person,
doubtless, sir!” he said, in great wrath. “By heaven, I
am not too old, `malignant' though I be, to defend
my honor!”
With three strides he reached an old sword hanging
against the wall, and caught it down.
“This for you, sir, and the rest of the `godly,'—at
all hours, day or night!”
I had risen, half indignant, half laughing at the
drunken knight.
“Don't threaten him, sir,” I said to my father: “he
won't fight.”
And the truth of my words was speedily shown.
Five minutes had not passed before Sir Jervas was out
of the room and on horseback.
“The vulgar turncoat!” growled my father, replacing
his old sword on the wall. “A few moments more, and
I had spitted his carcase!”
“`'Tis better as it is,' as Will Shakspeare says,
sir,” I returned, laughing; “and even now this worthy
may annoy you in many ways, from his connection
with the `godly' in the neighborhood. I shall not be
present to aid you. I leave you at daylight. Now I
will go with Cicely to take leave of everything.”
I called my little sister, who had been my companion
in all my rambles, and she came, with her pretty bright
face smiling behind its curls. In her eyes, however,
I could discern the traces of tears, and, as we walked
under the great trees towards the stream, she said, in a
low voice,—
“Oh, brother, why do you leave us? Must you go
so soon?”
“Yes, Cicely,” I said: “this is no time for the
Cecils to prove laggards. I see you have been upstairs
crying; but come, smile again. There is your
ardent admirer, Jervas Ireton the younger, coming to
meet you through the trees.”
Cicely pouted immensely, and said, “He is the
most disagreeable little wretch—”
And, as she spoke, the disagreeable little wretch approached,
smiling. It was, however, somewhat of an
injustice to characterize the young gentleman thus:
he was only weak. About twenty, with flaxen hair,
washed-out blue eyes, a feeble smile, Mr. Jervas Ireton
the younger was simply insignificant. He and Cicely
were old playmates, as the Ireton estate joined Cecil
Court, and the youth had long fancied himself consumed
with an ardent passion for the maiden.
“Oh, Cicely, and Mr. Ned,” he said, “I am very
glad to see you,—that is—”
He stammered, hesitated, and added,—
“That is, I would like to see you alone, Cicely.”
The damsel pouted hugely at these words, and
said,—
“What do you mean, Mr. Ireton?”
“There it is!” cried the young gentleman, plunged,
thing it will be Captain Ireton!”
Cicely stared. “You a captain!”
“Yes,” moaned the youthful warrior, in lugubrious
tones, “a real captain. Sir Jervas managed it. A
real captain, with a new uniform, and just going away.
So I came,—it was the only opportunity I will have,—
you will not see me alone. Oh, Miss Cicely! don't
let me go without—without—without — one word,—
that is—”
Here “Captain” Ireton quite broke down, losing
all his self-possession. Cicely's head rose erect, and
her eyes were full of fire.
“Which side are you on, sir?” came suddenly from
the maiden.
“The—the—that is—I have no opinions myself
of any consequence,—of no consequence, I assure
you—”
“You are on the parliament's side!”
“Ye—e—s,” returned Captain Ireton, hanging his
head.
Cicely shot an exterminating glance at her admirer.
“Then you will please never presume to address me
again, sir!” she burst forth. “The Cecils are for the
king!” And the little maiden's eyes flamed.
“I—wish—I—was,” came from her heart-broken
admirer, “but,—well—'tis all over, I see, Cicely. I
will not say any more.—I wish—but my father will
have his way; he's a terrible old screw and tyrant!—
I have no opinions of any consequence; — but,
well—”
A gleam of intelligence appeared in the youth's eyes.
“Sir Jervas has the opinions of the family!”
A few minutes afterwards he took a sorrowful farewell,
and went disconsolately away; and I walked with
Cicely until nightfall, when, arm in arm, my little sister
and myself returned in the grand moonlight which fell
upon the old hall in a flood of glory I shall never
forget.
4. IV.
A YOUNG GENTLEMAN WITHOUT OPINIONS OF ANY
CONSEQUENCE.
I had supposed the adieus of Jervas Ireton the
younger to have been final; but on the very next morning,
just as I was about to get into the saddle, he reappeared.
The youth was clad in a superb purple uniform, the
colors of Lord Brook, and wore on his shoulder an
orange scarf, the badge of Lord Essex, commanding
all the parliament forces. He was thus an imposing
figure, in his purple and orange adornment, with the
huge feather in his hat, and sabre at his side; but more
imposing still was his retinue, which consisted of about
twenty mounted men, marching martially two abreast.
The affair really looked like war! Here was the disconsolate
lover of Cicely coming, it would seem, to
have an official interview with Cicely's brother and
mildly dissuade him from going to join the king.
My surmise was just.
The martial youth halted his command in a voice of
thunder,—an order which they proceeded to obey by
huddling together and running against each other in
the wildest confusion,—and then, approaching me, he
said, in a mournful tone,—
“I hope Cicely's not risen, Mr. Ned; oh, I think
there she is, busy with your valise! How I wish I was
going with you!”
I could not refrain from laughter.
“Whereas it is I who am going with you,—or at least
you think so,” I said. “In other words, my good
Captain Jervas Ireton, you have brought that fine company
of serving-men and cobblers yonder, to arrest me
as an adherent of his majesty?”
The warrior hung his head.
“The old man is such a screw!—the greatest tyrant,
Mr. Ned, you ever saw! Of course he made me come.
Somebody told him you were going away to the king
this morning,—so he would not rest till he had me in
the saddle, with this tag-rag, on the way to seize you.”
I looked at the youth, measuring his stature, then at
his company. I could have broken him in two, despite
my weakness, with one arm; and the complexion of
his followers was far from martial.
“Well,” I said, bringing around my rapier and
pistol, “what do you propose to do, my good sir?”
“Oh, Mr. Ned! don't speak to me in that way!”
remonstrated the young gentleman.
“In what way?”
“So rough! Of course I am going to pretend to
arrest you—There is Cicely! Oh! the old man is
such a tyrant!”
Cicely came out and stared in amazement. Then
her face flushed hot.
“What are you and these people here for, sir?” she
exclaimed.
“Nothing—nothing—that is—hem!—it's a mere
form, Cicely.”
“Please call me Miss Cecil, sir,” said the little
maiden, turning pale, but speaking with great hauteur.
“There again!—`Sir!”' exclaimed the prostrated
youth. “Oh, dont call me `Sir,' Cicely,—that is,
Miss Cecil!”
Cicely looked from the speaker to myself in amazement.
“Our young friend is only come to bid me good-by,
little sister,” I said.
“Yes, yes,—that's it!—and to wish you a happy
journey, Mr. Ned!” was the eager response; “in fact,
my own opinion is—if I had any—but I have none of
any consequence, I do assure you—”
I burst into a laugh, in which my father—who,
coming down the steps, had heard the last words, and
understood all—nearly joined.
“Come!” I said to the young warrior, “why not
choose to have some opinions? Go and fight for his
majesty: your bold followers will join you. There's
Hob, an old friend of mine, and Tom Diggs and Gregory
from Keynton. They don't know in the least what
they are going to fight for!”
The youth hung his head, and looked truly disconsolate.
“I don't think we can, Mr. Ned,—the old man
is such a screw. I have no opinions myself—but—
king!”'
He sank his voice as he uttered the words, and
added, in the same tone,—
“Could you make it convenient to ride out by the
back way, Mr. Ned?”
“No,” I said. “I propose riding through Keynton.”
The young man started.
“In company with Captain Ireton, at the head of his
bold troopers!”
The youth looked quite aghast; but the comedy of
the affair had taken possession of me,—I was in the gayest
spirits,—and the result was that ten minutes afterwards
I had bidden my father and Cicely farewell, and
was riding, followed by Dick Hostler, beside Captain
Ireton at the head of his company.
The spectacle must have been odd. I wore my rich
uniform of queen's guardsman, and my companion the
purple coat and orange scarf of the parliament. As
we entered Keynton, all eyes were fixed upon us; and
I gazed at it as attentively, for the village once so tranquil
was almost unrecognizable. The parliament ruled
there. The shopkeepers sat on their counters, haranguing
crowds; the blacksmith had shut up his forge, and
was laying down the law to the wheelwright, who seemed
to hold opposing views; the public room at the inn was
thronged with idlers, agog for news; and in one end
of the long porch, an emissary of the parliament, in
full regimentals, was ladling out drink and calling for
recruits.
“Oh, Mr. Ned!” exclaimed my companion, “what
are you going to do?”
“I? I am going to do nothing,” I said, laughing,
“since there's nothing to be done!”
“But they see you!—there they come!—and oh,
good heavens!—there—there—is—”
Vox faucibus hæsit! The youth, dumb with terror,
pointed to the figure of Sir Jervas Ireton, coming
rapidly out of the inn, and approaching.
“I see you have him!” exclaimed Sir Jervas; “a
pestilent enemy of the good cause! The young bantling
now,—the old cock soon to join him!”
The ruddy features of the knight shone, as he drew
near. His unfortunate son shrank from him.
“Your servant, my good Mr. Cecil,” said the
knight, scornfully; “I am very glad to see you.”
“'Tis friendly, at least; but the sight of your worship
affects me differently,” I said, continuing my way.
“Stop!—halt, I say!—seize him!”
And the knight rushed upon me, catching my rein
violently.
I did not fancy the movement, and was in a bad
humor from the scene at dinner with my father. As
Sir Jervas Ireton, therefore, seized my bridle-rein to
arrest me, I dealt him a blow with my fist on the side
of the head, which caused him to stagger. The act
was visible to all, and twenty men darted at my horse.
Had they caught the bridle, I must have been down
under their feet the next moment. I guarded against
that by striking the spur into my horse's side and
whirling my rapier in front.
“Fire! fire on him!” I heard the furious Sir Jervas
cry to his son. And the reply of that warrior came as
clearly,—
“Oh!—the pistols—they are not loaded!”
The words were followed by an explosion from the
porch of the inn; a bullet passed through my hat,
and I turned my head in that direction. Through the
smoke I caught a glimpse of the parliamentary emissary,
who wore a sergeant's badges, and in the close-cropped
hair, huge ears, and wide mouth, I recognized
my foe the man Hulet, from London.
A longer interview was impossible. I sent a bullet
from my pistol at the worthy, which did him no injury.
“Come, Dick, ride!” I then said; “the whole crew
are after us!”
And, turning in my saddle, I caught off my hat,
waved it around my head, and cried,—
“God save the king!”
That was some satisfaction, at least. Prudence counseled
speed now; and Dick and I went on rapidly
through the village, pursued by shots and the worshipful
Captain Ireton's dragoons. The shots did not strike
us, and we were better mounted than the village warriors.
A friendly wood presented itself; the shouts behind
us died gradually away; and, drawing rein, I went on
through the vale of the Red Horse, scarce glancing at
the heights of Edgehill, where I was soon to take part
in the first battle of the Great Civil War.
5. V.
I AM CONDUCTED BEFORE PRINCE RUPERT.
The Almighty, who is also the All-merciful and Inscrutable,
sends tears, agony, and utter wretchedness
to private individuals; on nations he inflicts at stated
periods his great curse of civil war. The human being
visited by his displeasure is easily known by the pallor,
woe-begone look, and dejected 'havior of the visage;
the nation cursed by civil war is marked as clearly by
the hand of the Almighty.
In that summer of 1642, England was scarce recognizable.
The tranquil and smiling land of the past
was dead and gone. You seemed to move on the crust
of a volcano, and men's minds had caught the fierce
heat and were burnt up by fever. As I rode towards
Nottingham, I saw on all sides the traces of the evil
spirit of civil contention. In many a field the ripe
grain had fallen uncut and neglected. Over others
prowled tramps and beggars, firing on the game. The
highways were wellnigh deserted; and when you met a
chance wayfarer he eyed you sidewise with suspicious
glances, and the hand under the cloak, you felt, grasped
a concealed weapon. All the face of the land was torn
down. The fences were gone in many places, for the
war of cavalry-parties had already begun, and the cattle
wandered uncared for, trampling down the corn and
hot-beds of agitation and gossip. In some, the shutters
were closed, and women glanced through the cracks
fearfully. In others, sullen glances or ardent questions
greeted you, as you adhered to one or the other
party.
England was thus transformed, in a day, as 'twere,
into a war-worn realm. Her people seemed to look
forward fearfully to some coming fate. Discussions in
parliament had ended; the sword had replaced debate;
the harsh thunder of cannon was about to drown the
roar of hostile multitudes.
The war, as I have said, had already begun. At
Northampton, Lord Essex, general of the parliament
forces, lay, I heard, with an army of about six thousand
men. And his horse were already scouring the
country between that place and Nottingham, where the
king had assembled a force scarce half as numerous as
his opponent's. Thus the petite guerre of cavalry had
begun, preluding the greater conflict of foot, and twice
I was chased by the enemy's foraging-parties, who very
nearly made me a prisoner. I succeeded in evading
them, nevertheless, and at near sunset reached the
pickets of the royal cavalry towards Nottingham.
My Guardsman's uniform would, I supposed, be
sufficient voucher for my loyalty, but the officer of the
picket regretted his inability to pass me within the
royal lines. He was ordered, he said, to arrest all
persons coming northward, and send them to headquarters.
This was reasonable, if not agreeable, and I
went on with the escort of two men, to whom I was
intrusted. We rode half a league, passed a large camp
been kindled; then a tent on a grassy hill came in
view, and before this tent we halted.
Out of the tent, on the summit of which floated the
colors of the king, came a huge personage with a corporal's
badges on his arms, a long black beard, and an
air of authority.
“Your pisness?” said the new-comer, with a strong
German accent.
The guard informed him that I and my servant had
been arrested at the outer picket.
“Vait!”
And the giant retired into the tent, from which he
soon reappeared, with the guttural announcement,—
“Gome in!”
I entered, and found myself in presence of a young
man in a general's uniform, who was lying on a scarlet
cloak spread on the grass, and playing with a white
spaniel. The appearance of this officer was martial.
His boots were covered with dust, his face ruddy from
exposure, his eye keen and piercing, his bearing direct,
almost abrupt: from head to foot, in every trait of his
person, he was a soldier. On a camp couch in one
corner of the tent lay a rich belt, containing a fine
rapier, and from the holsters of a superb saddle near,
protruded the handles of two highly-decorated pistols.
The officer was plainly either of high rank, or with a
marked fondness for bright colors, or both. I have
found eminent soldiers careless of dress often, and
prone, indeed, to despise decoration as puerile. The
young general before me seemed to delight in such
things; to enjoy the bright colors, the pomp and
promptness, and impetuosity. His glance was
that of the eagle, and the eyes seemed ready to flame.
It was plain that the first blast of the bugle would pour
fire into this man,—that the hand would dart to the
rapier, the spur clash on the stirrup, the simple soldier
would replace the general, and he would lead the
charge, sword in hand.
All this was plain at a glance. The young officer
responded with a look which took in every trait of my
person.
“Well,” he said, with a slight foreign accent, “who
are these?”
“Brisoners, your highness,” returned the heavily-bearded
giant.
“I am not highness; I am general,” said the officer,
briefly.
“Yes, sheneral.”
“Prisoners! This gentleman, from his uniform, is
one of the queen's guards.”
“Yes, highness,—dat is, sheneral.”
The officer had risen abruptly, repulsing his playful
white spaniel, who continued to fawn on him.
“You were arrested at my outer picket, sir?” he
said, looking straight at me.
“Yes, general. May I ask to whom I have the
honor to speak?”
“To General Rupert, commanding the horse of the
king's army.”
I bowed low to his royal highness Prince Rupert,
nephew of his majesty.
“Your arrest, sir,” said the prince, “was in obedience
you, and whence come you?”
“Edmund Cecil; and I am from near Keynton,
where I have lain ill recently, highness.”
“Say sheneral!” here came from behind the hand
of the huge corporal, who had edged towards me, and
gave me this intimation in tones of subdued thunder.
“Spare your counsel, Hans,” said the prince, briefly,
“and go find what horsemen are approaching.”
The giant disappeared, and the prince turned again
to me.
“What intelligence, Mr. Cecil? You have no
doubt looked and listened.”
“To little purpose, I fear, your highness. My lord
of Essex is at Northampton, with six thousand men,
'tis said.”
“Near seven thousand. But the state of the country,
sir?”
“'Tis in a fever,—the parliament recruiting everywhere.”
“And plundering.”
“'Tis so said, my lord.”
“I will essay to stop that.”
As he spoke, the sound of horses' feet was heard in
front of the tent, and an instant afterwards the gigantic
corporal ushered in a dignified young gentleman, thin
of figure, clad in civil dress, and with something sweet
and melancholy in his face.
“My lord Falkland! You are very welcome, my
lord,” said the prince, cordially pressing his hand.
Lord Falkland bowed, and said,—
“A message from his majesty, your highness.”
They went to the opposite side of the tent, and
conversed for a few moments. The prince nodded.
“Say to his majesty that his order will be promptly
obeyed, my lord.”
The prince had scarce uttered these words, when a
prolonged bellowing was heard without, and this discordant
sound was followed by the neigh of horses.
The prince glanced at the huge corporal, made a gesture,
and the worthy went out. A few moments afterwards
he returned.
“Gaptured gattle and horses, highness,—dat is, sheneral!”
“Oh, highness!” said Lord Falkland, in a low, sad
voice, “this is very painful!”
Before the prince could reply, a young officer entered
the tent, saluted, and said,—
“Your orders have been obeyed, general.”
“The house is fired?”
“Yes, general; and you may see it burning.”
The prince went to the front of the tent: I followed.
A ruddy glare above the southern woods indicated a
conflagration.
“It is well,” said Rupert: “that will teach them a
lesson.”
A deep sigh came like an echo to the words. It had
issued from Lord Falkland, who was standing behind
the prince.
“Terrible! terrible!” murmured Falkland.
Prince Rupert wheeled round, with an angry flush
upon his brow.
“I make war!” he said, abruptly; “and war is not
rose-water!”
“Pardon me,” was Falkland's low, sad response. “I
meant not to offend your highness.”
“And I am a hot-headed fool,” exclaimed Rupert,
grasping his visitor's hand; “else I had never taken
umbrage at words from the soul of honor—Falkland!”
He paused, and looked towards the conflagration.
“This seems harsh to you, my lord,” he said. “Well,
'tis just. The man whose house I have burned over his
head has been merciless to the families of my soldiers,
pointing them out to the vengeance of the parliamentary
troops. That was proved to me. Well, I
have punished him, have driven off his cattle and
burned his house. History will hate and curse me for
these things, if 'tis written by friends of the parliament.
So be it; but let me repeat, my lord,—war is
not rose-water.”
With these words, Prince Rupert re-entered the tent.
An hour afterwards I was in Nottingham, talking of
home and home-folks with my dear Harry. When we
fell asleep, side by side, we were still murmuring our
boyish talk, and Harry's sweet smile went with me
like sunshine into the dim and pleasant realm of dreams.
6. VI.
SWORDS AND PLUMES AT CECIL COURT.
It was about sunset on a superb evening, late in
October, that, looking from an upper window of Cecil
Court, beside my father and Cicely, I saw the royal
forces move in a long glittering line to the summit of
the eminence called Edgehill, near Keynton.
The foes were about to clash together. All attempts
to negotiate and compose the differences between king
and parliament had failed. Soon after my arrival at
Nottingham, the Earl of Southampton and his associate
commissioners, sent by King Charles to London, had
returned and reported that they had met with scant
courtesy, had received a written reply, and had been
ordered to depart from London without delay. When
the king read the parliament's missive, his face darkened,
and his ire was aroused. His antagonists demanded
his submission,—that they should control all
appointments, occupy all fortresses, and dictate all
public measures.
“Should I grant these demands,” the king exclaimed,
in great indignation, “I should remain but
the outside, the picture—but the sign—of a king!”
And I think he was right in that surmise. The parliament
distrusted him so, that they demanded extreme
concessions. To have yielded then were to have surrendered
a solemn proclamation to his army, in which he protested
the sincerity of his intent to observe the laws,
and called on his followers to march with him and put
the question to issue on the battle-field. The proclamation
was received by the army — then numbering
about ten thousand men—with enthusiasm; and then
the king moved from Nottingham southward to meet
Lord Essex, who promptly marched from Worcester
to accept battle.
Thus the royal forces came near, and were seen from
the windows of Cecil Court. It was a superb and warlike
spectacle. The ruddy light of sunset fell, in a sort
of glory, upon silken banners and bright scarfs, burnished
arms and glossy horses. Foot, horse, and artillery
moved slowly to the hill,—a splendid phantom, without
noise, save a stifled hum, and now and then a bugle-note
from the cavaliers of Rupert.
All at once a noise of hoofs on the avenue came up
to the window. I looked down, and saw the king,
Lord Falkland, and a few others spurring towards the
house.
“'Tis his majesty! He is coming to visit us,” I
said.
“The king will be most welcome,” was the response
of my father.
And, descending, he met the king at the great door,
and inclined profoundly.
“We have come to take possession of your house,
Mr. Cecil,” said the king.
“Your majesty does my poor house a very great
honor,” was my father's response, with a second inclination;
of the establishment, whither the Viscount
Falkland and some other noblemen followed him.
An excellent dinner was speedily served, and the
noble guests—kings and noblemen are but men, and
grow hungry, reader—evidently derived great satisfaction
therefrom. And let me pause here an instant,
to notice a peculiarity of my father's ménage. He
would always live as well, every day, as his fortunes
permitted, not starving his household for a month to
give a grand entertainment to invited company.
“'Tis but a mean manner of living at the best,” he
would say, “to keep your fine rooms and best food and
full dress for state occasions; to live in a cuddy, stint your
table, and go slovenly before your family, in order to
dress splendidly and make a show when strangers enter
your door. My family are as worthy of rich food and
the best apartments as any one, and I make my toilette
as scrupulously for my daughter Cicely as for my
Lady Duchess.”
He certainly carried out his philosophy. His dress
was ever the same in public and in private; the very
best apartments at Cecil Court were used every day,
and the table was spread daily with the best food.
Then the door was opened; every one was welcome,
whether rich or poor, high or low, titled personage
or plain countryman, all found a cordial welcome,
and were greeted equally by the master of the mansion.
I don't think my father was politer to one
than to another. He was a very proud and simple
gentleman of the old régime. On this evening he said
to the king, “Enter, your majesty: you are welcome,”
other visitor.
The king retired after dining to the reception-room,
which was thronged with noblemen and officers. Cecil
Court, without and within, had suddenly become a
general's headquarters. Couriers went and came, with
clashing heels and rattling spurs. Officers clad in
superb uniforms stood around the table, beside which
the king sat, writing orders or reading reports. In the
grounds without, horses were tethered, champing their
bits and stamping. In the grass-plat in front of the
hall had been set up the king's banner.
His chief officers had come at his summons. These
were Lord Lindesey, commanding-in-chief; Prince
Rupert, commanding the horse; Sir Jacob Astley, the
foot; Sir Arthur Aston, the dragoons; and Sir John
Heydon, the artillery. I forget the troop of Guards,
whose servants formed a second troop, always marching
with their masters. The first were under Lord
Bernard Stuart, the second under Sir William Killigrew.
The wealthiest young noblemen of the kingdom had
flocked to the Guards now: 'twas said, and with truth,
I think, that the estates and revenues of these young
private soldiers exceeded the estates and revenues of
all the members of parliament and the House of Lords,
when the seats of the two houses were full.
Among these gay young volunteers was one whose
name, when I heard it first at Nottingham, had made
me start. Walking arm in arm with Harry, I had
seen him beckon to a youth of about twenty, with
bright blue eyes, chestnut curls, laughing face, and
superbly clad.
“Here's my brother Ned, Frank,” Harry said.
“Come and shake hands with him.”
And as the youth came forward, with an expression
of youthful buoyancy and sunshine in his face, Harry
added, to me,—
“This is Frank Villiers, brother of our fair friend
the maid of honor. We are sworn friends; and you
must be his friend too.”
The youth squeezed my hand cordially, looking at
me with his frank eyes and smile; and in ten minutes
we were familiar friends. Three days afterwards, I
seemed to have known him from his very childhood;
and now he had ridden with me to Cecil Court, and
was laughing with Cicely on the portico in the moonlight.
The king was busy until midnight, and then, rising,
exchanged a few words with Viscount Falkland, his
secretary of state.
“All is ready, you see, my lord,” he said, “and 'tis
probable we shall fight on the morrow. Come, summon
back your smiles: you seem woe-begone to-night.”
Lord Falkland sighed. “I know not what oppresses
me so, your majesty,” he said.
The king looked at him with a glance full of melancholy.
“'Tis that woman's heart you possess, my lord.
You shrink from battle and blood! See, I utter ungracious
words. I seem to impute weakness to Falkland,
the bravest of all the brave gentlemen of my
kingdom!”
“Your majesty knows—”
“That 'tis kindness, not weakness? Yes! Your
heart is bleeding, Falkland, at the blood and agony
bleeds; but I am not the author of this conflict. I
shrink from the future; but I go on in my course.
The English monarchy shall not fall, in my person,
without a struggle, Falkland. And now good-night.”
My father, who waited, ushered the king to his apartment,
bearing a silver sconce before him. A few moments
after their disappearance, my father called me. I
went up rapidly, and the king, who sat beside a table,
upon which lay an open portfolio, said to me,—
“I have a service to ask of you, Mr. Cecil. Are you
well mounted?”
“Very well, your majesty.”
“I wish you to go to Holland.”
I bowed low, with a beating heart. The king had
turned to my father.
“Two gray-haired gentlemen like ourselves, Mr.
Cecil,” he said, “can understand each other. I would
write to my wife. To-night my thoughts have never
left her. I shall go into action to-morrow, and, like a
good husband, think of one who is thinking of me.”
Taking a pen as he spoke, the king began to write.
The letter, which filled two sheets, was at last finished
and securely sealed, the king stamping the wax with
a signet-ring which he wore. He then extended the
package towards me, but suddenly drew it back.
“No, I will wait until the event is decided to-morrow,
and add some lines,” he said. “'Twould be
cruel to write thus on the eve of battle, and leave her
majesty in doubt of everything,—perhaps to torture
herself with fears. Your pardon, Mr. Cecil,” he added
to my father: “I think aloud, but I take no shame to
husband thinking of his absent wife.”
He turned towards me, and added, “'Twould disappoint
you too, sir, if I'm not mistaken. Go into action
with your friends to-morrow. I shall see and share all.
And if you survive, come to me immediately after the
battle.”
I saluted and retired. Half an hour afterwards I was
in camp, and said to Harry, beside whom I lay,—
“I am going to Holland to-morrow, Harry. I shall
see her again,—Frances Villiers!”
7. VII.
BROTHERS.
As I uttered the words, “I shall see her again,
—Frances Villiers!” I felt Harry start.
“You say that in an ardent tone, Ned,” he replied.
“Is the prospect so delightful?”
I was silent, and felt a burning blush rush to my face
in the darkness.
“True!” I stammered. “I have never spoken of
this even to you, my dearest Harry. But 'tis out now!
Yes, I look forward to the moment when I shall see
Frances Villiers again with the wildest beating of the
heart. When the king said, `I wish you to go to Holland,'
the words were like music. How could I feel
aught but joy, or listen calmly, as his majesty spoke
dearer to me than all else in this world!”
Followed a gushing oration, full of passionate love
and general froth and absurdity. What makes young
gentlemen when they are in love insist upon bestowing
their raptures, with a sort of drunken ardor, on the
nearest person? They grow maudlin when the fit is on
them, and talk on through the night-watches forever.
So I opened my heart to Harry, and told him all, as
we lay there on Edgehill,—how I had loved Frances
Villiers from our first meeting nearly, had dreamed of
her day and night when at Hampton Court, and had
sighed bitterly when she went away,—my sun, moon,
and starlight all combined! This, and all the rest! I
spare the reader, as I did not spare poor Harry. He
listened in silence for a long time, and scarce interrupted
me to the end. There was something strange
in his voice, I thought,—I did not note it then, but
remembered it afterwards.
“Well, Ned,” he said, at length, forcing a laugh, “I
see you are regularly a victim; but I don't wonder,
since the enchantress is the fair Miss Villiers, the empress
of all hearts!”
He laughed again; but the laugh was discordant.
“What ails you, Harry? Your laugh is strange!” I
said.
“Ails me? Nothing, Ned. What could ail me? I'm
not anxious about the fight to-morrow on Mr. Harry
Cecil's score, I swear to you. If I felt solicitude,
'twould be on Ned Cecil's account, brother.”
His voice had softened to the sweetest music: there
was no longer the tone of frolic laughter in it, but an
heart, as he ended with that word “brother,” never
employed save in moments of loving regard.
“Then we think of each other,” I said; “for I have
prayed for you, Harry! You are my only brother, and
the very best brother that man ever had!”
Harry's old kind laugh rang out.
“Good! Here we are making protestations,” he
said. “What's the advantage? Don't I know that you
love me, Ned, as I love you? Since we were children
we never have quarreled but once, when I beat you
and then went and sat on the steps and cried about it!
I'll back Ned Cecil for a brother against any man in
England! And now let's go to sleep; 'tis near day,
and the fight may open at dawn. So you go to Holland?—Well,
present my regards to the fair Miss
Frances. She's worth loving, Ned,—forward!—I mean
to be present at your wedding!”
The words were uttered in a low tone, and Harry
turned away, as though going to sleep. Suddenly he
wheeled round, and placed his arm around my neck.
“God bless my brother!” he said, in the same strange
tone: “that comes straight from my heart, Ned!—and
now good-night.”
A moment afterwards, a long heavy breathing seemed
to indicate that Harry slept. I knew afterwards that,
like myself, he lay awake until dawn. Then the bugle
sounded, and the camps were astir.
The day of battle had come,—the first battle of the
English Civil War.
8. VIII.
I VISIT THE HAGUE.
These memoirs, may it please the reader, are not
a history of the reign of his majesty King Charles I.,
nor even a narrative of the military occurrences of
the “Great Rebellion.” Guns will roar on the page,
bugles sound, and swords clash, sometimes; but 'tis
the adventures of Edmund Cecil which will chiefly
compose the story.
Therefore of Edgehill I present but a passing sketch;
and I think all battles had best be treated in that
manner. What are they but a hurly-burly of shouts,
explosions, and cheers or groans! The movements of
columns or wings are described in a few words; then
nothing is left but that confused struggle of the opposing
masses. I have been in many battles; and all
resemble each other in the one great feature of men in
clothes of different colors essaying to tear each other
to pieces.
The king's army, of about ten thousand men, was
drawn up on the slope of Edgehill. In the vale of the
Red Horse, beneath, the ten or fifteen thousand men
of Lord Essex confronted them in order of battle. All
day the opponents faced each other thus. Towards
sunset the battle began. With fluttering banners,
blasts of the bugle, and the roar of artillery, the royal
forces advanced to charge those of the parliament.
Prince Rupert, on our right, commanding the horse,
began the struggle, as was thereafter his wont. He
charged the left wing of Lord Essex, consisting of a
strong body of cavalry; and, riding with the Guards
in front, I witnessed a singular incident. The troop
of horse we were charging suddenly fired their pistols
into the ground; their commanding officer spurred to
meet us, and made a parade-salute with his sabre to
Prince Rupert, with whom he exchanged a few words;
an instant afterwards the troop had wheeled and ranged
themselves on the side of the king. Sir Faithful Fortescue—forced,
'twas said, to march with the parliament's
forces against his will—had changed his flag on
the day of battle, for which I, a royalist, could never
forgive him.
Struck thus by the whole weight of Rupert's horsemen,
the enemy's left wing gave way. A wild chaos
followed, the pursuers cutting down the fugitives as
they fled. They were followed nearly a league thus;
and Heaven knows how far the pursuit would have extended,
had not a thunder of shouts in the distance
recalled the prince to a sense of his indiscretion.
Sir Arthur Aston had broken the right of Lord Essex,
as Rupert had broken the left; but the infantry of the
king was thus stripped of its supports of horse. Sir
William Balfour, commanding the parliament's reserve
force, advanced; the lines clashed together furiously.
Lord Lindsey, our commander, was mortally wounded
and taken prisoner; and Sir Edmund Verney, bearing
the king's standard, fell dead,—the standard falling
into the enemy's hands.
Such was the state of things when Prince Rupert led
too late to be of much service. The king's standard
was recaptured; but the enemy continued to present
an unbroken front. Then night descended:—the two
armies retained their positions; the watch-fires blazed
in long lines within sight of each other in the vale of
the Red Horse:—the fight of Edgehill, which left
five thousand dead men on the field, had resulted in
success to neither side.
The sole ground for claiming a victory over the
parliament was the fact that Essex retired, and the
king advanced towards London afterwards. But this I
did not witness. I was on my way to Holland.
At midnight his majesty had delivered to me his
letter to the queen, containing, doubtless, additional
matter relating to the battle.
“This with speed to her majesty at the Hague,
Mr. Cecil,” the king said. “At Yarmouth a vessel
awaits you: here is my order to the captain. Travel
rapidly; and, if you are in peril, destroy the letter. A
good journey, sir! I would fain go in your place.”
I took the letter, bowing low, and ten minutes afterwards
was in the saddle.
A hand in the darkness was placed on my knee.
“You forget to bid me good-by, Ned!”
The voice was gentle,—almost tender. In my foolish
joy at the thought of seeing Frances Villiers, I had
quite forgotten my dearest Harry; but he had not forgotten
me.
His arm was placed around me: a few words, and
we had parted.
Of all persons after my father, I loved this one the
too loved me.
But I did not think of Harry then; nor did I know
the full wealth of that noble heart and the extent of
my brother's self-sacrifice.
I passed across the country at full speed, avoiding
the enemy's scouting-parties, reached Yarmouth, found
the king's vessel—a small sloop—waiting, and gave the
captain the order. We put to sea at once, and, after a
stormy passage, saw the low shores of Holland appear
like a long green line on the water.
In due time I disembarked at the Hague and delivered
the king's letter to her majesty.
9. IX.
A GOOD WIFE.
I went to Holland, expecting to return to England
at once. I remained there from October until the
month of February, 1643.
The queen had said to me, “I wish your assistance
here, Mr. Cecil. Remain, therefore; but do not fear:
you shall soon see England again.”
As her majesty thus spoke, sitting in an apartment
of the palace of the Princes of Orange, at the Hague,
her face glowed with animation, and her eyes were full
of courage.
“You are a friend of the royal cause, sir, and a
gentleman of discretion, too,” her majesty was pleased
to add, smiling. “I shall therefore take you into our
confidence and inform you of our good fortune. See
this paper: we have the promise of these round sums
from the worthy burghers here.”
She held out a paper to me, and I perused its contents.
Rotterdam engaged to lend forty thousand
guilders, and the bank at the same city the sum of
twenty-five thousand more. The bank at Amsterdam
promised eight hundred and forty-five thousand more.
Merchants at the Hague, one hundred and sixty-six
thousand more. Another merchant's house offered two
hundred and thirteen thousand two hundred, on the
security of the queen's pearls. Six rubies were accepted
in pawn for forty thousand more. From the paper, in
a word, I learned how successful her majesty had been.
She had the promise of, and afterwards did actually
receive, from these various sources, more than two
millions of pounds sterling.
I raised my eyes from the paper, and fixed them
upon the animated face of the queen.
“The worthy burgomasters of this good country
have not surrendered without a desperate resistance,”
her majesty added, laughing. “They exhibited at
first little favor towards me, and, indeed, scant respect
for my person. They entered my presence with their
heads covered; threw themselves unbidden into chairs
before me; stared at me in the manner of persons
viewing some strange wild animal; and, when I spoke
of money, more than once turned their backs and
marched from the room.”
“'Tis not possible!” I said. “And could your
majesty endure such treatment?”
“Without a word, Mr. Cecil. The worthy burghers
could not repulse me. I responded to all their discourtesy
with the sweetest smiles. I would not see the
beavers remaining on their heads; I had chairs brought
them, and begged they would be seated. Never was
bankrupt merchant more polite to those who could assist
him. And I have triumphed despite everything;
despite Sir Walter Strickland, the parliament's agent
here, a brother of Sir William, of the enemy's side in
England. I have triumphed, and shall soon set out for
England with an armament. His majesty's need is sore
there, and my assistance will not arrive too soon. The
gentlemen of the parliament seem inspired with a veritable
fury against us. I say us, since 'tis my pride to
have secured at least one-half their enmity! They exhaust
every effort, I am told. Plate, jewels, even the
thimbles and bodkins of the worthy burghers' wives,
pour into the treasury at Guildhall, to support the
`good cause.' Why then should not I, in my turn,
give my jewels? The good dames of London rush to
the assistance of Mr. Pym and Mr. Cromwell and
the leaders of the `godly.' A poor `malignant' wife,
then, may be pardoned for essaying to aid her husband!”
So spoke the queen. Whatever her faults, she was
assuredly a brave and devoted wife. Throughout all
those stormy times this fealty to her husband shines
clearly. At Newark, once, when the ladies petitioned
that she would not march till Nottingham was taken,
she replied,—
“Ladies, affairs of this nature are not in our sphere.
I am commanded by the king to make all the haste to
him that I can. You will receive this advantage, at
least, by my answer, though I cannot grant your petition:
you may learn, by my example, to obey your
husbands!”
I see a charming French wit in that reply, and good
sense too, I think. I finish the sentence with trepidation,
knowing some fair dames who repudiate such
humility. 'Tis taught in the holy volume, but is going
out of fashion.
So I remained at the Hague until February, 1643,
before which time her majesty had not perfected her
arrangements for returning to England.
I shall say little of that time: the days followed and
resembled each other too. A flat country, and a flat
life there; or 'twould have been flat, the life I led,
but for the presence of a person who was very dear to
me. With one scene, in which this person bore part,
I will pass from Holland. I would omit even this,
willingly; but 'tis impossible.
10. X.
MY FATE.
I pause, and lean my forehead on my hand, and
laugh. I did not laugh then: the scene I speak of did
not arouse my merriment.
It took place at Helvoetsluys, a country palace of
the Prince of Orange, whither the queen went on a
visit, towards the spring, taking her suite with her.
An old park, beyond which the sluggish waters of a
canal were seen,—the country around flat and prosaic;
the park bare and dreary with its leafless trees,—
amid such a scene I was walking at twilight with Frances
Villiers, and had just made a passionate speech, to which
the young lady had listened with a burning blush.
Through the mists that have gathered in all the years
since that moment, I can see her plainly. She wore a
dress of red brocade, and had thrown some furs around
her shoulders. From beneath a silken hood her great
eyes shone, half covered, as her head sank, by curls;
her cheeks were crimson with that sudden blush; and
the hand I held in my own was bent upward, with the
palm downward, so that the round white wrist was bent.
The hand tried to release itself, and some words came
in a sort of murmur from the lips, turned away from
me.
“Have pity on me! You know now that I love you
more than my life! You must have seen it all these
days. Now I speak, and await my fate!”
Something like this escaped from the young man
holding the hand of the girl; and a long deep breath
which she drew, as though to relieve her bosom from
a weight upon it, filled the lover with delicious hope.
Alas!—
It came!—that reply which so many a gay gallant
has received in this world:
“I cannot!—oh, no! Why force me to this, Mr.
Cecil?”
She stopped, and all at once her confusion seemed
to disappear. Her head turned towards me; the great
eyes were full of calm goodness and sweetness; the
blushes had disappeared, and the hand was gently withdrawn.
“There is something terrible in this,” she murmured.
“Our interview is doubly unfortunate, Mr.
Cecil.”
“Terrible?—unfortunate?”
“Is it not unfortunate when—”
She paused.
“Speak!—you torture me,” I said.
“I would fain speak, Mr. Cecil,” she said, with
earnest feeling, “but I know not how to tell you all.
'Tis hard for a maiden to say what I desire to utter.
And yet—'tis better, is it not, ever to be frank and
open?”
“A thousand times better! Speak thus, I pray you!”
She raised her eyes, which had been cast down for an
instant, and they beamed with candor and goodness.
“We are friends; I value your friendship; will
you then permit me to speak as your friend, with the
unreserve even of a sister? Do not woo me, sir:
'tis terrible when two brothers are rival suitors!”
Her face flushed again, and, as she thus spoke, she
turned towards the palace.
I followed in a sort of stupor. 'Tis terrible when
two brothers are rival suitors! Those words rang in
my brain, and confused me like a blow. Harry was a
suitor of Frances Villiers, then! I had never dreamed
of that, regarding them as friends only; now the announcement
came suddenly that I was my dear brother's
rival.
“God help me!” I groaned, at length; “why was
this concealed from me? What evil fate has placed me
in opposition to my dearest brother?”
“Evil indeed, sir!” murmured the young girl:
“were that brothers' love to be broken by me, I
should die of grief and shame.”
I walked on in silence beside her, and we drew near
the entrance to the palace. Suddenly she turned her
head and fixed her eyes upon me. The earnest glance
seemed to read all that was passing in my mind.
“There is something I should add,” she said, in a
low tone; “and I will not shrink now. Yes, your
brother is my suitor; but I have no heart for any one,
sir. My life—like my character, perhaps—is a strange
one, Mr. Cecil. I am an orphan, nearly alone in the
world: my life is dedicated to but one great sentiment,
—my love for the queen. I shall never marry. Forget
me! those are the last words I said to your brother,
Mr. Cecil.”
She went up the great staircase slowly, leaving me
standing at the foot.
Then Harry loved her,—and he had bid me goodspeed
in my wooing!
My face must have flushed; a sudden warmth made
itself felt in my heart, as I remembered my brother's
last greeting when I left him.
“Well, 'tis fortunate,” I muttered, “that I have
received my quietus too! 'Twill make my course easier,
my resolution from this moment not to stand in the
path of my dear Harry. He abandons the field to me,
—I abandon it to him. My heart may break; at least
I shall not be dishonored.”
Do you smile, reader, and say that all this was romantic
and high-flown? Would that to-day my heart
were as fresh and true and unselfish as 'twas then, when
I gave up the love of a woman for the love I bore my
brother!
| Her majesty the queen | |