University of Virginia Library

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

on his majesty's friends, sir,” said my father,
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

hypocritical fanatic! Now these are the saints, and we
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,

it seemed, into despair. “Mr. Ireton! The next
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.