 | Her majesty the queen |  |
3. BOOK III.
1. I.
THE ADVENTURES OF A QUEEN.
These memoirs, fortunately, deal much more in incident
than in sentiment. All the love-making they
contain was made by my humble self, you see, friend;
and, looking back now, those scenes impress me as
exquisitely absurd.
Have your laugh, therefore, reader, at that interview
in the park at Helvoetsluys; then come with me to
some scenes which will possess more interest.
We are going to return to England. The queen
had received her two million pounds sterling. With
the larger portion she had bought artillery and other
munitions; and on a clear day of February, 1643, she
sailed from Scheveling, in a first-class ship, the Princess
Royal, with eleven transports,—the whole convoyed
by a war-fleet under command of Admiral Van
Tromp.
The weather had promised to be fine; but the heavens
speedily clouded over. Then a violent northeasterly
gale began to roar, and the seas to dash. With every
moment the wind seemed to become more violent;
and I shall never forget the ludicrous scenes which
save the queen, had fallen a prey to sea-sickness. The
ladies of her suite were tied in their small beds, I was
told, to secure them from the tossing of the ship. All
was wailing and moaning, prayers for deliverance, and
vows against again tempting the horrors of the great
deep. In the general confusion, scarce an attempt
was made to preserve etiquette. Those who essayed
to serve the queen rolled and fell as they approached
her,—thereby causing her to laugh heartily, with her
pleasant sense of humor.
The storm grew ever more violent; and now the
ship seemed about to founder. Then the ludicrous
character of the spectacle presented reached its highest
point. The ladies of the suite gave up hope, and
began to shout aloud their confessions to the attendant
priests. The priests were in wretched plight, as they
shared the terrible nausea; and as the strange confessions
were cried out at the top of the fair ladies' voices,
they vainly strove to pay attention,—pale, woe-begone,
and as wretched as their penitents.
In the midst of all sat the queen, looking on and
listening. At last the scene overpowered her, and she
burst into a hearty laugh.
“For shame, ladies!” she said. “See! there are
gentlemen at the door who hear you!”
And indeed several of the queen's gentlemen were
looking on, and listening to the strange revelations.
The queen shrugged her fair shoulders after the
French fashion, and added,—
“Well, I suppose the extremity of your fears takes
away the shame of confessing such misdeeds in public!”
And, rising, she took a step forward to leave the
cabin. As she did so, the ship rolled suddenly, and
the queen would have fallen had I not hastened to her.
I received her in my arms, and she clung to me,—the
royal head upon my shoulder! The sea is terribly
democratic. The arms of a subject were around his
queen!—for a moment only, however: her majesty
regained her footing at once, and ascended to the
deck.
Here, leaning on the rail, and gazing with perfect
calmness upon the wild waters lashed to fury by the
storm, the queen uttered these words to the few persons
who had followed her:
“Comfort yourselves, mes chères!—queens of England
are never drowned!”
They were brave words; and 'twas a heart braver
than many a man's from which they came.
The tempest continued day and night for many
days; and finally the Princess Royal and the whole
fleet were beaten back to the coast of Holland,—all
but two of the vessels, which foundered in the tempest.
The queen was not discouraged. Her eyes were
fixed on England, and again the fleet set sail. This
time favoring winds blew, and the vessels ran rapidly
before them. At dawn one morning I heard a cry on
deck. I hastened up, and saw that the fleet had entered
Burlington Bay, on the coast of Yorkshire; and
on the hills, now in plain view, a considerable body of
the royal cavalry was drawn up in long line, ready to
welcome us.
The queen was not to land her stores and regain
his majesty, however, without further adventures; and
that I feign these incidents. They are the
simple truth.
Her majesty had landed a portion of her stores, and
gone on shore with her suite, when an enemy suddenly
appeared and roughly saluted her. This enemy was
Admiral Batten, in command of a fleet of parliament
vessels; and the first intimation we had of his approach
was the thunder of guns.
The cannonade began at dawn one morning, before
the queen, who slept in a small house on the shore,
had risen. She was startled from slumber by the cries
of her ladies, and before she was well awake the houses
around were battered down, and two cannon-balls struck
the roof above her, crashing down through the ceilings.
There was thus no time for delay. Van Tromp
had engaged the enemy; but a part of their attentions
was bestowed upon the house the queen occupied, in
ignorance, I hope, of her presence, though Admiral
Batten was charged with firing on her majesty.
Scarce stopping to make any portion of her toilette,
the queen hastened from the threatened mansion. She
had thrown around her shoulders a flowered robe-de-chambre,
her brown hair fell in masses of curls around
her neck, and she had thrust her small white feet into
a pair of thin silken slippers, which scarce defended
them from the sharp flints of the way. Such was the
unceremonious guise in which the queen fled through
the street of Burlington. All at once she stopped.
I was near her majesty, and cried to her to hasten on.
“No, I cannot leave Mitte behind!” she said.
“Mitte!” I exclaimed.
“My poor lap-dog, Mr. Cecil.”
“I beseech your majesty!—I will return and—”
The queen had scarce listened. She was back again
at the house ere I could turn round. I ran after her.
The street was raked by cannon-shot, and the hoarse
thunder resounded from the sea: with that thunder
suddenly mingled the yelp of a dog.
I had reached the door of the house just as the queen,
who had run up to her chamber and caught the lap-dog
from his place of repose on her own bed, made
her reappearance, clasping Mitte in her arms.
“I could not leave him to the mercy of the parliament,
Mr. Cecil! They have voted me guilty of high
treason, and might condemn him! What a tragedy, to
think of his perishing on Tower Hill!”
“Good heavens!” I exclaimed, “for your majesty
to jest at such a moment!”
As I spoke, a cannot-shot passed within a few feet of
the queen and entered a house near us.
“Hasten, your majesty!—I beseech you!”
“I am not afraid; but you see I am running, Mr.
Cecil!”
The beautiful face, with its flush of excitement, was
turned over the shoulder. The rosy lips were parted
over the white teeth by a smile; the dark eyes beamed
from behind the mass of brown hair— Pardon my
romantic enthusiasm, reader: Queen Mary was very
beautiful then, as she ran with her little bare feet and
laughed at the bullets.
They pursued her as she fled from the town into the
country. Reaching the fields, she crouched down with
her attendants in a ditch for protection. As she did
servant of her suite had uttered the cry: he had been
torn in two by a cannon-ball.
All day the roar continued, and all day the queen
crouched down. As evening came, the parliament
ships sailed away, pursued by Van Tromp.
“And now the rest of my stores may land,” said
the queen; “and I'll go dress myself.”
2. II.
A FEMALE GENERAL.
The queen remained near Burlington for about ten
days, superintending the disembarkation of her arms
and stores.
I say near Burlington; not in the town. Her majesty
had removed thence to an old manor-house,
crowning a lofty hill, not far distant; and 'twas surely
a singular freak of fate that this house should be Boynton
Hall, the property of Sir William Strickland, the
emissary of parliament who intruded so inopportunely
upon the last meeting of the king and queen at Dover.
Sir William was in London, or with the parliamentary
forces; and her majesty established her headquarters
at Boynton Hall on the military principle, no doubt,
that it is permissible in time of war to live upon the
enemy.
It was a veritable general headquarters,—the old hall
in that spring of '43. Messengers went and came; the
queen sent off and received dispatches to and from the
company of gentlemen of the region flocked to the
hall; and the result of the queen's courageous energy
was a general movement in favor of the king. The
queen greeted every one with warm cordiality and the
sweetest smiles. Arms were distributed on all sides
from her stores rapidly landing, and from what were
called “the queen's pledges” a very considerable addition
to her treasury resulted. These “pledges,”
which are, no doubt, still retained in many families,
were rings, lockets, and bracelet clasps, with the letters
H. M. R.,—standing for Henrietta Maria Regina,—in
delicate gold filigree-work, entwined in a monogram,
against a background of crimson velvet, covered with
thick crystal. These pledges were offered on all sides,
in return for loans. When the king had his own again,
the loans would be repaid on presentation of the
pledges. In this manner considerable sums were
added to the queen's military chest, and the work of
arming the adherents of the king's cause, and of laying
them under contribution too, went on rapidly.
The enthusiasm of the Yorkshire gentry in the queen's
behalf soon showed itself. One morning came the intelligence
that Sir Hugh Cholmondeley had delivered
Scarborough Castle to the king, and the Hothams, who
had shut the gates of Hull on the king, declared for
him.
The popularity of the queen reached its highest point
a few days afterwards, from the performance of an
action on her part equally generous and judicious.
One of the captains of the parliamentary fleet which
had bombarded the queen in Burlington had ventured
the king. Men's minds were too much inflamed then
to pay much regard to law and justice. This officer
had simply performed his duty to his flag in firing on
the queen; but this construction of his conduct had
very few supporters. He was tried hastily, by a military
tribunal. The act of intending to fire on the
queen was or was not proved against him: the point
in controversy was quickly decided by ordering him to
be taken out and shot.
The queen, ever on horseback now, going to and
fro, met the procession. At the head walked the
parliamentary officer, with his hands bound, and an
armed escort beside him.
“The meaning of this? Stop!” said the queen. “I
command here!”
An officer of the royal force approached, and, doffing
his beaver, bowed low.
“'Tis the man who trained the cannon on your
majesty whilst in Burlington,” he said. “The act is
proved upon him; he has been tried and condemned—”
“And you would execute him? No! A thousand
times no, sir! He but followed his orders. I was an
enemy, and the king's flag was up.”
“But consider that this man very nearly put your
majesty to death.”
“Ah!” the queen said, “but I have forgiven him
all that; and, as he did not kill me, he shall not be
put to death on my account.”
The officer bowed his head.
“Release him,” said the queen.
The prisoner's arms were unbound, and he shook
by the cords. Then he turned, and fixed his
eyes silently upon the glowing face of the queen.
“Thank her majesty for her royal goodness,” said
the person who had unbound him.
The officer of parliament turned scornfully towards
the speaker, and replied,—
“A truce to your advice, my good sir! 'Tis not
you who would have spared me. And I thank no one
for not committing murder on my person.”
A murmur of indignation was heard; but the adherent
of parliament laughed derisively.
The queen approached him, still mounted, and, gazing
at him earnestly, said, in her low, soft voice,—
“You are at liberty to go whither you will, sir; and
what you say is just. You owe me no thanks. You
might justly have died cursing me had I permitted this
cruel deed. You are an enemy, and a brave one.
Pity you cannot be my friend and the king's. But I
will not solicit you, save to entreat you not to persecute
one who would not harm you when she could.”
As the queen spoke, in her voice full of earnest feeling,
a flush came to the face of the officer. He fixed
a long, searching look upon the face of the queen,
opened his lips to speak, but uttered only some unintelligible
words; then he bowed low, doffing his round
hat, as the queen, saluting him in turn, rode on.
A week afterwards, this officer, with a number of
his men, had deserted to the king's standard. I say
deserted: it is always desertion to change your flag in
face of the enemy, whatever the merit of the cause
profiting by your change.
This act of judicious clemency won all hearts, and
made the queen warm friends, even thawing the
somewhat frigid faces of the ladies at Boynton Hall,
who naturally embraced the parliament cause.
These ladies were now subjected to a somewhat rough
test of their equanimity. As the queen rose from dinner,
on the last day of her sojourn at Boynton Hall, she
paused a moment before leaving the room, looked at
the table covered with massive silver plate, and said,—
“I fear, ladies, 'twill be thought I am about to make
an ungracious return for the courtesies I have received;
but unhappily the king's affairs have come to that
pass that he requires pecuniary aid. And this,” here
her majesty glanced at a portrait of Sir William Strickland
on the wall, “through the disaffection and want
of duty on the part of some of those who ought to have
been among his most loyal supporters.”
The preface was ominous: the ladies listened in
silence.
“The parliament has refused,” continued the queen,
“to grant the supplies requisite for maintaining the
honor of the crown, and therefore money must be obtained
by other means. I am sorry thus to be under
the necessity of taking possession of Sir William Strickland's
plate. But do not regard this as a confiscation
of an enemy's goods, ladies, I pray you. I shall consider
it as a loan; and, as I trust the king will very
soon compose the disorders in these parts, I will restore
the plate, or at any rate its value in money, to Sir
William Strickland. Meanwhile, ladies, I will leave
at Boynton Hall, as a pledge of my royal intention
and a memorial of my visit, my own portrait.”
At a sign from the queen, the door opened, and two
men brought in a superbly-framed life-size portrait of
herself. It represented her majesty clad in white, the
open sleeves caught up with broad green ribbon, the
bodice laced across with gold chains and ornamented
with pendent pearls. The hair was short and in frizzled
curls, after the French fashion called tête de mouton.
The back of the head was decorated with flowers, and
the dark eyes looked out from the delicate face with an
expression of exquisite candor and sweetness.
“I offer this pledge of my intent to restore what I
take, ladies,” said the queen. “'Tis hard necessity
which impels me: I pray you have charity. I am a
poor wife only, striving to aid my husband, and that,
you know, ladies, is a duty inculcated by Holy Writ.”
The lurking spirit of humor in the queen shone from
her eyes as she thus spoke. She saluted with a gracious
bend of the head, and left the apartment.
At dawn on the next day she was in the saddle, and,
followed by her suite, rode down the hill. Boynton
Hall was quiet again: her majesty had taken the field.
On a down a league distant, suddenly appeared,
drawn up in battle-array, a body of the king's horse.
Their arms flashed, and plumes and banners waved.
Then a ringing blast from the bugles saluted the queen,
and a fiery cavalier, young, superbly clad, and riding
a magnificent charger, came on at full gallop. Fifty
paces from the queen he checked his horse, throwing
him upon his haunches. Then, doffing his plumed
beaver, he saluted profoundly, and said,—
“Welcome to your majesty.”
“Thanks, my lord of Montrose,” was the queen's
York?”
“With two thousand horse, your majesty, ready to
escort you thither.”
“Who commands there?”
“The Earl of Newcastle, your majesty.”
“I go to supersede him!” exclaimed the queen,
with joyous smiles. “See my reinforcements!”
And she pointed to her train following. It consisted
of six cannon, two large mortars, and two hundred
and fifty wagons loaded with money, plate, fire-arms,
rapiers, and munitions of all descriptions, just disembarked
from the fleet.
“With your escort of two thousand gallant cavaliers,
my lord, I doubt not I shall safely deliver my stores to
his majesty.”
“Your majesty will move towards York speedily?”
“I will move to-day,—this moment.”
“In that case I beg your majesty will enter the coach
I have brought for your use.”
“A coach?”
“A very convenient one, your majesty.”
The queen shook her head, laughing. “I shall not
need your coach, my lord: I have taken the field! I
am a soldier of the king's, and soldiers do not ride in
coaches. See this spirited little palfrey: I am at ease
upon him, and fear no fatigue. Shall I boast too that
I am as little afraid of an enemy? Should the forces
of the parliament attack you, my lord, I will take command
of the baggage. You see I am ready. We go
by Malton, do we not? Give the word to advance;
and God save the king!”
The queen was now in front of the long-drawn
column of horse. They heard her words, and as she
rode at full speed to the head of the column, Montrose
galloping beside her, a thundering shout and the clash
of arms was heard. Two thousand men shouted,—
“God save Queen Mary!”
3. III.
HARRY AND I.
Queen Mary rode across the wolds to Malton, and
thence towards York, persisting still in her brave resolution
to share the hardships of her soldiers.
She would enter no chariot; paid attention neither
to wind nor sun nor storm; ate the rude fare of the
men, in bivouac among them,—and they came to adore
her almost. This delicate woman, lapped in down from
her childhood, and accustomed to all luxuries, cheerfully
—even gayly—endured every hardship, and marched,
and slept, and ate, and was ready to fight too, like the
humblest trooper of her forces.
The queen sat one evening in the doorway of her
small tent, which had been pitched beneath a large oak,
beside the road, in sight of the great camp. Around
her majesty were grouped the ladies and gentlemen of
her suite, and a number of officers, including the gallant
Montrose.
All at once the queen stopped eating her hard bread,
and fixed her eyes on some object in the distance. It
was a horseman coming at full speed; and in five minutes
he had approached within a hundred yards of the
tent, when he threw himself from the saddle, affixed
his bridle to a bough, and, drawing near, doffed his
plumed hat, making a profound inclination.
I recognized Harry. He had evidently ridden hard;
and, as he came, he drew from his breast a packet.
“For your majesty,” he said, bending his knee, and
presenting the packet.
The queen caught it eagerly, and said,—
“You come from his majesty, Mr. Cecil?”
Harry blushed with pleasure at this recognition, and
bowed low.
“He is well?”
“Quite well, your majesty.”
“God be thanked!”
She had torn open the letter, and now read it by
the last rays of sunset. As she read, her face flushed.
Finishing, she raised her head, and her eyes were full
of indignation and martial fire. “Do you know the
ultimatum of the parliament, my lord?” she said to
Montrose.
“Submission, doubtless, your majesty,” replied the
soldier, coolly.
“You have guessed correctly, my lord. Yes, submission.
The Earl of Northumberland, the kinsman
of Lady Carlisle, who betrayed me, has had the courage
and the want of shame to visit his majesty as the commissioner
of parliament; and here is the narrative of
his errand!”
She struck the paper with her finger.
“They demand but little!—they are moderate, these
good gentlemen! They simply request that his majesty
shall abolish episcopacy and the Church of England,
and give up to their tender mercies all who have aided
him in his rebellion against them.”
A growl from the circle saluted these words. All
faces darkened. The queen looked around her.
“You see, gentlemen, there is no retreat now for me
or for you. We are to die on Tower Hill, or on the
field of battle, fighting bravely. Which do you choose,
messieurs?”
The words raised a tumult. The queen listened with
glowing eyes to the hoarse noise around her. Suddenly
she caught, from the ground near, a small dress-sword,
and drew it. She wrapped a scarf around the hilt of
the bright steel weapon, and attached it to her slender
waist. Then, rising, she threw the scabbard from her
violently, and exclaimed,—
“Here is my answer!”
Two hours afterwards, I was riding towards Oxford
beside Harry, who bore back the queen's reply. I
had solicited and obtained this favor: to live beside
Frances Villiers had become an agony to me. We
had scarce interchanged more than a few words of
common politeness since the evening at Helvoetsluys:
to be near her, even, was wretchedness to me, and I
embraced the first opportunity to leave her.
And this voluntary absence from her side now made
it necessary to explain all to Harry. To his laughing
demand how it was possible that I had courage to separate
from the young lady, I replied,—
“Little courage is requisite, Harry. I live in a
dream, yonder, near her,—in alternate torpor and
fever.”
“You have—”
“Yes, and she has rejected me; but that is the least
of it.”
“Rejected you? Oh, Ned!—my poor Ned!”
“Don't pity me, Harry. I am a man, and hearts
don't break in our family on such occasions. Something
more than a love-disappointment fevered me
yonder.”
“More?”
“The thought that you looked upon me, perchance,
as a poor weak creature that loved a woman more than
I loved my brother or my honor!”
“Your meaning, Ned! Who dares to say that you
love not your honor?”
“None, thank Heaven! You least of all must think
that, Harry. But listen! you shall know all. 'Tis
but recently that I learned the truth. You sacrificed
your love to me,—well, I sacrifice mine to you. She
told me all. Shame burned in me like fire, brother,
when I thought of your last words after Edgehill. Do
you think I'll let my brother break his heart for me?
I swear I will not! Go and love Frances Villiers more
than ever, and tell your love. Women are weather-cocks.
For myself, Harry, I'll go no more. My game
is played,—I have lost her; but I have your love,
Harry, and that's enough!”
I think a groan came as I finished. Harry leaned
over and put his arm on my shoulder. His eyes shone
through a sort of mist.
“Didn't I say that night that I'd back Ned Cecil
for a brother against any man in England? Well,
brother, we are left to each other. For myself, I've
done with the fair Frances, who'll no more look at me
than at you, Ned. What bad taste! Well, court
her or not, as you fancy,—but remember one thing,
brother, she's not going to have an opportunity again
of becoming Mrs. Harry Cecil.”
I knew what the words meant,—that my brother
would not stand in my way; and I swore to myself that
I would not stand in his. I raised my head, after this
resolution, and looked at Harry, smiling.
“Miss Villiers won't be annoyed, it seems, by the
importunate Cecil family hereafter,” I said; and then,
by common consent, we spoke of other things, riding
on through the night.
Running the gauntlet of my lord Essex's cavalry
parties between York and Oxford, we finally reached
the latter place, and in one of the grand palaces of the
grand city saw his majesty again. He was pleased to
give me his hand to kiss, and to ask after the health
of my father. My detention in Holland had been
explained in the queen's dispatches; and now, losing
sight of me and all else, his majesty read the queen's
response to his letter.
As he read, the pale and melancholy face flushed red,
and the eyes grew soft. I see the king's face now,—
long, covered with the pallor of trouble, the lips surmounted
by the delicate mustache, the royale long and
pointed beneath the chin, and the eyes sometimes cold
and austere, but oftener full of brooding sadness.
“Doomed” was written on that countenance; 'twas
the eyes, and they flashed.
“My brave wife!” he murmured, as he refolded the
letter: “here at least is one heart that does not
despair.”
He turned to Harry and myself.
“Thanks, gentlemen,” he said; “'tis my happiness
to have near me friends so faithful as the Cecils. Faithful
hearts are pure gold in my eyes, and I lean upon
them. The times are dark, gentlemen, the issue of
this struggle doubtful; but, if we fall, let us fall with
honor,—as gentlemen should fall. That is my resolve.
My enemies are bitter. They hate my brave queen even
more than they hate me, and were she to fall into their
power their mad passion might lead them to take her
life, as they may take my own. Well, so let it be: the
more need that we should act like brave men. For
myself, I mean not to falter. As king, I defend my
crown; as gentleman, I defend my wife.”
As the king spoke, the door opened, and Viscount
Falkland entered, sad, with his air of gracious dignity
mixed with melancholy.
“A last proposition, your majesty,” he said. “I have
just received this note from Mr. Hampden, and beg to
lay it before your majesty.”
4. IV.
I GO WITH LORD FALKLAND TO HIS HOUSE OF GREAT TEW.
As Lord Falkland spoke, he approached the king,
and, inclining his head with profound respect, presented
a letter.
“From Mr. Hampden?”
“Yes, your majesty.”
The king perused the letter, and then, looking up,
said,—
“'Tis a forlorn hope, Falkland: nevertheless, you
must accept Mr. Hampden's proposal. Meet him,
therefore, with one attendant, as he requests. 'Twere
well to be private; and as these gentlemen present are
in the secret, take one of them.”
Lord Falkland, who had already saluted, with his air
of sweet courtesy, my brother and myself, turned now,
and said to me,—
“You have heard his majesty, Mr. Cecil. If it please
you, I should be glad to have you go with me.”
I bowed low, no little gratified to have my Lord
Falkland recall my face and name so long after our
chance meeting in Prince Rupert's tent near Nottingham.
“Your lordship does me very great honor,” I said,
“and may dispose of me now and always.”
“The speech of a gallant young cavalier!” was the
reply of the nobleman, with his air of smiling courtesy.
then report.”
A moment afterwards, Harry and myself were in the
antechamber; and an hour afterwards, I was riding
beside Lord Falkland, who was attended only by an
ordinary groom, towards his palace of Great Tew, not
far from Oxford.
I shall always recall that ride with one whose great
figure illustrated the epoch. His converse riveted
me, and was inexpressibly charming. They say now,
in this new age, that all men are equal. Is that true?
Were there many human beings the equals of this one?
Friend, that doctrine of equality is a chimera. Some
men are born to command, as to draw all hearts. This
was one such, and the mere rank had naught to do
with it at all. Edmund Cecil was not the equal of
Lucius Cary; and a thousand demagogues cannot persuade
him to the contrary!
“It is needless to make a mystery of our errand,
Mr. Cecil,” he said. “The worthy Mr. Hampden, of
the parliament cause, requests a private interview with
me. He is pleased to say that my well-known moderation,
and his own sincere desire for peace, may unite
to effect something; and there is this satisfaction in
dealing with Mr. Hampden, that one may be confident
throughout all of his irreproachable honor.”
“I think of him as you do, my lord; and I once met
and conversed with him upon public affairs,” I said.
I narrated then my encounter with Mr. Hampden
on the high-road in Buckinghamshire; and when I had
finished, Lord Falkland said,—
“I recognize the worthy gentleman there, sir; and
so end this terrible war. `Peace! peace!' is all my
lips seem able to utter in these dark days. Our poor,
bleeding country!”
He uttered the words slowly, his head drooping, and
a deep sigh issuing from his lips; and we rode on in
silence.
At last the magnificent grounds of Lord Falkland's
mansion of Great Tew opened before us; and, riding
through a great park full of deer, and dotted with century
oaks, towering above us in the sunset, we drew
near the stately edifice. I have seen in my time the
admired palaces of the noblemen of France, Holland,
and other lands; but sure the houses of the lords of
England surpass those of all other countries. In this
new land I pine sometimes for another sight of those
great old houses,—centuries old, built of massive material,
adorned with lavish splendor,—the abodes of a
race who have struck their roots deep into the soil of
Old England throughout ages,—who raise their heads
like great oaks in the sunshine and the storm, and who
will stand or fall, I think, with the strength and glory
of England.
The broad front of Great Tew, with its mullions,
armorial devices in stone, and battlements, rose fair in
the sunset; and Lord Falkland ushered me in, with
his smile of gracious courtesy, between a double line
of domestic servants, who seemed to crave some mark
of recognition from their master. It was not withheld.
For each he seemed to have a word; and I think he
addressed almost every one by name. 'Twas plain to
me that the master of the mansion was beloved by all
the atmosphere, so to speak, of kindness and affection,
throughout the stately old house.
An hour afterwards, dinner was served, and I had the
pleasure of being presented to Lady Alice Cary, his
lordship's niece,—a charming maiden of twenty,—
whose sparkling eyes seemed to be seeking on all sides
food for mirth or satire. It was the Beatrice of Will
Shakspeare. After an hour with her, I thought he
must have known her!
The interview with Mr. Hampden was to take place
at sunrise on the next morning, at a point designated,
a league or two distant; and Lord Falkland had just
summoned his head-groom to give him an order, when
a message from the king was announced, and Harry
entered the great reception-room.
“Welcome, Mr. Cecil,” said Lord Falkland,—one
of whose winning traits was to know the name of every
one. He extended his hand as he spoke,—the model
of a gracious host,—and then, turning towards Lady
Alice, presented Harry, who bowed low.
“A note from his majesty, my lord,” Harry said,
presenting a package, which Lord Falkland opened
and read. Finishing its perusal, he allowed the hand
holding the royal letter to fall over the red velvet arm
of his chair, and, looking down, murmured,—
“'Twas unnecessary.”
I afterwards ascertained that the king had written
to say that in the interview with Mr. Hampden there
must be no manner of discussion on the subject of surrendering
any of his friends to parliament. They had
heretofore demanded that he should give up his aiders
he would die, sword in hand, before adding another
name to that of Strafford.
“I will reply at once to his majesty, Mr. Cecil,”
said the nobleman. And, going to his library, he was
absent for half an hour, during which time Lady Alice
Cary did the honors with excellent grace and ease.
What trait is more rare? With two young gentlemen,
strangers but now, she was not stiff, but gracious and
even mirthful; and when Lord Falkland returned, he
interrupted something resembling a wit-combat between
Harry and our fair hostess.
But I linger upon this charming evening, the first
and last I ever spent with the great Lord Falkland.
'Tis one of the sweetest and saddest memories I have
treasured up. You remember the august orb of the
sun, slowly sinking in pensive splendor, when you are
never to see him rise more on earth.
Harry returned with Lord Falkland's reply; and by
midnight I was asleep in one of the great old chambers,
full of antique furniture, rich, massive, and used, perchance,
by kings in their day. At sunrise I was in
the saddle, and riding beside Lord Falkland. The
dewy morning smiled upon us; the air was fresh and
bracing; the March winds were chill, but the fields
were growing green; the first flowers seemed about to
peep out from the budding grass.
“See,” Lord Falkland said, “the face of nature
wears a peaceful smile! What a pity, Mr. Cecil, that
men should frown and cut each other's throats!”
“The most piteous of all piteous things, my dear
lord,” I replied.
“And yet that is what we are doing in Old England
now. Men who but yesterday clasped hands, and sat
as brothers around the hearthstone, can find no better
means of composing their differences than to blow each
other to pieces with musketry and cannon!”
“Yonder is one who deprecates that as much as
you do, my lord,” I said; and I pointed to a mounted
gentleman who sat his horse motionless at a spot where
the road we traveled was crossed by another at right
angles. Behind this figure was another,—apparently
an atendant.
“'Tis Mr. Hampden,” said his lordship: “he
awaits us.”
5. V.
THE LAST GREETING.
The two noblemen—they were such, were they not,
reader?—advanced, and exchanged a warm grasp of
the hand.
“I am honored by your prompt compliance with the
request conveyed to you, my lord,” said Mr. Hampden.
“I esteem it an honor in my turn to meet Mr.
Hampden,” said Lord Falkland, with his gracious
courtesy. “I have come with only a single gentleman,
—an acquaintance of yours, I think, sir.”
“I know Mr. Cecil very well, and would fain call
him my friend,” said Mr. Hampden.
And he held out his hand to me, a friendly smile
similar to Lord Falkland's. What was it that made
these two men resemble each other like brothers? I
think 'twas the great soul in the bosom of Hampden,
as in the bosom of Falkland.
They rode aside, walking their horses slowly over
the deserted road, and, reaching a great tree, dismounted
and engaged in earnest converse. The distance
was not so great that I could not discern every
detail of their appearance. They faced each other,
holding their bridles, and Mr. Hampden leaning one
hand on the pommel of his saddle. With his disengaged
hand, Lord Falkland made grave gestures.
The conversation seemed earnest, but slow and almost
solemn. I did not remove my eyes from them. The
personage attending Mr. Hampden was a taciturn
civilian of middle age, whose name I had not heard
distinctly when Mr. Hampden presented him to me.
Thus we remained silent, gazing at our principals.
In about two hours the interview terminated, and
the two gentlemen came back on foot, and leading the
horses, who hung their heads as though saddened like
their masters.
“Well, well, Mr. Hampden,” Lord Falkland said,
as he drew near, “God knoweth if good will come of
this free converse we have held; but may he give us
peace. I am a bad ambassador, I fear, sir. I would
fain, were I asked to draw up articles, take a sheet of
paper and write solely the word `Peace' upon it. That
would sum up all, in my eyes. `Do not let us wrangle
about terms,' I would say. Hearts opposed to each
other are bitter, and see things in other lights. But
prove to England. These terrible opposing flags,—
only to furl them, and extend the hands of brethren
towards each other! The roar of cannon drowns all.
Silence that fearful sound, and let us meet with mutual
forbearance. For myself, sir, I would give not only
my right hand, but my very heart's blood, to see
the sun of peace—blessed peace—rise over England
again!”
As these noble and earnest words were uttered by
Lord Falkland, I saw the face of Mr. Hampden flush,
and he bowed low with profound respect.
“I recognize in these words the great soul of your
lordship,” he murmured. “Would to God we had
more such men as yourself in England to-day!”
He was silent for an instant. Then he added,—
“What your lordship has done me the honor to
communicate, respecting his majesty's views and wishes,
will be repeated to the parliament as you desire, my
lord. Would to Heaven I could convey to the gentlemen
of that body the manner in which your lordship
has spoken! I think hatred and rivalry would shrink
away before the very tones! Now I will return.”
He paused again, and added, quickly,—
“Do you know, my lord, I have a presentiment?”
“A presentiment, Mr. Hampden?”
“That my days are numbered,—that I shall soon
leave this arena of contention. Have you never had
similar presentiments, my lord?”
“Last night,” was Lord Falkland's calm response,
and his eyes were fixed gravely upon the face of his
companion. “I know not if 'twere a dream or a waking
upon the battle-field last night.”
“Strange!” Hampden murmured: “my presentiment
came last night too. And I too saw myself fall.
Is not that singular, my lord?”
Lord Falkland shook his head with a sad smile.
“Naught is singular or strange to me in this world,”
he replied. “I believe in presentiments. I believe I
shall die soon; and I am not sorry, Mr. Hampden.”
He leaned towards the other, and added, in a low,
almost inaudible tone, the words, “We shall meet, I
trust.”
With a close pressure of the hand, the two men
mounted their horses, saluted each other, and rode
off in opposite directions.
It was their last greeting on earth; but I think they
have clasped hands yonder in heaven, the realm of
peace.
6. VI.
CHALGROVE.
My memory is a gallery of pictures, dark or brilliant,
gay or sombre. Here is one of them, which I
look at through the mists of many years.
It was a night of June, flooded with moonlight;
and under the boughs of a great oak, not far from the
village of Chinnor, Prince Rupert stood leaning one
gauntleted hand upon the pommel of his saddle, and
five paces of him stood Lord Falkland,—a calm, sad
figure in the bright moonlight. From the wood came
the stamping of cavalry horses, beside which stood or
lay their riders, bridle in hand, and ready to mount.
Prince Rupert had sallied out of Oxford, attacked
an outpost of the parliamentary army, and driven the
enemy; had then pushed on to Chinnor, where he
attacked and routed a second force; and now he was
waiting for a brief space that his men and horses might
rest before resuming their march back to Oxford.
Lord Falkland had ridden with the prince, more, it
would appear, from a desire to divert his mind from its
eternal brooding, than from any wish to take part in
the fighting of the expedition. Indeed, every one had
recently noted in my lord viscount a weary unrest. He
was sad unto death, and seemed unable to remain in
one place. His dress was almost slovenly; his fine
person was utterly neglected. The roar of guns alone
seemed to arouse in him a temporary sort of excitement;
and now in every encounter the men saw his
tall form in the midst of the smoke, an idle spectator
as 'twere, giving no orders, unarmed wholly, and inspired,
'twould seem, by nothing more than a languid
curiosity.
Those who knew this great man best, and talked with
him at that time, explained this indifference to me afterwards,
and I no longer wondered. Falkland was constitutionally
fearless, and despaired of his country. If
he did not seek death, he cared naught for it.
As the prince bent his head, listening, the far sound
of hoofs came from his right. He turned in that direction,
dense June foliage overhead, lit up his proud face and
figure. He wore his full-dress uniform, and the golden
decorations were dazzling. Around his waist was
knotted a red silk sash, rich, heavy, and with superb
tassels. His sword-hilt sparkled in the moonbeams.
On the heels of his fine cavalry boots glittered golden
spurs. Such was this young and headlong soldier.
From spurred heel to plumed beaver, in eye and lip
and attitude, he was all cavalier.
“They are moving, yonder,” he said to Lord Falkland,
“and I think your lordship will see some more
fighting.”
“I am sorry, highness,” was Falkland's sad reply.
“Well, we think differently, my lord. I am glad!”
was Rupert's impulsive reply.
His eyes sparkled as he spoke, and he turned to
summon an attendant. The gigantic Hans, his huge
black beard grasped by his huge hand, stood like a
Scandinavian statue near.
“Hans!”
“Yes, highness.”
“I am general—!”
“Yes, sheneral.”
“Order the men to mount; and send me a staff-officer.”
Hans disappeared in the darkness, and in five minutes
the wood resounded with the noise of spurs,
stirrups, and broadswords, clashing together as the
troopers got into the saddle. At the same moment a
staff-officer hastened up, and the prince gave him an
order. I had come to report the result of a reconnoissance
to go now, when the prince stopped me with a gesture.
“Remain. My staff-officers are absent, and I need
some one,” he said, briefly.
The prince then set out at a rapid gallop in the
direction of the sound we had heard, Lord Falkland
galloping in silence beside him, I following.
As we went on rapidly through the moonlight, the
sound in front grew more distinct. The distant bark
of dogs and crowing of cocks mingled with it.
“A man of brains commands the enemy's front,”
Rupert said, halting suddenly and listening. “A force
of horse is moving to cut me off at Chiselhampton
bridge; and unless I can pass Chalgrove before they
reach that point, I must cut my way through.”
“Your column is moving, highness.”
Falkland pointed over his shoulder, as he spoke, to
the long lines of the royal cavalry advancing steadily,
with their full forage-wagons—the object of the expedition—in
rear.
The prince nodded.
“The race is close, my lord, for all that, and not
decided yet.”
“For the bridge?”
“Yes. If I knew the enemy's force, I would not
care. My own is small, and theirs may be great. I
may be cut off from Chiselhampton bridge.”
“What will you do then, highness? I ask from idle
curiosity, merely: we civilians listen to soldiers with
respect.”
Prince Rupert turned quickly.
“You are no civilian! You are a soldier born, from
means the clear brain, the fearless nerve, and the hero
heart! Well, I speak as soldier to soldier,—there is
no path to Oxford save over the bridge yonder.”
“Then—”
“Yes, my lord,—you will pardon my interruption,
—yes, I do not mean to surrender, and one thing is
always left to a soldier.”
“That is—?”
“To die, sword in hand,” said Rupert, laughing.
As he spoke, he turned to me.
“Order my column to take this road, inclining more
to the right, towards Chalgrove,” he said; “the men
to advance at a steady trot and prepare for action.”
He pointed to a country road coming into the main
highway. I saluted, went at full gallop to the head of
the column, and delivered the order; then I returned
to the prince, who was riding rapidly with Lord Falkland
over the road to the right.
The quick smiting of hoofs came more and more
clearly on the night breeze. The hostile columns were
rapidly converging towards Chiselhampton bridge.
“Here is Chalgrove,” said the prince, suddenly, as
he emerged upon a large field, bathed in moonlight.
“If we can pass ahead of them, then we need give
ourselves no further trouble. The bridge is gained.”
He was not to pass. As the prince, riding a short
distance in advance of his column, entered upon the
great field, a dark mass was seen advancing from the left
to cut him off. There was no longer any possibility of
reaching the bridge without a combat. Shouts from
both forces were heard,—line of battle was quickly
the opponents rushed together.
It is hard to describe a fight under the daylight,—a
night combat is wholly indescribable. Shouts, cheers,
the clash of weapons, the crack of pistol and musquetoon,
horses rolling over, with wild shrieks, men dying
with curses on their lips, in the darkness,—that is the
aspect of a night encounter.
The fight at Chalgrove was such. A painter might
delineate the rushing, trampling, gleaming conflict; I
cannot. For the rest, a few moments after the collision,
I kept my eyes fixed upon one figure.
In front of the enemy, and superbly mounted, I saw
Mr.—now Colonel—Hampden. I knew afterwards that
the move to cut Prince Rupert off was due to his military
energy and brain: Chiselhampton bridge he saw was
the point to guard: a mounted force was speedily
moving; leaving his own infantry regiment, he took
command of the horse, and moved so rapidly as to cut
off his able opponent Rupert.
The prince, fighting in front of his men like a common
soldier, saw the great figure of Hampden.
“Who is that officer?” he said hurriedly to Lord
Falkland, who was calmly riding beside him.
“'Tis Colonel Hampden,—God preserve him!”
As Falkland spoke, I saw the figure of Hampden
reel in the saddle. He was within ten paces of us, and
the moonlight made everything plain.
As he reeled back, his eyes met those of Falkland.
“See! I am wounded—to the death, I fear, my lord,”
he cried, in a broken voice. “Remember—we shall
meet again!”
As Hampden uttered these words, a sudden rush of
his own men carried him away. The parliament horse
had broken and were flying in wild disorder. When
we saw Hampden last, his head was drooping, and he
leaned for support on the neck of his horse, two men
assisting him from the field. He had received two
bullets, we afterwards heard, in the shoulder, the bone
of which was broken; and from these wounds he soon
afterwards died.
As his figure disappeared in the moonlight, followed
by his men in disordered retreat, I heard Lord Falkland
murmur,—
“Farewell, Hampden! Yes, we shall soon meet
again, I think.”
A bugle-note came like an echo. It was the recall
being sounded. Rupert moved on to the bridge,
crossed, and proceeded on his way to Oxford, after the
successful skirmish of Chalgrove field.
A skirmish;—but in that mean little encounter fell
one of the greatest men of England.
7. VII.
NEWBURY.
Such is one of the pictures in that long gallery of
memory I spoke of. Shall I try to describe another?
The name of the first picture is “Chalgrove;” the
name of the second is “Newbury.”
It was the dewy dawn of a September morning, and
the forests were burning away, flushed with the fiery
hues of autumn. A dreamy and memorial sadness
seemed to fill the air, and not a breath of wind agitated
the foliage, as the light in the east deepened. It was
an enchanting landscape of field and forest and hamlet;
peace reigned over all, as I think it always seems
to reign on the eve of battle. And this day the semblance
was as deceptive as usual, for the royal and parliamentary
armies were in face of each other, and about
to close in in combat.
The king had prospered of late; but the tide seemed
turning. Rupert had stormed the battlements of Bristol
and reduced that city; but the king had been compelled
to raise the siege of Gloucester. My lord Essex
entered it, but saw best to retreat soon on London.
His majesty thereupon followed quickly. Suddenly
the opponents found themselves in face of each other
near Newbury. 'Twas the morning of the great battle
there that I have tried to describe,—a dreamy morn of
appropriate sound, not the bellowing of cannon.
I emerged at full speed from a copse towards the royal
line of battle, having ridden as close as possible to tthe
enemy's front to ascertain their position.
“Good-morrow, Mr. Cecil,” said a calm voice near;
and, turning my head, I recognized Lord Falkland sitting
his horse motionless on a grassy knoll, from which he
looked with sad eyes towards the enemy.
I checked my horse and saluted profoundly.
“Do you know that your lordship flatters me very
greatly by recalling my face and name?” I said. “'Tis
a way to win hearts, were they not already your lordship's.”
The nobleman bowed.
“You do me an honor and a pleasure, Mr. Cecil.
But why should I not recall your name, and your face
too?”
“I am obscure, my lord; the king's secretary of state
might well lose sight of me.”
He shook his head.
“In this world, Mr. Cecil,” he said, “there is
neither high nor low. Is the worm on a leaf so much
higher than one on the ground? All are poor and
insignificant alike. 'Tis the heart that makes the
gentleman, not the star on the breast. And is there
anything nobler than to be a true gentleman? I know
of nothing. To be a peer of the realm is but
little.”
He turned his eyes towards the enemy, and was silent
for a moment.
“I moralize for your amusement, sir,” he said, “but
poor Hampden and of our appointment.”
He uttered the last words in a low tone and with a
singular expression.
“You were present at our interview yonder;—did
you hear our last greeting, Mr. Cecil?”
“I heard it, my lord,” I replied, in a low voice.
“And again on Chalgrove field, last June, when that
great man was wounded to the death;—did you hear
the words he uttered?—`Remember, we shall meet again!'
he said; and do you know I think that meeting will be
soon?”
He smiled, as he spoke, with the sweet and noble
composure habitual to him.
“See, this is not a fancy of the moment, my friend,”
he said.
And, holding up his arm, he called my attention to
the extraordinary richness of the silk and velvet composing
his dress.
“I donned this fine suit,” he added, with the same
sad smile, “that the enemy, when I fall, shall not find
me look slovenly or indecent.”
“When you fall, my lord! I pray you choose your
phrases in presence of one who ventures to say that his
love for you is great. Say if you fall, not when, I
beseech your lordship.”
Falkland shook his head.
“Do you know the saying of the Orientals, my
friend,—`The word uttered is the master'? I have said
`when I fall;' I add `when I fall to-day.”'
My head drooped. In presence of this profound
composure and hopelessness I was powerless to struggle.
“Your lordship smiles,” I murmured, at length. “I
know, as all England knows, that you are the bravest
of the brave; I did not know that so great an intelligence
yielded to fancies and presentiments.”
As I spoke thus, Lord Falkland turned his head and
looked at me with his extraordinary sweet smile. 'Twas
a face exquisitely noble that I looked upon at that
moment.
“God is good to his creatures in many ways, my
friend,” he said. “Shall I speak my whole heart, and
explain his goodness to me in forewarning me of my
death? The moment will be a happy one to me. I
am weary of these times, and foresee much misery to my
country; but I shall be spared that. My eyes will not
see it. I shall be out of it ere night.”
I think I must have sighed grievously, for Lord Falkland
added, quickly,—
“Do not lament thus, my friend. What is death?
'Tis a bugbear that frightens children or cowards, not
men. I fear it not. And yet 'twould be pardonable
were I to regret leaving the world. My station in it is
honorable; my taste for the pursuit of learning and
mental pleasures—the only true ones—is great; my
household I believe love me; and his majesty does me
the honor to confide in my faith, though I once strove
in parliament to deprive him of some powers deemed
by him his just prerogatives. I have loved liberty and
struggled to secure it. When its friends went farther
and attempted the overthrow of monarchy, I left them.
In that decision I have never wavered, and think that
falling under the royal flag I fall under the flag of
England. But I weary you, Mr. Cecil; and, what is
duty; I only a poor civilian wandering to and fro and
musing. Farewell, sir! You are young, and God grant
you may see happier days. I am not old, but am rather
weary of my life. I shall disappear while the sky is
dark still, and not see the sun shine again.”
I pointed to the sun, which soared at that moment
above the forest.
“See, my lord,” I muttered, through tears that
seemed choking me, “there he is shining.”
“'Tis to set soon; and, short as that time will be, I
shall not see it.”
He turned his horse as he spoke, made me a salute
full of gracious kindness, and disappeared in the wood.
As I lost sight of him, a single cannon roared across the
fields. Echoing shouts rose from the woods far and
near as the grim sound was heard; and suddenly Rupert
at the head of his horsemen burst like a thunderbolt
upon the enemy.
I have no heart to enter minutely into the details of
the battle of Newbury. One picture only stays in my
memory, and will stay always. Prince Rupert's charge
broke the enemy's horse, but they rallied, and again he
made a headlong charge. Before this second charge
they fled, hotly pursued by Rupert; but suddenly we
came upon the enemy's infantry armed with their long
and deadly pikes, which pierced the bodies of the horses
or hurled their riders from the saddle.
From this hedge of steel the cavaliers of Rupert recoiled.
He was forced to fall back, and, riding beside
him, I saw his face flaming hot, his eyes flashing. With
hoarse and strident voice he endeavored to rally his
a new line I heard loud exclamations near.
I turned my head quickly. At the same moment an
officer rode up to Prince Rupert.
“Well!” the prince exclaimed.
“Lord Falkland is shot, my lord!”
Without a word the prince went at full speed towards
the group pointed out. Scarce aware of the breach of
discipline, I spurred from the ranks of the Guards and
followed. At the spectacle which met my eyes a groan
forced its way from my bosom. The nobleman lay on
the sward, his head supported upon the shoulder of an
officer. His face was as pale as death, and his breast
was bloody. His eyes were closed, but his lips smiled.
“My lord! my lord! Speak, I pray you!” exclaimed
Prince Rupert, in a broken voice.
Falkland opened his eyes, and, from the position of
his head, saw me first.
“Ah! 'tis you who spoke, my friend,” he murmured.
“Well, see—my presentiment—!”
He ceased, breathing heavily; but in a moment he
resumed:
“I said—my heart bled—for my country, but I would
be out of it ere night.”
His eyes were fixed upon the blue sky above him.
“Here I am, friend,” he murmured; “I thought
'twould not be long.”
I alone knew to whom he addressed those words.
As they left Lord Falkland's lips, his head fell back,
and he expired. Even in death the noble face retained
its expression of exquisite sweetness, and the lips wore
the same sad smile.
The battle of Newbury, like the combat of Chalgrove,
decided little, for Essex fell back in the night.
But Falkland was gone—like Hampden! Who could
take their places? For me, who knew them and loved
them as founts of honor, there were no others like them.
When they disappeared, I felt as though England were
accursed.
8. VIII.
I MEET WITH AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE IN DISGUISE.
With a single incident in the autumn of 1643 I pass
on.
I was one of a mounted party on a reconnoitring
expedition south of Oxford, when we saw approaching
our woodland bivouac a party of three persons, consisting
of a tall sad-looking man and a very beautiful young
girl, with the trooper who had arrested them. It soon
appeared upon the highway.
As they drew nearer, I rose quickly from the grass
upon which I was lying, and looked at them attentively,
certain that the man and girl were old acquaintances.
The last rays of sunset illumined their figures as they
came,—they had now drawn near,—and I rose to my
feet, recognizing Gregory Brandon and his daughter
Janet.
The terrible headsman, with whom I had conversed
on that night of my adventure in Rosemary Lane,
seemed older, more melancholy, and more timid.
saintly in the thin face with the white cheeks
and great soft eyes. She was perfectly calm; but her
father was trembling,—not so much from fear, I think,
as from a chronic disorder of the nerves.
The young girl, who was plainly but neatly clad,
looked around calmly. Her eyes fell upon me, and
were riveted for an instant to my face; then I saw a
slight color rise to her white cheeks.
“I see you recognize us, sir,” she said, in her low
sweet voice. “Please say that we are not enemies of
the king, but do not say aught more.”
The latter words were uttered in a whisper almost.
Her father evidently heard them, for he clasped his
hands and looked at me in a most beseeching manner.
“Who are these people?” said the young officer in
command of the reconnoitring party.
“Arrested on the high-road, lieutenant,” said the
man escorting them, touching his hat; “orders to stop
everybody and get information; found this old one and
young one out tramping, and brought 'em along.”
“Right!” said the young officer; and, turning to the
headsman,—
“Your name, and where were you going with this
damsel?” he asked.
“My name is Gregory, good sir, and I live with my
daughter yonder in the small house in the valley; we
were returning from a neighbor's when we were stopped
and brought here.”
“That account is straightforward, friend; but the
times are dangerous. You may belong to the other
faction; and I will keep you prisoner.”
“Not my daughter too, sir!” exclaimed the headsman.
“Needs must, friend.”
The headsman looked at me with a beseeching expression,
and I interposed.
“This old man is known to me, lieutenant,” I said;
“I vouch for him, and propose that you apply the
cavalier test.”
“Good!—in case you vouch for him, Mr. Cecil;
and your proposal is fair.”
A flagon was quickly produced by one of the men
and filled with wine. This was handed to the headsman,
and the young lieutenant said,—
“What is the health that all good Englishmen drink
first?”
The headsman's face flushed quickly, and, raising the
flagon, he exclaimed,—
“God save King Charles!”
He emptied the flagon to the last drop, and the young
officer clapped him gayly on the back.
“That satisfies me, old man!” he said. “No one
can bring out a round `God save King Charles!' of
that sort, and be disloyal under all. You are free, and
your pretty daughter. Return home; and as you know
this worthy man, Mr. Cecil, I counsel you to go with
him and make him give you a good supper in return
for your championship.”
I was about to refuse, but the maiden Janet looked
at me significantly and made me a slight gesture. I
therefore saluted the lieutenant, detached the bridle of
my horse from the bough over which it hung, and, walking
beside the headsman and his daughter, went towards
dwelling.
“I humbly thank you, sir,” said the headsman, in his
earnest tremulous voice, when we were beyond hearing:
“you have been kind in procuring our release.”
“I try to repay the debt I owe you and your daughter,
sir,” I said. “But for her, I had perished one night in
London. You no longer live there?”
“I fled thence,” was the low reply. “My fearful
office of headsman became horrible in my eyes. Things
are growing frightful, and no one knows whose head
may fall.”
He groaned as he spoke.
“I know that that others know not,” he muttered,
in a terrified whisper. “The new leaders are merciless.
They are hungry for blood. Already they have resolved
to execute Archbishop Laud; and think! 'twas I who
must perforce, as headsman of London, sever the gray
head of that poor old man from the emaciated body!
You start, sir, and refuse to credit that, I see!—but
even worse may come.”
The speaker's voice was wellnigh inaudible as he
uttered the last words.
“You are a friend of the king,” he whispered: “when
you return, say to him, `Do not fall into the hands of
your enemies, or trust them.' The blood of nobles
and bishops is not enough to satisfy them.”
He turned fearfully pale.
“They thirst for his!”
It was rather an awe-struck murmur than aught else.
The thought seemed to overwhelm the speaker.
“So I fled from them,” he added, at length; “pike
office. For I am a coward, sir,—a wretched coward!
I should not resist them: so I fled from London. Here,
in the small house you see yonder, once my father's,
I have hid myself with my Janet. God grant that we
may lie here unnoted, and that I may not break my
oath!”
I looked at the speaker, whose brow was bathed in
icy sweat.
“Your oath! What oath?” I asked, struck by his
expression of terror.
“The oath of the headsman to perform his office
whenever an order is brought him,” he whispered.
“The oath is a fearful one, and binds soul and body.
From the moment the order comes, the condemned no
longer belongs to the law. The headsman enters his
cell, touches his shoulder, and says, `You now belong
to me!”'
I could not forbear recoiling from the personage
beside me. He had thus spoken often.
“You are right, sir,” he groaned. “I am accursed,
and dare not offer my bloody hand to an honest man.”
The girl turned her eyes swimming in tears upon
him.
“But you will shed no more blood, father,” she
murmured, in a broken voice. “The past is fearful;
but it is past, and will never return; and you have me,
father,—I will take your hand.”
With a burst of tears she caught one of his hands,
and, throwing her other arm around him, leaned sobbing
upon his bosom.
The headsman raised his eyes to heaven.
“Thank God, this is left me!” he said; “the love
of the one I love best.”
We had come in front of the small house,—a cottage
under a large elm near the roadside.
“I will not ask you to come in and sup with the
headsman of London,” said the old man, in a low voice;
“but one is here now, very sick, and desirous of seeing
some one from the king's army.”
“A sick man?”
“Or child, sir; I know not which.”
“His name?”
“He calls himself Geoffrey Hudson.”
9. IX.
ANGEL AND PIGMY.
In a few moments I stood beside a bed, in which lay
the dwarf, who had disappeared suddenly after his fatal
duel with Coftangry in Hampton Court Park.
He was terribly emaciated, and resembled a puny
infant. His cheek-bones protruded, his sunken eyes
rolled in their cavernous hollows, and the white lips
drawn tightly across the teeth distorted the mouth into
a species of grin.
“Mr. Cecil!” he exclaimed, in his piping voice, as
soon as he saw me. “Is it possible an old friend has
discovered and visits me?”
“Yes,” I said, “by a singular chance. But how do
I find you here?”
His explanation was very simple. After the death
of his adversary at Hampton Court, he had fled, fearing
punishment, and wandered about England awaiting
the moment when the fatal duel would be forgotten.
He had finally repaired, when the war broke out, to
the army of Prince Charles in the west; had enlisted
as a trooper, acquired the friendship of his commander,
and was sent, spite of a wound he had received, to
carry a message to the king, then near Reading.
On the way his wound had broken out afresh; and he
had fallen from his horse at the door of the excellent
Mr. Gregory: that good man and his daughter had
nursed him with tender care; but his wound had not
closed, his life seemed ebbing away; good fortune
had sent him at last, however, the sight of a friendly
face, and the means of forwarding his message, out of
date though it must be.
All this the dwarf communicated in a rapid and
feverish voice; he then gave me the message, which
was no longer of any importance: thereafter we conversed
on all the events which had taken place since
our last meeting.
During the conversation the maiden Janet passed in
and out, caring tenderly for the invalid; and it was
after her disappearance on one of these occasions that
the dwarf, who had been silent for some moments, said,
in a low voice,—
“I wish to live.”
I looked at him. His face had flushed.
“You say that in a singular tone,” I said.
He hesitated, and seemed anxious, but afraid, to
speak.
“This maiden has made me cling to life,” he said,
at length, in a low voice.
“This maiden?”
“Yes; I love her with my whole being! I have only
lived since we met. You are a friend, even an old
friend; I am here dumb and alone on this bed: I must
speak to some one of this. Yes, the wretched, distorted
pigmy loves this rose-bud, who is an angel!”
The feverish eyes glowed brilliantly.
“She has watched over me like a sister,” he went
on; “she has supplied all my wants; her white hand has
smoothed my pillow, and I have felt her pitying tears
fall upon my face!”
“Well,” I said, with deep emotion at this love of
a deformed being for the daughter of one who was a
social outcast,—“well, your love is not strange. This
maiden is heavenly goodness in person.”
“And beautiful! very beautiful!”
“Yes,” I said.
“While I—”
The poor being stopped suddenly. An acute pang
seemed to distort his features.
“While I,” he added, in a low voice, “am a deformity,
a monster wellnigh,—a poor, wretched pigmy!”
He groaned piteously, and went on in a feverish
voice:
“And yet how can I avoid this? I am a man, however
small I be in stature, am I not? Has not a dwarf
eyes, and a heart, and blood, and loves and hatreds?
Does the height make the man?”
His face grew savage.
“I have killed many six-footers in my life!” he
me; and yet not one of them, not the meanest full-grown
man, but would have been preferred to me.”
I could find nothing to say, save,—
“Do not yield to these sad thoughts: 'twill retard
your recovery.”
“I care not whether I live or die,” said the poor
creature, groaning. “Can she ever love me? No,
no, no, no! Oh, thank God that you were not born a
deformed pigmy!—thank God for your limbs and
stature and human appearance! You are a man, not
a dwarf,—one a woman may love, not a cur she may
tread beneath her heel and despise! To love and be
laughed at! it is frightful, and drives me mad! She
does not laugh at me, but pities me, with the pity of a
woman for a pet lap-dog!”
His tones were so passionate and pathetic that I
could scarce find words to reply.
“At least,” I said, at length, “you have no rival;
you are spared that. And your love may melt her.”
“No rival? How know I that?” he exclaimed.
“Even now some one may be approaching who will
snatch her from me!—some man who will laugh to
scorn my deformed anatomy, and take from me all I
live for!”
He had scarce spoken when the young girl hastily
entered the apartment. “Save yourself, sir!” she exclaimed,
addressing me. “I see a party coming who
from their uniform must belong to the parliament!”
I rose and put on my hat.
“Farewell!” I said to the poor dwarf, extending my
hand. “And do not despair.”
His small hand gripped mine, and he drew me down,
whispering,—
“You will say naught of this madness. If I recover,
I will return to court. If I die, at least 'twill be here.”
“I will say nothing; but you will not die.”
“Oh, hasten! hasten!” cried the young girl, looking
through the window. “They are almost at the
house! And there is that terrible man at their head,—
that Hulet, who has persecuted me daily, wellnigh, since
he chanced one day to come hither!”
I had not time to question the maiden. The party
of mounted parliamentarians were nearly at the door.
I had just time to seize the bridle of my horse and
throw myself into the saddle, when they charged me,
firing, and ordering me to surrender.
My response was to discharge my pistol at Hulet
and retreat at full gallop. They pursued me to the
edge of the woods, where they drew rein at last, returning
towards the house; and, going on at a gallop, I
met my friends, who had been alarmed by the shots,
coming to meet me. No time was lost in pursuing in
our turn. Our force outnumbered that of the enemy,
and we chased them for more than a mile. Then,
however, encountering at least a regiment coming to
their assistance, we were compelled to retreat, hotly pursued;
and, finding himself powerless to contend with
such a force, the officer commanding our party retired
to Oxford.
I had caught a glimpse, and only a glimpse, of a singular
drama. Other scenes were to be hidden; but a
strange chance was to show me the dénouement.
| Her majesty the queen | |