Chapter VI: Part 6

He passed a restless night, and the next morning went to Trinity Chapel, then much frequented for the high style of the music. He was scarcely here before Lady Isabella and young Lady Fentham, who lodged in that college, came in, as was their habit, dressed to resemble angels in loose and very inadequate attire. At another time he might not have thought much of it, but, his suspicions being aroused, he could not help, courtier as he was, contrasting the boldness of this behaviour with the chaste and holy life of the ladies at Little Gidding; and it made him still more restless and uncertain what to do. He avoided the ladies after Chapel, and returned to his own rooms quite uncertain how to act. It came at last into his mind to inquire of the Secretary Falkland whether Sir Richard Fentham was expected shortly in Oxford, as his journeys were very irregular, and generally kept a profound secret. He went to Lord Falkland and asked the question, telling him that he did so from private reasons unconnected with the State. Falkland declined at first to answer him; but on Inglesant's taking him a little more into his confidence, he confided to him, as a great secret, that Sir Richard was expected that very night, and further, that he would pass through Newnham in the afternoon, where he would meet a messenger with despatches. Upon learning this startling piece of news, Inglesant hastened to his brother's rooms, but found he was too late, Eustace having been gone more than two hours, and as he started considerably after the ladies' coach, there could be no doubt but that the party was already at Newnham. Inglesant went to the stables where his horses were kept, and having found one of his servants, he ordered his own horse to be saddled, as he was going to ride alone. While it was being prepared he attempted to form some plan upon which to act when he arrived at Newnham, but his ingenuity completely failed him. Merely to walk into a room where some ladies and gentlemen were at dinner, to which he was not invited, and inform one of the ladies that her husband was in the neighbourhood, appeared an action so absurd that he discarded the intention at once. When his horse was brought out and he mounted and rode out of Oxford towards the south, telling his servant he should be back at night, he probably did not know why he went. He rode quickly, and arrived in about an hour. The Plough at Newnham (it has long disappeared) stood upon the banks of the river, in a picturesque and retired situation, and was much frequented by parties of pleasure from Oxford. The gardens and bowling-greens lay upon the river bank, and the paths extended from them through the fields both up and down the river. It was apparent to Inglesant that a distinguished party was in the house, from the servants loitering about the doors, and coming in and out. More than one of these he recognized as belonging to Lord H----. The absurdity of suspecting any mischief from so public a rendezvous struck Inglesant as so great, that he was on the point of passing the house. He however alighted and inquired of one of the men whether any of his brother's servants were about. The man, who knew him, replied that Mr. Eustace Inglesant had dined there with his lordship and the ladies, but was then, he believed, either in the garden or the fields with Lady Cardiff; he had brought no servants with him. Having got thus into conversation with the man, Inglesant ventured to inquire, with as careless a manner as he could assume, if Lady Isabella were there.

Lady Isabella, the man said, had dined there, but after dinner had gone on a little farther in her coach, and attended by her servants, he believed to make some call in the neighbourhood.

Then Inglesant knew that he had done right to come.

"I have a message to Lady Ann Fentham," he said to the man, "but not being of the party, I would rather have sent it through my brother. As I suppose it is useless to attempt to find him, I shall be glad if you will tell me in which room the lady is, for I suppose his lordship is with her."

"His lordship left orders that he was not to be disturbed," said the man insolently; "you had better try and find your brother."

"Nevertheless, I must give her my message," said Inglesant quietly; "therefore, pray show me upstairs."

"I don't know the room," said the man still more rudely, "and you cannot go upstairs; his lordship has engaged the house."

During the conversation the other men had gathered round, and it seemed to Inglesant that his lordship must have brought all his servants with him, for the house appeared full of them. None of the ordinary servants of the place were to be seen.

Inglesant had no arms but his riding sword, and even if he had had, the use of them would have been absurd.

"You know who I am," he said, looking the man steadily in the face, "one of the King's gentlemen whom they call the Queen's favourite page. I bring a message to Lady Fentham from her husband, the Secretary to the Prince's council; do you think your lord will wish you to stop me?"

As he spoke he made a step forward as though to enter, and the man, evidently in doubt, stepped slightly on one side, making it possible to enter the house. The rest took this movement to imply surrender, and one of the youngest, probably to gain favour, said, "The lady is in the room opposite the stairs, sir." Inglesant walked up the low oak staircase to the door, the men crowding together in silence at the bottom of the stairs.

Inglesant tried the latch of the door, though he did not intend to go in without knocking.

The door was fastened, and he knocked.

For a moment there was silence, and then a voice said, angrily, "Who is there?"

"A message from Sir Richard Fentham," said Inglesant.

There was another and a longer pause, and then the same voice said,--

"Is Sir Richard without?"

"No," replied Inglesant; "but he may be here any moment; he is on the road."

The door was immediately opened by his lordship, and Inglesant walked in.

The moment he did, Lady Fentham, who was in the further part of the room, started up from the seat in which she was lying, and throwing herself on Johnny's shoulder said,--

"Help me, Mr. Inglesant, I have been cruelly deceived."

Inglesant took no notice of her, but turning to Lord H---- he said with marked politeness,--

"I have to beg your lordship's pardon for intruding upon your company, but I am charged to let Lady Fentham know that Sir Richard is expected in Oxford to-night, and may pass this house at any time, probably in a few minutes. I thought Lady Fentham would wish to know this so much that I ventured to knock, though your servants told me you wished to be private."

His words were so chosen and his manner so faultless and devoid of suspicion, that Lord H---- could find nothing in either to quarrel with, though he was plainly in a violent passion, and with difficulty controlled himself. It had also the effect of calming Lady Fentham, who remained silent; indeed, she appeared too agitated to speak. It was an awkward pause, but less so to Inglesant than to the other two.

"I wished," he continued, still speaking to Lord H----, "to have sent my message by my brother, but I find he is walking in the fields, and Lady Isabella appears to have gone in her carriage to make a call in the neighbourhood. I presume she will call for you, Lady Fentham, on her way back."

Lady Fentham made a movement of anger, and Lord H---- roused himself at last to say,--

"I am much obliged to you, Mr. Inglesant, for the great trouble you have taken. I assure you I shall not forget it. Lady Fentham, as Sir Richard will so soon be here"--he stopped suddenly as an idea struck him, and looking full at Inglesant, said slowly and with marked emphasis, "Supposing Mr. Inglesant to"--to have spoken the truth he would have said, but Johnny's perfectly courteous attitude of calm politeness, the utter absence of any tangible ground of offence, and his own instincts as a gentleman, checked him, and he continued,--"has not been misinformed, you will not need my protection any further. I will leave you with Mr. Inglesant; probably Lady Cardiff will be back before long."

He took his leave with equal courtesy both to the lady and Inglesant, and went down to his men.

Ann Fentham sank into her chair, and began to sob bitterly, saying,--

"What shall I say to my husband, Mr. Inglesant? He will be here directly, and will find me alone. What would have happened to me if you had not come?"

"If I may offer any advice, madam, I should say, Tell your husband everything exactly as it happened. Nothing has happened of which you have need to be ashamed. Sir Richard will doubtless see that you have been shamefully deceived by your friends, as far as I understand the matter. You can trust to his sympathy and kindness."

She did not reply, and Inglesant, who found his situation far more awkward than before, said, "Shall I seek for Lady Cardiff, madam, and bring her to you?"

"No, don't leave me, Mr. Inglesant," she said, springing up and coming to him; "I shall bless your name for ever for what you have done for me this day."

Inglesant stayed with the lady until it was plain Lord H---- had left the house with his servants, and he then left her and went into the garden to endeavour to find his brother and Lady Cardiff; but in this he was not successful, and returned to the house, where he ordered some dinner--for he had eaten nothing since the morning--and seated himself at the window to wait for Sir Richard. He had sat there about an hour when the latter arrived, and drew his rein before the house before dismounting. Inglesant greeted him and went out to him in the porch. Fentham returned his greeting warmly.

"Your wife is upstairs, Sir Richard," Inglesant said; "she came down with Lady Isabella Thynne, and is waiting for her to take her back."

Fentham left his horse with the servant and ran upstairs straight to his wife, and as Inglesant followed him into the house he met Lady Cardiff and his brother, who came in from the garden. Eustace Inglesant was radiant, and introduced Lady Cardiff to his brother as his future wife. He took them into a private room, and called for wine and cakes. Johnny thought it best not to tell them what had occurred, but merely said that Sir Richard and his wife were upstairs; upon which Eustace sent a servant up with his compliments, asking them to come and join them. Both Lady Cardiff and Eustace appeared conscious, however, that some blame attached to them, for they expressed great surprise at the absence of Lady Isabella, and took pains to inform Johnny that they had left Lady Fentham with her, and had no idea she was going away. Sir Richard and Lady Fentham joined the party, and appeared composed and happy, and they had not sat long before Lady Isabella's coach appeared before the door, and her ladyship came in. The ladies returned to Oxford in the coach, and the gentlemen on horseback. Nothing was said by the latter as to what had occurred until after they had left Eustace at his lodgings, and Johnny was parting with Fentham at the door of Lord Falkland, to whom he was going. Then Sir Richard said,--

"Mr. Inglesant, my wife has told me all, and has told me that she owes everything to you, even to this last blessing, that there is no secret between us. I beg you to believe two things,--first, that nothing I can do or say can ever repay the obligation that I owe to you; secondly, that the blame of this matter rests mostly with me, in that I have left my wife too much."

Inglesant waited for several days in expectation of hearing from Lord H----, but no message came. They met several times and passed each other with the usual courtesies. At last Eustace Inglesant heard from one of his lordship's friends that the latter had been very anxious to meet Johnny, but had been dissuaded.

"You have not the slightest tangible ground of offence against young Inglesant," they told him, "and you have every cause to keep this affair quiet, out of which you have not emerged with any great triumph. Inglesant has shown by the line of conduct he adopted that he desires to keep it close. None of the rest of the party will speak of it for their own sakes. Were it known, it would ruin you at once with the King, and damage you very much in the estimation of all the principal men here, who are Sir Richard's friends, and such as are not would resent such conduct towards a man engaged on his master's business. Besides this you are not a remarkably good fencer, whereas John Inglesant is a pupil of the Jesuits, and master of all their arts and tricks of stabbing. That he could kill you in five minutes if he chose, there can be no doubt."

These and other similar arguments finally persuaded Lord H---- to restrain his desire of revenge, which was the easier for him to do as Inglesant always treated him when they met with marked deference and courtesy.

The marriage of Lady Cardiff and Eustace Inglesant was hurried forward, and took place at Oxford some weeks after the foregoing events; the King and Queen being present at the ceremony. It was indeed very important to attach this wealthy couple unmistakably to the royal party, and no efforts were spared for the purpose. Lady Cardiff and her husband, however, did not manifest any great enthusiasm in the royal cause.

The music of the wedding festival was interrupted by the cannon of Newbury, where Lord Falkland was killed, together with a sad roll of gentlemen of honour and repute. Lord Clarendon says,--"Such was always the unequal fate that attended this melancholy war, that while some obscure, unheard-of colonel or officer was missing on the enemy's side, and some citizen's wife bewailed the loss of her husband, there were on the other above twenty officers of the field and persons of honour and public name slain upon the place, and more of the same quality hurt." In this battle Inglesant was more fortunate than in his first, for he was not hurt, though he rode in the Lord Biron's regiment, the same in which Lord Falkland was also a volunteer.

The King returned to Oxford, where Inglesant found every one in great dejection of mind; the conduct of the war was severely criticized, the army discontented, and the chief commanders engaged in reproaches and recriminations.

One afternoon Inglesant was sent for to Merton College, where the Queen lay, and where the King spent much of his time; where he found the Jesuit standing with the King in one of the windows, and Mr. Jermyn, who had just been made a baron, talking to the Queen. The King motioned Inglesant to approach him, and the Jesuit explained the reason he had been sent for.

The trial of Archbishop Laud was commencing, and in order to incite the people against him Mr. Prynne had published the particulars of a popish plot in a pamphlet which contained the names of many gentlemen, both Protestant and Catholic, the publication of which at such a moment excited considerable uneasiness among their relations and friends.

"I wish you, Mr. Inglesant," said the King, "to ride to London. Mr. Hall has provided passes for you, and letters to several of his friends. The new French Ambassador is landing; I wish to know how far the French Court is true to me. Prynne's wit has overreached himself. His charges have frightened so many, that a reaction is setting in in favour of the Archbishop, and many are willing to testify in his favour in order to exonerate themselves. You will be of great use in finding out these people. Seek every one who is mentioned in Prynne's libel; many of them are men of influence. Your familiar converse with Papists, in other respects unfortunate, may be of use here."

Inglesant spent some time in London, and was in constant communication with Mr. Bell, the Archbishop's secretary. He was successful in procuring evidence from among the Papists of their antipathy to Laud, and in various other ways in providing Bell with materials for defence. Laud was informed of these acts of friendship, and being in a very low and broken state, was deeply touched that a comparative stranger, and one who had been under no obligation to him, should show so much attachment, and exert himself so much in his service, at a time when the greatest danger attended any one so doing, and when he seemed deserted both by his royal master and by those on whom he had showered benefits in the time of his prosperity. He sent his blessing and grateful thanks, the thanks of an old and dying man, which would be all the more valuable as they never could be accompanied by any earthly favour. Inglesant's name was associated with that of the Archbishop, and the Jesuit's aim in sending him to London was accomplished.

*CHAPTER X.*

Inglesant was of so much use in gaining information, and managed to live on such confidential terms with many in London in the confidence of members of the Parliament, that he remained there during all the early part of the year, and would have stayed longer; but the enemies of the Archbishop, who pursued him with a malignant and remorseless activity, set their eyes at last upon the young envoy, and he was advised to leave London, at any rate till the trial was over. He was very unwilling to leave the Archbishop, but dared not run the risk of being imprisoned and thwarting the Jesuit's schemes, and therefore left London about the end of May, and returned straight to Oxford.

He left London only a few days before the allied armies of Sir W. Waller and the Earl of Essex, and had no sooner arrived in Oxford than the news of the advance of the Parliamentary forces caused the greatest alarm. The next day Abingdon was vacated by some mistake, and the rebels took possession of the whole of the country to the east and south of Oxford; Sir William Waller being on the south, and the Earl of Essex on the east. It was reported in London that the King intended to surrender to the Earl's army, and such a proposition was seriously made to the King by his own friends a few days afterwards in Oxford. The royal army was massed about the city, most of the foot being on the north side; Inglesant served with the foot in Colonel Lake's regiment of musketeers and pikes, taking a pike in the front rank. It was a weapon which the gentlemen of that day frequently practised, and of which he was a master. Several other gentlemen volunteers were in the front rank with him. The Earl's army was drawn up at Islip, on the other side of the river Cherwell, having marched by Oxford the day before, in open file, drums beating and colours flying, so that the King had a full view of them on the bright fine day. The Earl himself, with a party of horse, came within cannon shot of the city, and the King's horse charged him several times without any great hurt on either side. It was a gay and brilliant scene to any one who could look upon it with careless and indifferent eyes.

The next morning a strong party of the Earl's army endeavoured to pass the Cherwell at Gosford bridge, where Sir Jacob Astley commanded, and where the regiment in which Inglesant served was stationed. The bridge was barricaded with breastworks and a bastion, but the Parliamentarian army attempted to cross the stream both above and below. They succeeded in crossing opposite to Colonel Lake's regiment, under a heavy fire from the musketeers, who advanced rank by rank between the troops of pikes and a little in advance of them, and after giving their fire, wheeled off to the right and left, and took their places again in the rear. The rebels reserved their fire, their men falling at every step; but they still advanced, supported by troops of horse, till they reached the Royalists, when they delivered their fire, closed their ranks, and charged, their horse charging the pikes at the same time. The ranks of the royal musketeers halted and closed up, and the pikes drew close together shoulder to shoulder, till the rapiers of their officers met across the front. The shock was very severe, and the struggle for a moment undecided; but the pikes standing perfectly firm, owing in a great measure to the number of gentlemen in the front ranks, and the musketeers fighting with great courage, the enemy began to give way, and having been much broken before they came to the charge fell into disorder, and were driven back across the stream, the Royalists following them to the opposite bank, and even pursuing them up the slope. Inglesant had noticed an officer on the opposite side who was fighting with great courage, and as they crossed the river he saw him stumble and nearly fall, though he appeared to struggle forward on the opposite slope to where an old thorn tree broke the rank of the pikes. Johnny came close to him, and recognized him as the Mr. Thorne whom he had known at Gidding. As he knew the regiment would be halted immediately, he fell out of his rank, leaving his file to the bringer-up or lieutenant behind him, and stooped over his old rival, who evidently was desperately hurt. He raised his head, and gave him some _aqua vitae_ from his flask. The other knew him at once, and tried to speak; but his strength was too far gone, and his utterance failed him. He seemed to give over the effort, and lay back in Inglesant's arms, staining his friend with his blood. Inglesant asked him if he had any mission he would wish performed, but the other shook his head, and seemed to give himself to prayer. After a minute or two he seemed to rally, and his face became very calm. Opening his eyes, he looked at Johnny steadily and with affection, and said, slowly and with difficulty, but still with a look of rest and peace,--

"Mr. Inglesant, you spoke to me once of standing together in a brighter dawn; I did not believe you, but it was true; the dawn is breaking--and it is bright."

As he spoke a volley of musketry shook the hill-side, and the regiment came down the slope at a run, and carrying Inglesant with them, crossed the river, and, halting on the other side, wheeled about and faced the passage in the same order in which they had stood at first. This dangerous manoeuvre was executed only just in time, for the enemy advanced in great force to the river-side; but the Royalists being also very strong, they did not attempt to pass. After facing each other for some time, the fighting having ceased all along the line, Inglesant spoke to his officer, and got leave to cross the river with a flag of truce to seek his friend. An officer from the other side met him, most of the enemy's troops having fallen back some distance from the river. He was an old soldier, evidently a Low-country officer, and not much of a Puritan, and he greeted Inglesant politely as a fellow-soldier.

Inglesant told him his errand, and that he was anxious to find out his friend's body, if, as he feared, he would be found to have breathed his last. They went to the old thorn, where, indeed, they found Mr. Thorne quite dead. Several of the rebel officers gathered round. Mr. Thorne was evidently well known, and they spoke of him with respect and regard. Inglesant stopped, looking down on him for a few minutes, and then turned to go.

"Gentlemen," he said, raising his hat, "I leave him in your care. He was, as you have well said, a brave and a good man. I crossed his path twice--once in love and once in war--and at both times he acted as a gallant gentleman and a man of God. I wish you good day."

He turned away, and went down to the river, from which his regiment had by this time also fallen back, the others looking after him as he went.

"Who is that?" said a stern and grim-looking Puritan officer. "He does not speak as the graceless Cavaliers mostly do."

"His name is Inglesant," said a quiet, pale man, in dark and plain clothes; "he is one of the King's servants, a concealed Papist, and, they say, a Jesuit. I have seen him often at Whitehall."

"Thou wilt not see him much longer, brother," said the other grimly, "either at Whitehall or elsewhere. It were a good deed to prevent his further deceiving the poor and ignorant folk," and he raised his piece to fire.

"Scarcely," said the other quietly, "since he came to do us service and courtesy." But he made no effort to restrain the Puritan, looking on, indeed, with a sort of quiet interest as to what would happen.

"Thou art enslaved over much to the customs of this world, brother," said the other, still with his grave smile; "knowest thou not that it is the part of the saints militant to root out iniquity from the earth?"

He arranged his piece to fire, and would no doubt have done so; but the Low-country officer, who had been looking on in silence, suddenly threw himself upon the weapon, and wrested it out of his hand.

"By my soul, Master Fight-the-fight," he said, "that passes a joke. The good cause is well enough, and the saints militant and triumphant, and all the rest of it; but to shoot a man under a flag of truce was never yet required of any saint, whether militant or triumphant."

The other looked at him severely as he took back his weapon.

"Thou art in the bonds of iniquity thyself," he said, "and in the land of darkness and the shadow of death. The Lord's cause will never prosper while it puts trust in such as thou." But he made no further attempt against Inglesant, who, indeed, by this time had crossed the river, and was out of musket shot on the opposite bank.

A few days afterwards the King left Oxford and went into the West. Inglesant remained in garrison, and took his share in all the expeditions of any kind that were undertaken. The Roman Catholics were at this time very strong in Oxford; they celebrated mass every day, and had frequent sermons, at which many of the Protestants attended; but it was thought among the Church people to be an extreme thing to do, and any of the commanders who did it excited suspicion thereby. The Church of England people were by this time growing jealous of the power and unrestrained license of the Catholics, and the Jesuit warned Inglesant to attach himself more to the English Church party, and avoid being much seen with extreme Papists. Colonel Gage, a Papist, was appointed governor by the King; but being a very prudent man and a general favourite, as well as an excellent officer, the appointment did not give much offence. Inglesant was present at Cropredy Bridge, which battle or skirmish was fought after the King returned to Oxford from his hasty march through Worcestershire, and was wounded severely in the head by a sword cut--a wound which he thought little of at the time, but which long afterwards made itself felt. Notwithstanding this wound he intended following the King into the West, for His Majesty had latterly shown a greater kindness to him, and a wish to keep him near his person; but Father St. Clare, after an interview with the King, told Inglesant that he had a mission for him to perform in London, and so kept him in Oxford.

The trial of the Archbishop was dragging slowly on through the year, and the Jesuit procured Inglesant another pass, and directed him to endeavour in every way to assist the Archbishop in his trial, without fear of his prosecutors, telling him that he could procure his liberation even if he were put in prison, which he did not believe he would be. Inglesant, therefore, on his return to London, gave himself heartily to assisting the counsel and secretary of the Archbishop, and found himself perfectly unmolested in so doing. He lodged at a druggist's over against the Goat Tavern, near Toy Bridge in the Strand, and frequented the ordinary at Haycock's, near the Palsgrave's Head Tavern, where the Parliament men much resorted. Here he met among others Sir Henry Blount, who had been a gentleman pensioner of the King's, and had waited on him in his turn to York and Edgehill fight, but then, returning to London, walked into Westminster Hall, with his sword by his side, so coolly as to astonish the Parliamentarians. He was summoned before the Parliament, but pleading that he only did his duty as a servant, was acquitted. This man, who was a man of judgment and experience, was of great use to Inglesant in many ways, and put him in the way of finding much that might assist the Archbishop; but it occurred to Inglesant more than once to doubt whether the latter would benefit much by his advocacy, a known pupil of the Papists as he was. This caused him to keep more quiet than he otherwise would have done; but what was doubtless the Jesuit's chief aim was completely answered; for the Church people, both in London and the country, who regarded the Archbishop as a martyr, becoming aware of the sincere and really useful exertions that Inglesant had made with such untiring energy, attached themselves entirely to him, and took him completely into their confidence, so that he could at this time have depended on any of them for assistance and support. The different parties were at this time so confused and intermixed--the Papists playing in many cases a double game--that it would have been difficult for Inglesant, who was partly in the confidence of all, to know which way to act, had he stood alone. He saw now, more than he had ever done, the intrigues of that party among the Papists who favoured the Parliament, and was astonished at their skill and duplicity. At last the Commons, failing to find the Archbishop guilty of anything worthy of death, passed a Bill of Attainder, as they had done with Lord Strafford, and condemned him with no precedence of law. The Lords hesitated to pass the Bill, and on Christmas Eve, 1644, demanded a conference with the Commons. The next day was the strangest Christmas Day Inglesant had ever spent. The whole city was ordered to fast in the most solemn way by a special ordinance of Parliament, and strict inquisition was made to see that this ordinance was carried out by the people. Inglesant was well acquainted with Mr. Hale, afterwards Chief Justice Hale, one of the Archbishop's counsel, then a young lawyer in Lincoln's Inn, who, it was said, had composed the defence which Mr. Hern, the senior counsel, had spoken before the Lords. Johnny spent part of the morning with this gentleman, and in the afternoon walked down to the Tower from Lincoln's Inn. The streets were very quiet, the shops closed, and a feeling of sadness and dread hung over all--at any rate in Inglesant's mind. At the turnstile at Holborn he went into a bookseller's shop kept by a man named Turner, a Papist, who sold popish books and pamphlets. Here he found an apothecary, who also was useful to the Catholics, making "Hosts" for them. These both immediately began to speak to Inglesant about the Archbishop and the Papists, expressing their surprise that he should exert himself so much in his favour, telling him that the Papists, to a man, hated him and desired his death, and that a gentleman lately returned from Italy had that very day informed the bookseller that the news of the Archbishop's execution was eagerly expected in Rome. The Lords were certain to give way, they said, and the Archbishop was as good as dead already. They were evidently very anxious to extract from Inglesant whether he acted on his own responsibility or from the directions of the Jesuit; but Inglesant was much too prudent to commit himself in any way. When he had left them he went straight to the Tower, where he was admitted to the Archbishop, whom he found expecting him. He gave him all the intelligence he could, and all the gossip of the day which he had picked up, including the sayings of the wits at the taverns and ordinaries respecting the trial and the Archbishop, of whom all men's minds were full. Laud was inclined to trust somewhat to the Lords' resistance, and Inglesant had scarcely the heart to refute his opinion. He told him the feeling of the Papists, and his fear that even the Catholics at Oxford were not acting sincerely with him. After the failure of the King's pardon, Laud entertained little hope from any other efforts Charles might be disposed to make; but Inglesant promised him to ride to Oxford, and see the Jesuit again. This he did the next day, before the Committee of the Commons met the Lords, which they did not do till the 2d of January. He had a long interview with the Jesuit, and urged as strongly as he could the cruelty and impolicy of letting the Archbishop die without an effort to save him.

"What can be done?" said the Jesuit; "the King can do nothing. All that he can do in the way of pardon he has done: besides, I never see the King; the feeling against the Catholics is now so strong, that His Majesty dare not hold any communications with me."

Inglesant inquired what the policy of the Roman Catholic Church really was; was it favourable to the King and the English Church, or against it?

The Jesuit hesitated, but then, with that appearance of frankness which always won upon his pupil, he confessed that the policy of the Papal Court had latterly gone very much more in favour of the party who wished to destroy the English Church than it had formerly done; and that at present the Pope and the Catholic powers abroad were only disposed to help the King on such terms as he could not accept, and at the same time retain the favour of the Church and Protestant party; and he acknowledged that he had himself under-estimated the opposition of the bulk of English people to Popery. He then requested Inglesant to return to London, and continue to show himself openly in support of the Archbishop, assuring him that in this way alone could he fit himself for performing a most important service to the King, which, he said, he should be soon able to point out to him. The old familiar charm, which had lost none of its power over Johnny, would, of itself, have been sufficient to make him perfectly pliant to the Jesuit's will. He returned to London, but was refused admission to the Archbishop until after the Committee of the Commons had met the Lords, and on the 3d of January the Lords passed the Bill of Attainder. When the news of this reached the Archbishop, he broke off his history, which he had written from day to day, and prepared himself for death. He petitioned that he might be beheaded instead of hanged, and the Commons at last, after much difficulty, granted this request. On the 6th of January it was ordered by both Houses that he should suffer on the 10th. On the same day Inglesant received a special message from the Jesuit in these words, in cypher:--"Apply for admission to the scaffold; it will be granted you."

Very much surprised, Inglesant went to Alderman Pennington, and requested admission to attend the Archbishop to the scaffold, pleading that he was one of the King's household, and attached to the Archbishop from a boy.

Pennington examined him concerning his being in London, his pass, and place of abode, but Inglesant thought more from curiosity than from any other motive; for it was evident that he knew all about him, and his behaviour in London. He asked him many questions about Oxford and the Catholics, and seemed to enjoy any embarrassment that Inglesant was put to in replying. Finally he gave him the warrant of admission, and dismissed him. But as he left the room he called him back, and said with great emphasis,--

"I would warn you, young man, to look very well to your steps. You are treading a path full of pitfalls, few of which you see yourself. All your steps are known, and those are known who are leading you. They think they hold the wires in their own hands, and do not know that they are but the puppets themselves. If you are not altogether in the snare of the destroyer, come out from them, and escape both destruction in this world and the wrath that is to come."

Inglesant thanked him and took his leave. He could not help thinking that there was much truth in the alderman's description of his position.

The next three days the Archbishop spent in preparing for death and composing his speech; and on the day on which he was to die, Inglesant found when he reached the Tower, that he was at his private prayers, at which he continued until Pennington arrived to conduct him to the scaffold. When he came out and found Inglesant there, he seemed pleased, as well he might, for excepting Stern, his chaplain, the only one who was allowed to attend him, he was alone amongst his enemies. He ascended the scaffold with a brave and cheerful courage, some few of the vast crowd assembled reviling him, but the greater part preserving a decent and respectful silence. The chaplain and Inglesant followed him close, and it was well they did so, for a crowd of people, whether by permission or not is not known, pressed up upon the scaffold, as Dr. Heylyn said, "upon the theatre to see the tragedy," so that they pressed upon the Archbishop, and scarcely gave him room to die. Inglesant had never seen such a wonderful sight before--once afterwards he saw one like it, more terrible by far. The little island of the scaffold, surrounded by a surging, pressing sea of heads and struggling men, covering the whole extent of Tower Hill; the houses and windows round full of people, the walls and towers behind covered too. People pressed underneath the scaffold; people climbed up the posts and hung suspended by the rails that fenced it round; people pressed up the steps till there was scarcely room within the rails to stand. The soldiers on guard seemed careless what was done, probably feeling certain that there was no fear of any attempt to rescue the hated priest.

Inglesant recognized many Churchmen and friends of the Archbishop among the crowd, and saw that they recognized him, and that his name was passed about among both friends and enemies. The Archbishop read his speech with great calmness and distinctness, the opening moving many to tears, and when he had finished, gave the papers to Stern to give to his other chaplains, praying God to bestow His mercies and blessings upon them. He spoke to a man named Hind, who sat taking down his speech, begging him not to do him wrong by mistaking him. Then begging the crowd to stand back and give him room, he knelt down to the block; but seeing through the chinks of the boards the people underneath, he begged that they might be removed, as he did not wish that his blood should fall upon the heads of the people. Surely no man was ever so crowded upon and badgered to his death. Then he took off his doublet, and would have addressed himself to prayer, but was not allowed to do so in peace; one Sir John Clotworthy, an Irishman, pestering him with religious questions. After he had answered one or two meekly, he turned to the executioner and forgave him, and kneeling down, after a very short prayer, to which Hind listened with his head down and wrote word for word, the axe with a single blow cut off his head. He was buried in All Hallows Barking, a great crowd of people attending him to the grave in silence and great respect,--the Church of England service read over him without interruption, though it had long been discontinued in all the Churches in London.

News of his death spread rapidly over England, and was received by all Church people with religious fervour as the news of a martyrdom; and wherever it was told, it was added that Mr. John Inglesant, the King's servant, who had used every effort to aid the Archbishop on his trial, was with him on the scaffold to the last. Inglesant returned to Oxford, where the Jesuit received him cordially. He had, it would have seemed, failed in his mission, for the Archbishop was dead; nevertheless, the Jesuit's aim was fully won.

On the King's leaving Oxford, before the advance of General Fairfax, Inglesant accompanied him, and was present at the battle of Naseby, so fatal to the royal cause. No mention of this battle, however, is to be found among the papers from which these memoirs are compiled; and the fact that Inglesant was present at it is known only by an incidental reference to it at a later period. Amid the confusion of the flight, and the subsequent wanderings of the King before he returned to Oxford, it is impossible to follow less important events closely, and it does not seem clear whether Inglesant met with the Jesuit immediately after the battle or not. Acting, however, there can be no doubt, with his approval, if not by his direction, he appears very soon after to have found his way to Gidding, where he remained during several weeks.

*CHAPTER XI.*

The autumn days passed quickly over, and with them the last peaceful hours that Inglesant would know for a long time, and that youthful freshness and bloom and peace which he would never know again. Such a haven as this, such purity and holiness, such rest and repose, lovely as the autumn sunshine resting on the foliage and the grass, would never be open to him again. It was long before rest and peace came to him at all, and when they did come, under different skies and an altered life, it was a rest after a stern battle that left its scars deep in his very life; it was apart from every one of his early friends; it was unblest by first love and early glimpse of heaven. It was about the end of October that he received a message from the Jesuit, which was the summons to leave this paradise, sanctified to him by the holiest moments of his life. The family were at evening prayers in the Church when the messenger arrived, and Inglesant, as usual, was kneeling where he could see Mary Collet, and probably was thinking more of her than of the prayers. Nevertheless he remembered afterwards, when he thought during the long lonely hours of every moment spent at Gidding, that the third collect was being read, and that at the words "Lighten our darkness" he looked up at some noise, and saw the sunshine from the west window shining into the Church upon Mary Collet and the kneeling women, and, beyond them, standing in the dark shadow under the window, the messenger of the Jesuit, whom he knew. He got up quietly and went out. From his marriage feast, nay, from the table of the Lord, he would have got up all the same had that summons come to him.

His whole life from his boyhood had been so formed upon the idea of some day proving himself worthy of the confidence reposed in him (that perfect unexpressed confidence which won his very nature to a passionate devotion capable of the supreme action, whatever it might be, to which all his training had tended), that to have faltered at any moment would have been more impossible to him than suicide, than any self-contradictory action could have been--as impossible as for a proud man to become suddenly naturally humble, or a merciful man cruel. That there might have been found in the universe a power capable of overmastering this master passion is possible; hitherto, however, it had not been found.

Outside the Church the messenger gave him a letter from the Jesuit, which, as usual, was very short.

"Johnny, come to me at Oxford as soon as you can. The time for which we have waited is come. The service which you and none other can perform, and which I have always foreseen for you, is waiting to be accomplished. I depend on you."

Inglesant ordered some refreshment to be given to the messenger, and his own horses to be got out. Then he went back into the Church, and waited till the prayers were over.

The family expressed great regret at parting with him; they were in a continual state of apprehension from their Puritan neighbours; but Inglesant's presence was no defence but rather the contrary, and it is possible that some of them may have been glad that he was going.

Mary Collet looked sadly and wistfully at him as they stood before the porch of the house in the setting sunlight, the long shadows resting on the grass, the evening wind murmuring in the tall trees and shaking down the falling leaves.

"Do you know what this service is?" she said at last.

"I cannot make the slightest guess," he answered.

"Whatever it is you will do it?" she asked again.

"Certainly; to do otherwise would be to contradict the tenor of my life."

"It may be something that your conscience cannot approve," she said.

"It is too late to think of that," he said, smiling; "I should have thought of that years ago, when I was a boy at Westacre, and this man came to me as an angel of light--to me a weak, ignorant, country lad--to me, who owe him everything that I am, everything that I know, everything--even the power that enables me to act for him."

Did she remember how he had once offered himself without reserve to her, then at least without any reservation in favour of this man? Did she regret that she had not encouraged this other attraction, or did she see that the same thing would have happened whether she had accepted him or no? She gave no indication of either of these thoughts.

"I think you owe something to another," she said, softly; "to One who knew you before this Jesuit; to One who was leading you onward before he came across your path; to One who gave you high and noble qualities, without which the Jesuit could have given you nothing; to One whom you have professed to love; to One for whose Divine Voice you have desired to listen. Johnny, will you listen no longer for it?"

He never forgot her, standing before him with her hands clasped and her eyes raised to his,--the flush of eager speaking on her face,--those great eyes, moistened again with tears, that pierced through him to his very soul,--her trembling lip,--the irresistible nobleness of her whole figure,--her winning manner, through which the love she had confessed for him spoke in every part. He never saw her again but once--then in how different a posture and scene; and the beauty of this sight never went out of his life, but it produced no effect upon his purpose; indeed how could it, when his purpose was not so much a part of him as he was a part of it? He looked at her in silence, and his love and admiration spoke out so unmistakably in his look that Mary never afterwards doubted that he had loved her. He had not power to explain his conduct; he could not have told himself why he acted as he did. Amid the distracting purposes which tore his heart in twain he could say nothing but,--

"It may not be so bad as you think."

Mary gave him her hand, turned from him, and went into the house; and he let her go--her of whom the sight must have been to him as that of an angel--he let her go without an effort to stay her, even to prolong the sight. His horses were waiting, and one of his servants would follow with his mails; he mounted and rode away. The sun had set in a cloud, and the autumn evening was dark and gloomy, yet he rode along without any appearance of depression, steadily and quietly, like a man going about some business he has long expected to perform. I cannot even say he was sad: that moment had come to him which from his boyhood he had looked forward to. Now at last he could prove, at any rate to himself, that he was equal to that effort which it had been his ideal to attempt.

When Inglesant reached Oxford he sought out the Jesuit and found him alone. The royal affairs were at the lowest ebb. Since the battle of Naseby the King had done little but wander about like a fugitive. He was now at Oxford; but it was doubtful whether he could stay there in safety through the winter, and certainly he would not be able to do so after the campaign began, unless some change in his fortunes meanwhile occurred. All this Inglesant knew only too well. The ruin of the royal cause, entailing his own ruin and that of all his friends, was too palpable to need description. The Jesuit therefore at once proceeded to the means which were prepared to remedy this disastrous state of things. The Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, the Duke of Ormond, had, with the consent of the King, concluded a truce with the Irish, who, after long years of oppression, spoliation and misery, had, a few years before, broken out suddenly in rebellion, and massacred hundreds of the unprepared Protestants, men, women, and children, under circumstances, as is admitted by Catholics, and is perhaps scarcely to be wondered at, of frightful cruelty. A feeling of intense hatred and dread of these rebels had consequently filled the minds of the English Protestants, both Royalists and Parliamentarians; a feeling in which horror at murderous savages--for as such they not unnaturally regarded the Irish--was united with the old hatred and fear of popish massacres and cruelties. The Parliament had remonstrated with the King for his supineness in not concluding the war by the extirpation of these monsters, and when at last a truce was concluded with them, the anger of the Parliament knew no bounds, and even loyal Churchmen, although they acknowledged the hard necessity which obliged the King to such a step, yet lamented it as one of the severest misfortunes which had befallen them. The King hoped by this peace not only to be able to recall the soldiers who had been engaged against the rebels to his own assistance, but also to procure a detachment of Irish soldiers for the same purpose from the popish leaders. But the popish demands being very excessive, Ormond had not been able to advance far towards a settled peace, when, in the previous spring, the Lord Herbert (afterwards Earl of Glamorgan), the son of the Marquis of Worcester, of a devoted Catholic family and of great influence, announced his intention of going to Ireland on private business, and offered to assist the King with his influence among the Catholics. He had married a daughter of the great Irish house of Thomond, and undoubtedly possessed more influence in that island among the Papists than any other of the royal party.