Chapter VI: Part 6

Juxon had himself observed her flushed cheek and her disturbed manners, and began to entertain very serious alarm for her. How far his duty as a friend, and, above all, as a Christian minister, authorised him to seek acquaintance with the nature and extent of those secret engagements of Jane Lambert, which he could not but fear, from her evident agitation, were at variance with plain principle and prudence, it was not easy for him to resolve. He truly liked her frank, generous, and inartificial character. He knew full well that in her brother she had neither a kind, a careful, or a wise guardian. It was surely wrong to stand upon the brink of a whirlpool, and see any one drawn down to ruin, whom it was in our power, if not to save, at least to admonish of the danger. His mind instantly reverted to the noble Katharine as the proper channel through which his manly and benevolent warnings might be safely conveyed with delicacy and effect. But many days might yet elapse ere the opportunity of a conversation with Katharine might occur; for she was confined not only to her chamber, but to her bed. Should he venture to hint his fears to herself? Yes: if she was the character he yet hoped to find her, it would be taken well; if not, it would matter very little in what light she viewed his disinterested service.

On the following morning, soon after breakfast, he saw Jane Lambert by herself in the Lime Walk, and he joined her.

She looked surprised and embarrassed; and he was not without a fear that his presence at that moment was inconvenient and irksome, and very possibly prevented her going forth to an interview with her lover in the very same fields where he had met her the evening before.

However, from the very fear he took courage; and, after the common salutations and usual words about the garden and the weather had passed, he broke the subject thus:--

“Mistress Jane, you are too little acquainted with the world for your own happiness, or rather, for your security,--may a friend say this without offending you?”

“A friend may say any thing to me, Master Juxon, that a damsel may not blush to hear.”

“I understand you--I must say no more--and yet I meant you well.”

“But good intentions do often tread upon the foot just where it is most tender.”

“Well, lady, enough: I will spare your maiden blushes; only remember, of our sex, that he doth always act most openly who is most loyal.”

“Loyal! Master Juxon, what mean you? Did you then so far forget yourself as to follow and trace out the gentleman whom you last evening stood watching as he parted from me?--I do not understand you.”

“Mistress Jane, you should have known me better;--so far from watching your interview with the strange gentleman with whom I saw you, it was to avoid intrusion that I waited in the adjoining close till you parted from him, and would have gone back again altogether, but for the great circuit and the business which I had in Warwick.”

“You saw us part, then?”

“Yes, to my wonder, and to my sorrow that my eyes had caught an action meant only for your own. Lady, forgive the word; but at lovers’ oaths forget not that Cupid laughs:--may Jane Lambert never be won by any suitor who does not openly woo her!”

“Amen to your kind wish, Master Juxon--so be it:--I know what you think, and am sorry, but I cannot help it;--however, you are not my father confessor, nor do I ever wish to have one.”

“True, lady; but though not your confessor, I am your friend, your true and bold friend, or I should never have dared to utter what I have done. I can have no object in these hints but your best and highest interest: that which I have noticed to yourself I shall never mention to any other, except, perhaps, to Katharine Heywood, from whose lips whatever falls is wise and noble.”

“O! not to her--name not this idle matter to her. Promise me, Juxon, that you will not breathe a syllable about it to her. I shall be more unhappy if you do than I am already.”

“Alas! you are then unhappy, and would shun the best help and consolation which friendship would provide for you. No, this I cannot promise; on the contrary, I am only confirmed in the propriety of my intention.”

“Well, I implore you again, and earnestly, not to speak upon this subject to Katharine. As you value my peace of mind, be silent upon it to all: there is a mystery about it I may not unfold. I know that appearances are against me: I am sorry for your hard thoughts, but I must bear them. I could wish to explain these cross circumstances to you, but am not free to do so without violating a sacred duty. Promise me that you will meet my wish.” Thus saying, she put her hand upon his arm, and looked into his face with wet and beseeching eyes. “Juxon, you have always been plain and true, and friendly to me; and though I and my perplexities ill deserve your interest or care, promise me that you will not name them to dear Katharine.”

For a moment Juxon was affected by the wild earnestness of her manner; and he thought he had never seen more heart or feeling in the expression of a human countenance than in the flushed face of Jane Lambert.

“Well, Mistress Jane, you are so urgent, that I must promise to obey your will; but it grieves me to see you thus sadly troubled. May God help you, and guide you, and guard you, and keep you from evil, that it may not grieve you! Your secret is safe with me.”

“And shall I lose your friendship?”

“No, lady, never: would only that it may have worth sufficient in your eyes to be used aright!”

“Believe me, I shall never forget it, and I will never do aught to forfeit such a treasure;”--so saying, she hurried away, with tears in her eyes, and left him absorbed in a state of feeling which cannot be described.

The more he thought of what he had witnessed the evening before, and the more he considered the conversation which had just passed, the more satisfied he was that Jane Lambert was secretly betrothed to some one whom she dared not openly acknowledge as her lover. It was also plain, that, for some powerful reason, she had not confided the secret of this attachment even to Katharine, who was her bosom friend. He had comfort in remembering that nothing could be more respectful than the action of the stranger, when he kissed her hand at parting; and combining this with her own honest looks and proud though mysterious expressions, he was satisfied that, up to the present moment, she had taken no irrevocable step. There was, moreover, a warm strength in her last words, that assured him his friendly cautions were not thrown away, and that his motives were not misinterpreted. Upon the whole, he was justified, to his own mind, in what he had done; and his thoughts rested upon the character of Jane with greater interest than it had ever before excited in him.

“How very generous and devoted would be the love of such a girl,” said he to himself: “what a proud spirit, what an affectionate heart, she has; what a fire there is in her fine eyes--I never before saw her look half so beautiful:--it is clear that they have been lighted up by love:--well, God grant that the man of her choice may be worthy of it!”

He now sauntered slowly back to the house; and entering the library, found Cuthbert Noble sitting alone, and making extracts from an old folio volume.

“You see,” said the young tutor, “I am making preparations for my departure from Milverton; but thus I may innocently suck honey from the hives of Sir Oliver, without robbing him, or those who come after him, of the smallest portion of such sweets as they contain.”

“And what may be your study?” said Juxon, as he came up to the table, and looked over him.

“A curious work,” replied Cuthbert, “containing the most remarkable pieces of John Huss, together with his life--imprinted in the last century at Augsburg.”

“Friend Cuthbert, you are too constant in these serious and solemn studies and speculations.”

“Master Juxon,” answered the pale youth, “they are every thing or they are nothing.”

“Verily, for my part I think divine truth is as clear and glorious as the sun in the firmament; and to warm ourselves, and to walk in the light of it, is better wisdom than to read so many commentaries and discourses upon it.”

“May we not sometimes lie indolently warming ourselves by a fire of our own, and fancy it as comfortable as basking in the sun? Walking in the light is no such easy matter; and in my case I find that the words, and, above all, the examples, of those who have earnestly contended for the truth, as so many outstretched and helping hands to assist me in climbing the hill.”

“What hill?”

“The high hill, Master Juxon, where the reformers and martyrs of past times have left the print of their blessed footsteps.”

“Cuthbert, I see that you are in earnest, that you are sincere; but you are on a road beset by enemies, to the full as dangerous as those on any other. Pride may be waiting to assail you,--spiritual pride, the worst of all enemies: you want to do something; you would unlock heaven’s gates by some great performance:--remember its arches are so low that none can enter them who crawl not on their knees:--the little child’s is the appointed stature for all believers.”

“That, indeed, is true--it is a solemn truth; but there are beasts to be fought with, Juxon, and the stern combat is at hand. It is upon this I think by day, on this I dream by night.”

“So much the worse: you are commanded, in many senses, to ‘take no thought for the morrow;’ and in none is it more your duty to obey the precept than in waiting the events of the coming day in quietness and in confidence: you conjure up shadows that you may fight with them.”

“Nay, but you wrong my judgment:--to you they may so seem; but my eye can see the black and dismal realities beyond, which reflect these shadows.”

“Well, Cuthbert, it is vain to talk with you on these subjects:--on all others you are so clear and reasonable, that I shall always remember our intercourse with pleasure. I hear that there is a new arrangement, and that you do not wait to accompany Arthur to Oxford; but that you leave Milverton next week, therefore, very probably, I shall not see you again till your departure. Farewell, friend: my best and warmest wishes for your happiness will always accompany you. I shall ever be happy to hear of or from you, and be delighted to meet you again.”

With these words he put out his hand to Cuthbert, who grasped it eagerly, and struggled for a reply in vain.

The parting had taken him totally by surprise:--the thought of all Juxon’s friendly and kind services, of all his frank and endearing qualities, came up, with a rush before his fancy, and choked his utterance. The strong pressure of Cuthbert’s hand, and the slowness with which he released that of Juxon, told the latter all that he would have said; and, as the door closed behind his departing friend, Cuthbert sank back into his seat, and, resting his head with hidden face upon the table, remained for several minutes silent and motionless.

CHAP. XV.

Religious contention is the devil’s harvest.

_Old Proverb._

To every member of the family at Milverton House Cuthbert had said farewell, when he retired to his chamber on the night before the morning fixed for his departure. He had taken leave of Mistress Katharine, in the presence of her aunt Alice and Jane Lambert, with a grave self-command which had surprised himself; and, as he left her room, he lifted his heart to Heaven in thanksgiving for the help of that strength which he had so earnestly implored in the privacy of his closet.

But when he was alone for the last wakeful vigil in the apartment in which he had passed so many a sleepless night the image of Katharine looked in upon his solitude, and, for a time, re-asserted all its power over his heart.

He had just parted, and, probably for ever, with her who had been to him, for many months, the angel of the scene. These months, though now short as hours to look back upon, had gathered into their brief and silvery revolutions much of that soft and essential happiness of his affections which he knew could never return again. Nevertheless, it was not in the power of separation or of hopelessness to destroy the memory of that sweet season of his youth; and he was content to accept that as all the bliss of its kind which the fortunes of his life and the new aims of his being, would permit him to enjoy.

“Here, and for ever,” said Cuthbert, speaking to himself aloud, “I forswear the weaknesses of love: life has rugged paths that are better trod by single men;--such a path is now shaping for me and for many. In the labour of establishing a people’s rights I shall find a sense of peace; and when the call of duty is obeyed, contentment is the golden fruit with which conscience herself presents us.”

There is no process of the mind more common than that by which a man, while sore at heart by the thought of some desirable but unattainable good, turns away from the painful consideration of his own sorrows, and erects himself into the zealous friend of suffering humanity, and the ardent reformer of social evils.

What curious springs in the world’s clockwork are sorrow and disappointment! How many wheels are set in motion by their secret action, and what different results from those at which men aim are produced by their conduct! Here they strike for freedom, and elevate a despot--there they trample for the oppressor, and, lo! a seed of armed patriots is sown beneath their horse’s feet.

The idea of seeking the society of those among his friends whose minds were full of the stirring themes now daily suggested by political events was hailed as a relief and a consolation.

Absorbed in musings, Cuthbert watched away the night, and obtained only a short and broken slumber towards the morning.

It has been before observed, that to the language of love from the lips of Cuthbert Mistress Katharine never would have listened, and could not have responded.

Katharine Heywood had only done what thousands have done before her, and are continually doing in the intercourse of life. She had manifested her own sweet nature in a ready and gentle appreciation of those qualities in the shy and humble student, which, wherever they are found, are worthy of regard.

Indeed, during the residence of Cuthbert at Milverton, as the tutor to her cousin, she had largely shared the benefit of his instructions. He had imparted new pleasures to her mind, had purified her taste, enlarged her conceptions, and elevated her thoughts.

These services she had repaid, in the character of mistress of her father’s mansion, by studiously throwing the grace of her protection over the retiring scholar; but the smile of a queenly woman is a perilous shelter, and does oftentimes blight the happiness of those whom it was most innocently designed to cheer and to defend.

It had been arranged that Cuthbert should depart before eight in the morning. By that hour his horse was already saddled in the stable, and the boy Arthur was in the stable-yard watching minutely all the preparations for the journey. The strapping on of the vallise, and of the holsters especially moved him on the present occasion, although he had seen the very same thing done a hundred times for others without curiosity or disquiet. What from the liveliness of his fancy, and the affectionateness of his disposition, the images of lonely ways and evil robbers made him fetch his breath quicker than usual. The good tempered groom, perceiving this by the youth’s questions, began to allay his fears by saying, that “nobody would ever let or hinder a poor scholar like Master Cuthbert, and, besides that, God took care of all good persons; so there was no ill chance for such an one, but that he would go and come as safe as the King’s own majesty;” which was the simple groom’s notion of the most perfect security on earth.

Meanwhile Cuthbert himself was taking a last melancholy gaze at the gallery, the hall, the summer and winter parlour, and the various objects of interest which they contained. The pictures, the books, the organ, the virginals, the lute, were all most intimately associated in his mind with her, whom to have seen and known was of itself a blessing.

In vain the grey-haired butler, Philip, pressed him to partake of breakfast, and cautioned him against a weary way and an empty stomach. He pecked like a sick bird at the substantial venison pasty, and sipped at the warm tankard with a word the while now to the old domestic, and now to young Arthur, who had come in, and sat opposite him, in that vacant and natural sorrow which belongs to the broken moments of such a parting.

At last Cuthbert descended the hall steps, which were full of the warm-hearted servants; and, pressing the hand of his affectionate pupil, mounted his horse and rode away.

The day was cold and wet: nothing could be more gloomy or comfortless than his long and lonely ride. He met only one train of pack-horses, and a few single travellers on horseback, throughout the day. He baited his animal at a wayside alehouse, where he found nobody but a cross old woman and a deaf hostler; and it was not till the dusk of evening that he reached the town of Aylesbury, where he proposed sleeping.

Within five miles of this place he was overtaken by a gentleman on horseback, who fell into conversation with him; and who, being like himself on a journey to town, offered to join company with him that night at the inn.

Although it would have been far more agreeable to Cuthbert to have proceeded alone, yet the appearance of the stranger was so prepossessing, and his manners were so frank and courteous, that it was not possible to shake off his company without rudeness. Moreover, his speech had already shown him to be a man of gentle breeding, and that Cambridge had once reckoned him among her students,--so they rode forward together.

At the entrance of the town, hard by one of the first houses in the street, sat a cobbler working and singing in his hutch. The companion of Cuthbert here pulled his bridle; and, turning his beast’s nose almost into it, called out, in a loud jolly tone, “Ho, Crispin! canst tell me the way to the church?”

“No,” said the cobbler, throwing up an indifferent glance, and then stooping again over his last.

“Art deaf, or hast lost thy wits, old surly?” said the traveller: “you know what a church is, don’t you?”

“I know what it is not,” replied the old cobbler bluntly, without looking off his work.

“What is it not, sirrah?”

“It is not a great stone building standing alone in the middle of a town,” said the cobbler raising his head, and looking his interrogator full in the face.

“Thou hast more wit than good humour, knave,” said our Cavalier.

“And thou words than good breeding,” retorted the sturdy artisan.

“I see the stocks of this place are little used, or you should try how they fitted. You have not much fear, methinks, of the wooden collar. Didst ever see a pillory?”

“I have, and a godly man in it; and I shall not soon forget the sight. Are you answered, my court bird?”

“You are a prick-eared knave; and, if I were not tired and hungry, you should smart for your saucy answers.”

By this time a neighbour or two stood forth from the adjoining houses; and the horseman, turning to the nearest, said, “Prithee, friend, canst thou tell me the way to the Boar’s Head, which is next to the church, as I think?”

“It is so, true enough,” answered the man, “and well placed, to my thought; for thou wilt be sure to find the parson on the bench of it, or it may be in the skittle yard wrangling with cheating Bob, and staggering at his own cast:--ride straight on--you can’t miss it.”

“A pretty nest of godly rogues I have got into,” said the traveller: “there will be an iron gag for your foul mouths soon.” With this he struck spurs into his steed: the beast broke into a smart canter,--that of Cuthbert started in like manner; and they were instantly carried beyond the jeers and the loud laughter of the humorous old cobbler and his neighbours. Of this little scene Cuthbert had been the silent spectator; indeed the dialogue was so short, and so rapidly spoken, that there was no room for any question or remark of his;--and his companion having observed a silver crest upon the holsters of Cuthbert, did not doubt that he was a church and king man,--especially as there had not dropped from him a single expression which savoured of the Puritan.

Mine host of the Boar’s Head, a big and portly personage with bloated cheeks, received our weary guests with a cheerful welcome; and led the way to a large travellers’ parlour, where, in an ample fire-place, huge logs were blazing on the hearth. The seats on either side were already occupied by guests, before whom, on small three-legged tables, their repasts were smoking.

At one of these sat two persons, whose appearance was that of military men:--the younger of the two was very handsome, and of a commanding figure. No sooner did the gentleman in Cuthbert’s company approach the fire than this martial youth rose, and addressing him by the name of Fleming, shook him cordially by the hand. The ear of Cuthbert did not catch the name by which, promptly responding to the recognition, Fleming replied, nor did he learn it throughout the evening. However, another small table was immediately drawn near, and covered. Eggs, sausages, and broiled bones were served up hastily; and, after Cuthbert and his companion had satisfied the keen appetites which they had gotten by a long journey in cold rain and on miry roads, a large jug of burnt claret was placed before them; and the following conversation between the two acquaintances was listened to by Cuthbert in silent astonishment:--

“Well, Frank, you have not forgotten old times, I hope. I trust that we shall teach the volunteer gentry how to handle a sword after the fashion of the old Swedish troopers before long:--they made sorry work of it in the north last year; and for my part I was half ashamed to ride among such a rabble!”

“What made you go at all then?” said the youthful soldier.

“Why, to say truth, Frank, I found my life in the country very dull, and my old father’s hunting companions as heavy as lead; and I heartily wished myself back in Germany, where I might hear a trumpet once more:--so when I heard that the King was going against the Scots away I posted to court, and waited upon his Majesty, and got a commission.”

“I hope, Fleming, you made yourself master of the quarrel before you offered your services.”

“Look you, Frank, I remember you was always as grave as a judge about war, and examined sides, and would know the rights of all that was done. That was never my way. I left Cambridge at nineteen, and went to the camp of Gustavus, as eager and as blind as a young colt; and so again now:--wherever the King’s standard flies all must be right; besides, I hate these pricked-eared Puritans, and yon Scotch psalm singers that wo’n’t use the Prayer Book.”

“It seems, however, that they can use the broad sword, and with good effect, if accounts speak true.”

“There you have me,” rejoined the cheerful and light-hearted campaigner,--“there you have me. I never felt shame as a soldier till this Scotch campaign. Our tall fellows always turned their backs first, and retreated true runaway fashion:--you could never make them fire their pistols, and wheel off orderly; and it was well for them that they had raw Scots troopers at their tails instead of Pappenheim’s cuirassiers.”

“It is clear enough that you must have run too,” said the young soldier, laughing, “or you would not be here to tell the story.”

“To be sure I did,--but not without leaving the mark of my sword in the cheek of a stout Scotsman that pressed me a little too close and unmannerly. However, live and learn is a wise saying. When the King fairly raises a proper army, instead of a set of footmen and servants, commanded by courtiers and parsons, there will be warmer sport than we had in the north.”

“It will be sorry and grave sport, methinks, comrade, when Englishmen stand up against Englishmen, and little pleasure to see an old fellow-soldier in the ranks opposite.”

“Odd’s life, I shall never see you enact rebel.”

“Rebel is a rough word:--suppose we change the subject.”

The conversation was now continued on various indifferent matters till the hour for rest. Cuthbert himself made but few observations, and was strangely exercised in his mind by contemplating the characters before him. In addition to those already named, there was one other traveller at a table by himself, who had partaken of no better fare than a bowl of oatmeal porridge, and who sat intent over a small closely printed book, without once opening his lips, and seldom even raising his eyes. The companion of Cuthbert often looked contemptuously askance at him, and indulged in many a fling against the Puritans; but the silent stranger either did not or would not hear these rude jests, and, as they met with no encouragement from any one present, they fell flat and powerless. At length the time of going to bed came; and the host appeared to conduct his guests to their chambers. Our host, having a quick eye to the quality of the parties, placed the Cavalier captain in his best chamber; the two military-looking men in the next; and the pale stranger in a small cold garret with Cuthbert.

As soon as the door was closed behind them, and the foot of the landlord was heard descending the stairs, the stranger approached Cuthbert and invited him to join in prayer.

“To me,” said the stranger, with a face of the most earnest gravity, “to me is committed that rare and precious gift, the discerning of spirits: I see thou art a God-fearing youth:--as soon as thou didst enter the parlour I smelled the perfume of the angelic nature; even as also the sulphur and the brimstone of Tophet in the three sons of Belial, who are gone to lie down under the power of Beelzebub, and to sleep with evil spirits for company.”

“Friend,” said Cuthbert, “I do not understand you: it is not my custom to join in prayer with an unknown stranger; there is thy bed, and here is mine:--let us lie down upon them in peace, and commune with our own hearts and be still.”

“Verily,” rejoined the stranger, “thou art afraid:--it is no wonder:--thou art but a mere babe of grace, and thine eyes do see but dimly the glories of my high calling;--but I tell thee thou art a chosen vessel of the Lord,--and even now I feel my bowels moved towards thee, and the spirit of prayer is upon me, and I must wrestle with the powers of darkness to deliver thy poor soul from the snare of the fowler. This is my command,--and even now I am appointed unto thee for an angel of defence, and the fight is begun.”

The stranger now threw himself upon his knees, and poured forth a long, rambling and blasphemous petition,--the words of which made Cuthbert shudder.

However, as he had been already told that there was no other chamber or bed vacant, and as he was greatly fatigued, he lay down to sleep, silently commending himself to the care of God, and endeavouring to substitute a feeling of pity for the deep disgust with which this crazy chamber-fellow inspired him.

The last sounds of which he was conscious before his heavy eyes became sealed in forgetfulness were groanings from the adjoining bed--nor did he awake in the morning till it was broad daylight. He looked around--the chamber was empty;--at this he felt thankful: and, supposing that his last odd companion had travelled forward at an earlier hour, he arose, and proceeded to dress himself; but he instantly discovered that his purse was gone. He went forth on the stairs, and called loudly for the landlord. It was some time before he made his appearance; and when he did so, he listened to the tale with hard indifference, and coarse incredulity.

“Ah! that’s an old story, my devil’s scholar, but it wo’n’t go down with me:--you shan’t budge from the Boar’s Head till you pay your shot, I can tell you; and your nag shall go to the market cross before I let you ride off without paying for provender.”

Cuthbert’s fury was roused to the uttermost; but his hot words were only laughed at by the rosy Boniface, who soon left him. He slipped on his clothes with all haste, and came down into the guest parlour, where the Cavalier and the two military men were already seated at breakfast by a cheerful fire. He stated his case before them all with the warm earnestness of truth. The Cavalier picked his teeth and whistled; but the younger of the other two seemed very much to sympathise in the embarrassment of Cuthbert, which in fact was more serious than he himself apprehended; for mine host came presently into the parlour to say, that his horse and his vallise were taken away by his chamber-fellow before dawn.

“It was all a made up thing,” said the landlord in a storm of passion. “I saw they were a couple of hypocritical rogues, and packed ’em together for safety’s sake--’twould only be thief rob thief, I knew:--but it’s my belief they take the horse turn by turn, and steal in company; for yon old one has left half a bottle of strong waters and the leg of a cold goose at his bed-foot:--come, young knave,” he added, attempting to take Francis by the collar, “come with me afore the justice. He’ll find thee a lodging in our cage.”

With a force to which indignation gave strength, Cuthbert threw back the fat bully against the wall, and turning to the Cavalier, who had rode with him part of his yesterday’s journey,--

“You may remember, sir,” he said, “that when you joined me, I told you that I came from the neighbourhood of Warwick, and was on my journey to London. I told you, moreover, that I was a member of the University of Cambridge:--the silver crest on my holsters was the crest of Sir Oliver Heywood of Milverton, in whose house I have resided for this year past, as tutor to his nephew’s son. The animal, in fact, is Sir Oliver’s property, and was kindly lent me for the journey:--if you will answer for me to this landlord, and give me a crown piece to travel on with, I will faithfully repay you when I reach town. My name, sir, is Cuthbert Noble, son of Mr. Noble, rector of Cheddar, in Somerset.”

“A pack of stuff, good master,” said the angry landlord to the Cavalier,--“don’t you be made a fool of; don’t be bamboozled by a smooth trumped up cock and a bull story like this: if the horse is Sir Oliver Heywood’s, they have stolen it, and change riders on the road to Smithfield, where they will turn it into a purse of nobles before night. Marry, I’ll go for constables, and, as you are honest gentlemen and true, hold the knave fast in your keeping till I come back again.” Before, however, he could leave the room, as much to his astonishment and shame as to the surprise and relief of Cuthbert, the younger of the two travellers, whom his companion the Cavalier had last night claimed acquaintance with, came forward in a very open and cordial manner, and assured Cuthbert of his readiness to assist him.

“I am connected,” said the noble looking youth, “with the family at Milverton, nor is the name of Master Cuthbert Noble unknown to me. My purse is at your service; and I shall be glad of your company on the road. Though I have no horse to offer you, post-horses can be easily procured at every stage.”

Thus was Cuthbert at once released from a perplexity, and introduced to the friendship of Francis Heywood.

CHAP. XVI.

The great vicissitude of things amongst men is the vicissitude
of sects and religions; for those orbs rule in men’s minds most.
BACON.

On the third of November, 1640, the fatal Long Parliament began. On the 12th, the Earl of Strafford was impeached of treason, and committed to the Black Rod. The Lords denied him bail and council; and he was, in a few days more, commanded into close imprisonment in the Tower. One hundred thousand pounds were now voted to the Scots, and borrowed of the city of London. Ship money was soon questioned by the Parliament, and voted an illegal tax; and, in fine, all grievances and abuses were loudly proclaimed, and resolutely brought forward, by intrepid and patriotic men; of whom the best and noblest did certainly never contemplate, at that time, the sad and humiliating close of the labours and the authority of that memorable and august assembly. August, of a truth, that assembly may be called, in which a Hampden and a Falkland stood, at after moments, opposed in debate; and in which, in the following year, the grand remonstrance of the Commons was the subject of grave deliberation for thirty hours, and was only carried, at last, by a majority of nine voices.

But to return to our story. It may be supposed that Cuthbert Noble was no indifferent or unmoved spectator of the great public events which every day brought forth in the winter of 1640. With his serious and peculiar notions, the questions that affected liberty of conscience and church reform were those which most deeply interested him; and when, upon the morning of the 23d of November, Prynne and Burton entered triumphantly into Westminster, followed by many thousands of the people, Cuthbert was foremost in the crowd; and not a zealot among them was more wildly excited than himself.

Laughter and tears succeeded to each other, as those around expressed their rude sympathy;--now in remarks quaint and comical--now in pious commiseration, or in the stern tones of indignant and just anger.

“Which is old Prynne?” said one.--“That’s he,” said his neighbour, “with his black head clipped close, looking, for all the world, like a skull-cap.”--“See how the old boy grins.”--“He’s no beauty.”--“Hurrah! hurrah!”--“Can you hear, old boy?”--“I wonder if a man can hear without his ears.”--“To be sure a’ can, all the better.”--“Well, he can’t have the ear-ache no more.”--“Don’t talk so unfeeling.”--“Look, poor dear good man, he is as white as a sheet.”--“That is prison and hunger.”--“This is your bishops’ work--od rot ’em--their turn shall come.”

With such vulgarities were mixed the solemn tones and pious expressions of many a sincere Christian, giving utterance to praise and thanksgiving for the deliverance of these persecuted men; while, here and there, a strong voice would be heard, above the crowd, denouncing the tyranny of the church and the crown in coarse language, in which the Establishment was likened to the whore of Babylon,--and the Archbishop of Canterbury was pointed out to the vengeance of the rabble.

Such language would, in a moment of calm reflection, have been utterly revolting to the feelings of Cuthbert. He would have shut his ears to the base and bloody cry, and hurried away from the wretches who gave it utterance, as from the company of sinners, whose feet were already planted in the paths of wickedness, and were swift to shed blood. But now, though such fierce cries gave a jar to his better dispositions and nobler nature, they were regarded as the natural ebullitions of an irritated mob; and he stood among them as a partaker of their guilt by the sanction of his presence.

Nothing is so blind--nothing is so deaf--nothing can stoop so low--as party spirit;--and at no period of English history was this more fully exemplified than at that of which we are now speaking. The Cavaliers, on their side, were not without the support of a rabble of their own; and by these, the slang of the tavern, the bear garden, and the brothel, was exhausted to furnish epithets of scorn, contempt, and ridicule, by which they might insult their fanatical opponents.

To the mental eye of Cuthbert the two victims of a severe and intolerant hierarchy stood out in large and disproportionate grandeur,--filling all the foreground of the picture upon which he now gazed to the exclusion of all other objects.

He saw them bearing the evident marks of torture and degradation on their mutilated forms. They had been thus treated, according to his notion, for a mere error in judgment--they were sufferers for conscience-sake:--his heart grew hot within him,--and he would have called down fire from heaven on the heads of their oppressors.

He accompanied the crowd all through Westminster; and, in the eagerness of his excited mood, pressed in once close to the horse of Prynne, that he might utter a “God save you, master!” to the stern Puritan, face to face.

There was a keen twinkle of triumph in the little eyes of the sour precisian, which showed that he felt his day of revenge would soon come, and that it would be his turn to play inquisitor towards his late haughty oppressor.

However, he would have been more than human had he been superior to such an infirmity, after sustaining injuries so great.

It happened on the day of this public entry of Prynne and Burton that Cuthbert was alone in the quarter of Westminster; and having remained a long time gazing on the show, he went into a tavern in a narrow street behind the Abbey to refresh.

After satisfying his hunger over a fine joint of roast beef in company with a grave looking lawyer, who sat opposite him at the same table, with a roll of parchments and papers by his side, the man of law proposed a cup of canary to the health of Masters Prynne and Burton, in which he was readily seconded by Cuthbert.

“Ah,” said the stranger bitterly, “this is a different kind of procession to the fool’s mummery which they made us play seven years ago, before the wanton queen and her dancing French gentlemen.”

“What! you mean the mask of the inns of court, on Candlemas-day, seven years ago?” asked Cuthbert.

“Just so: that was got up to tickle the court party, and trample down Prynne and his book; but tables are turning.”

“Well, though I think they were very tyrannical about Prynne, I did not like his book; and never saw any harm in a mask or an interlude.”

“Why, to judge by your looks, you could only have been a boy when that mask was given, and perhaps you did not see it.”

“That is true; but I read the account of it that was printed, and surely it was a brave and glorious show; and, methinks, there were some witty hints given his Majesty in the anti-masks, which he might be the wiser for.”

“The man Charles Stuart,” said the stranger, “will never be the better for hints.”

It was the first time that Cuthbert had ever heard from any lips so irreverent a mention of the King, and he coloured and was silent.

“I say he will never be the better for hints,--though it is true that some of them were broad enough, and too humorous for offence; but you have forgotten that there was one anti-mask got up by the serviles to insult the poor. If it may not have a sneer of ridicule for poverty and misfortune, the pleasure of the proud wanteth its best relish.”

“I do not understand you,” said Cuthbert; “of what speak you, master?”

“Of that which has been played in joke, and shall come to pass in earnest. Little they thought, with their gibes and their mockery, that they were but foreshowing events, which the turn of the wheel is even now bringing to pass. I do remember all their gilded chariots and rich apparel, and gay liveries; and in the midst of that costly show, there rode an anti-mask of cripples and beggars, clothed in rags, and mounted on sorry lean jades, gotten out of dust carts, with dirty urchins snapping tongs and shovels before them for music,--and thus was the noble music, and thus were the gallant horses, and the velvets and silks and spangled habits, made more pleasing to the painted court Jezebels by the pitiful contrast. Shall not the Lord visit for these things?” he added, raising his voice, and changing the tone of it to a solemn sternness: “Yea, verily, he shall visit:--in his hand there is a cup,--and the dregs thereof shall be drunk out by the oppressors,--and the sword shall go through the land, and it shall be drunk with blood.”

The severe inference thus forced by the speaker from a trifling circumstance, of which the joyous projectors of the interlude thought perhaps very differently, and which might have been so turned by a playful mind, as a caricature against the foreign musicians, then so much about court; or, again, by a thoughtful mind, as a memento of those dark realities of human misery which invite and demand compassion. This inference was at once received by Cuthbert as just. It touched a chord in his heart that immediately responded, and he was played upon as a lute by his companion; till, at last, the latter opening a roll of parchment requested him to put down his name as a subscriber to the necessities of a few godly and persecuted men now suffering imprisonment for the great cause of liberty of conscience, and whose families were quite destitute.

From his slender purse Cuthbert instantly took the few crowns it contained, and only reserving sufficient money to pay for his dinner, shook his new acquaintance heartily by the hand, and set forth on his way to the city, where he lodged, with a heart glowing with the love of God, of his country, and of mankind. His evil angel had only to appear clothed like an angel of light, and Cuthbert would follow, nothing doubting, whithersoever he was led. The false fire, which glimmered over the dangerous quagmire of gloomy fanaticism, was mistaken by Cuthbert for light from Heaven; and by the frequent perusal of controversies on religion, and a constant attendance on the private ministries of those fierce zealots, who were urging forward the overthrow of the Established Church, he became at length totally bewildered. It was in vain that Francis Heywood exposed to him the hypocrisy and inconsistency of some of those wolves in sheep’s clothing by whom he was now continually surrounded, to the neglect of Heywood’s own society and that of the higher and better order of the Parliamentarian supporters. He listened with pity to remonstrances which he considered as proceeding from a man of the world, and a deceived soul wandering in darkness; nevertheless his affectionate disposition survived the strength of his reason. He looked up to and loved Francis Heywood as a model of what the natural man might attain to; and as in their political views they were altogether agreed, they very often met. The ardent Francis might indeed have well doubted of the soundness of a political creed which numbered among its supporters such diversified and crazy characters as those whom he saw daily embrace it: but although he was not able to endure their sanctimonious professions, and morose manners, he viewed them as instruments necessary to the present warfare of principles; and, having returned from America on purpose to stand up for the popular rights, he remained steadfastly at his post, watching with intense interest the proceedings of parliament, and eager for the moment when those services, which he came to offer, might be required in the field.

In one particular the lives of Francis Heywood and of Cuthbert Noble during the two following years corresponded well. Never were those hard duties which self-denial enjoins, practised with a more resolute and cheerful virtue. The means of both were slender; and they supported themselves by the exercise of their respective talents with credit and success.

Cuthbert attended daily in the families of two or three merchants of the Puritan party as classical tutor to their boys; while Francis Heywood, reserving with great care the sum necessary to purchase a good charger, and military equipments, whenever he might need them, maintained his current expenses by the drawing of maps, plans, and views illustrative of the late campaigns of Gustavus Adolphus, and of the actual warfare in Germany which was then carrying on. These drawings found a sufficient sale, among the curious in such matters, to remunerate the light labour of producing them; and though the printseller, who purchased them from Francis, told him that gentlemen, very capable of advancing his interests, had made inquiries after him, yet he was forbidden by Francis to disclose his residence, or to answer any questions about him. His leisure from this easy occupation was employed in useful studies or in manly exercises. He daily frequented a school of arms, not for instruction, indeed, for he was a master of all weapons, but for health and diversion; and for the same end he went often to the grand manège in the quarter of the court; where he was so great a favourite with the chevalier, who taught the graces of horsemanship, that he was asked as a kindness to exercise the most spirited and beautiful animals of his stud in the open country:--an offer which, from the delight he took in the amusement of schooling a young and high bred horse, he very often accepted.

Francis Heywood was not unknown to many families with whom his father had been intimate; and by some of them, notwithstanding his fortunes and his politics, and by others on account of them, he was invited to several houses, where he might have enjoyed all the pleasures and the refinements of social life; but he very rarely accepted their invitations, not merely from mistaken pride, but from a disrelish of scenes which would always so strongly and painfully suggest to him the happy intercourse he had once enjoyed in that domestic circle, of which his adored Katharine was at once the charm and the idol.

Upon this sweet memory, in lonely hours of leisure, his mind would feed, and he would discourse of it, not indeed in words, but in the soft breathings of his lute; till, suddenly, by the strong effort of a manly will, he would tear himself from the dangerous indulgence, and sit closely down to his writing desk, that he might complete the minute journal of public events which he kept for his father, and despatched, as opportunities offered, to New England.

To the review of these grave subjects he brought a generous spirit; and it was not without an occasional pang that he related the progress and triumph of the cause to which he was sincerely attached.

He could not but exult to see the principles of government openly examined, and the just rights and liberties of the people clearly defined.

He looked with veneration upon the labours of the Commons; and he watched with jealousy the advisers of the crown, and the sycophants about the court. He saw many abuses rectified, many grievances redressed. He saw the iniquitous Star Chamber and the High Commission Court abolished,--and a noble security against a return of misgovernment and tyranny in the famous bill for a triennial parliament.

This last measure, the main pillar of the new constitution, was received by the whole nation with rejoicings; and when it passed solemn thanks were presented to his Majesty by both houses of parliament. But the sincerity of the court party and the moderation of the reformers were alike suspicious. The passions, the prejudices, and the interests of conflicting parties had been too rudely aroused by discussion to subside without an explosive collision; and it was evident to Francis that the struggle between the prerogatives of the crown and the privileges of parliament would never terminate without an appeal to arms.

He shuddered to see the scaffold stained with the blood of Strafford; and though he was among those who clamoured against the minister, he profoundly commiserated the man, as the abandoned victim of his party,--and in his heart he despised Charles for signing the death-warrant of his favourite.

CHAP. XVII.

There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full-voiced quire below,
In service high and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness through mine ear
Dissolve me into ecstasies,
And bring all heaven before mine eyes.
MILTON.

The affliction of the good parson of Cheddar at the strange and painful conduct of his son Cuthbert was heavy to bear. However, from a sense of duty to his weaker partner, he made great efforts to preserve his wonted serenity and composure in her presence; but when alone he was bowed down in the dust.

Nothing could possibly present a greater contrast to the tone of religious profession which was, at this period, obtaining a wide reception among men than that in which old Noble lay prostrate in his closet before his God.

He had ever been a meek and cheerful Christian; but there were depths of humiliation which he had not as yet fathomed; and he would have fainted at the waves of trouble, which his prescient eye saw rolling onward, if he had not felt the hand, which led him down into the deep, was that of a heavenly Father, if he had not heard a voice that whispered in his ear, “_It is I, be not afraid_.”

In vain did he exhaust his heart in sound, pious, and affectionate remonstrances, meditated and penned in the spirit of prayer, that he might recall his dear and wandering child to the bosom of the church, or, at all events, so far recover him from gross delusions as to see him join that upright and devout portion of the community, which, though differing from the discipline of the church, maintained a pure and practical doctrine.

In vain did he press the return of Cuthbert to Cheddar, by every argument which parental love could suggest.

The letters of Noble and his wife were replied to in the words of love; but the fruit of his new persuasion was an obstinate self-will; and while he implored them, at great length, to consider his views, and urged the danger of despising them, he evinced to others, what was not perhaps suspected by himself, a degree of spiritual pride only to be exceeded by the strength of his delusion.

He had adopted the notions of those fanatics who were styled Fifth-monarchy Men, and who ranged themselves where, indeed, any sect, however extravagant, might have found a place, under the banner of the Independents.

It was some consolation to these troubled parents to hear from the Philips’s, their relations, and also from other friends, that the life and the conduct of Cuthbert were, as regarded all moral and social duties, a credit to any theory, and such as became the pure precepts of the Gospel.

His intellect was clear upon every other subject, except on that which, if it be rashly touched, seems to be guarded by invisible angels, who put forth their hands and smite the daring intruder with madness. “Oppression,” saith the preacher, “will make a wise man mad;”--a truth abundantly proved by the events, which, leading first to a secret and salutary reform, ended at last in a bloody revolution and an iron rule.

It may be added, that he who seeketh to meddle with the hidden mysteries of unfulfilled prophecy is often smitten with blindness and confusion for his presumption. Thus it was with Cuthbert:--sensible, amiable, and affectionate in all the relations of life, he was now the subject of a monomania, and turned a deaf ear to the voice of truth and wisdom, though it spoke with all the authority and all the earnestness of a father.