Chapter II: Part 2

"You talk to everybody," said Henrietta to her reproachfully. "I never knew such a child. What have you been talking to Mr. Delarry about now?"

"Only about my new friends," answered Agnes. "Oh, you will be nice, Henrietta, and skate with them to-morrow, won't you? They just fly over the ice. It is the most delicious sensation I ever knew. They say in two or three days I shall go alone, and then," she added mischievously, "let who can catch me."

*CHAPTER IV*

*New Friends*

On the following day Henrietta was nothing loath to have good sport with Agnes, and Patience was forced to yield to their desires. Down to the lake they went, found the Newbolts there, and after a little persuasion Henrietta ventured on the ice. They brought a chair for her, and she was content at first to let Mr. Delarry push her; but Agnes gave her hands to Ann and Reginald and went off. Presently she came back alone, so sure of foot was she; her figure was so light and easy.

"Do try," she said to Henrietta; "it is just lovely!" And the princess let herself be persuaded.

Other gentlemen and ladies joined them, and there was much laughter and many tumbles, but no one was hurt. The time passed quickly, until the winter day was drawing to a close, and still they were not tired.

"I should never be tired," said Agnes, her face rosy with the keenness of the air, and her eyes very bright.

This went on for well-nigh a week. The court party they were called; they were so happy. All the commoners made way for them as they went hither and thither, gliding over the ice. Indeed, people came from afar and stood on the edge of the lake looking at them.

The princess, Agnes, Ann, and Reginald, were the principal actors in that scene. The two girls, muffled in their soft furs, with their petticoats above their ankles, showing their pretty feet, were a sight to rejoice the heart, as the sight of all young things must be. The winter sunshine glinted in Agnes's bright hair, and lit up her dark eyes with the happiest, softest merriment.

"I never saw such a pretty creature!" said Reginald to Ann, when she had left them after the day's sport.

"Take care. You will be losing your heart to her!" said Ann, laughing.

"I have done that long ago," he answered. "The first time she looked at me she took my heart away with her. If I had not been a king's man before, she would have made me one."

"She is but twelve years old," said Ann, laughing; "you will have to wait long for her, Reginald."

"And the time will seem but short," he answered, "if I may but see her once and again. Do you know her name, Ann?"

"Agnes, I have heard; nothing more," she answered. "But that young man, Delarry, said casually that she had been the darling of the queen-mother and the princess ever since she was a baby. Nobody knows aught about her save the queen and Mistress Patience, who carried her over to France when she was almost in swaddling clothes."

"I was sure of it," said Reginald. "She is a child of one of the great old families; she looks it, my little sweetheart!" And from that time forth Reginald hovered round Agnes, and people laughed at her and called him her knight, and she was mighty pleased and made no little boast of her handsome cavalier.

It was all so open, so fresh, this budding love; without depth or passion, it had sprung up like the flowers, and like them was pure and serene. There was no past, no future for those young creatures; they lived just for the hour, as with flying feet they skimmed the ice, the fresh, sharp air cutting their faces. The joy of life was with them and upon them as it never would be again. They did not recognize how with each fleeting moment a joy-note sounded and died away. In after-years they would listen for the echo with that intense longing of hearts which have known unalloyed happiness; would they hear it again, or would it go from them for ever, with the flitting moments? Blessed are those who like them have heard it, whose lips have uttered the words, "I am so happy, so happy!"

They came like a song of joy to Agnes's lips as she went hither and thither with Reginald beside her. He, bending towards her, said with a note of triumph in his voice:

"I would this might last for ever, my little sweetheart----"

"For ever!" she repeated. "For ever! Why not?"

He had not the heart to cast a shadow on that joy. Why tell her nothing lasts for ever? And so he only answered, "Why not?"

On the morrow the order came: "Back to Somerset House; the air is purified; Christmas is coming; you must come back."

Before leaving, the princess sent for Reginald Newbolt and his sister, and they bade each other farewell. "It will not be for long," said the princess. "I will ask my mother, the queen, to make you one of her maids of honour, Mistress Ann; so you may live with us, for I have taken a great liking to you."

"I am afraid the queen will not favour me," was the quiet answer. "I have not been brought up after your foreign fashion. I do not know your ways or manners. I am a plain English girl."

"Oh, that does not matter at all! We have many English ladies in our suite, and the queen loves them well."

"But my mother would not let me dwell in the queen's household; she says it is godless," said Ann, colouring deeply; "it would, I think, break her heart."

"Ah well," said Henrietta carelessly, "you must please yourself if you are so over-strict."

"Say rather, I must obey my mother," answered Ann; "but nevertheless I am grateful to you and thank you." And she stooped and kissed the princess's hand. So they parted.

As she was going out Patrick Delarry met her. He was an Irishman who had been with the queen in France, and of earthly possessions had few; but he was a true Irishman, full of jokes and fun, taking things lightly even as the Stuarts did, and, because of this very carelessness, the noble sweetness of Ann had attracted him.

They met in the corridor leading to the grand staircase. He paused, bowed before her, saying, "This is no farewell, Mistress Ann; we shall meet in London."

"Maybe we shall; maybe we shall not," returned Ann. "The princess is very good and desires to give me a place at court, but my mother would not hear of such a thing; she is strict in her conduct, and has brought her children up as strictly."

"I am sorry," said Delarry, "but I daresay she is right. Still, that will not prevent our meeting, Mistress Ann. Your father is serving the king; your brother will have a commission in the Guards; surely you will mix in good society?"

"I greatly fear not," answered Ann. "My mother says that young maidens should remain at home, and that the court is full of snares."

Delarry laughed. "It is pretty bad," he said, "but you will remember that if you owe your duty to your mother, you owe it also to the king, your master. If he bids you attend upon his sister, surely you will not refuse. Somerset House is not Whitehall."

He spoke with significance, and Ann coloured slightly, for she knew well that the king's palace was far too gay and frivolous a place for young maidens who respected themselves.

"If I am summoned to Somerset House," she said, "and my father desires I should go there, I hope my mother will let me, for the princess is very sweet to me and my heart inclines towards her. As for little Agnes," and she laughed lightly, "I do not think we shall lose sight of her. My brother has lost his heart to her."

"That is very evident," said Mr. Delarry; "she is a pretty child."

"I must bid you adieu," said Ann. She curtsied and went quickly on her way down the corridor. Delarry stood a second and watched her till she disappeared.

"A pretty Puritan maiden; I didn't know they were so smart," he thought. "It will not be my fault if we do not meet again before long, Mistress Ann." And so he too went his way.

That same afternoon the princess and Agnes, with Patience, entered the royal coach, and were driven back to Somerset House. They were neither of them very cheerful, and the way seemed long and cold, for the air was heavy with snow ready to fall. London looked dark and sombre when they entered it, with only the great torches flaring as the torch-bearers held them on high in front of the coach to guide the driver through the narrow streets of the city. The courtyard of Somerset House was also lit up; but it was a sad home-coming, nevertheless, and the queen-mother welcomed them with tears.

"I do not know how it is," she said to her daughter. "I loved this country once and I was happy; now I am miserable here. I would go back to France; this death of your brother is an evil omen."

"Nay, Mother, do not go just yet," said Henrietta. "We have come home at a bad season of the year. You tell me that the spring is lovely in England; let us wait and see;" then, sitting before the fire, she and Agnes told her what good sport they had at Hampton Court, and they spoke of Reginald and Ann.

The queen frowned. "Patience is over-indulgent to you," she said. "You have no right to make the acquaintance of strangers, especially of these upstarts. You say the father is Colonel Newbolt; he was one of Cromwell's men. Now, because it suits himself and his purse, he is a king's man. To-morrow, if it suits him, he will be the people's man again. I am sick of it all."

"Do you not think it well, Mother, to encourage these people to become faithful lieges to the king?" said Henrietta.

"Faithful!" said the queen, with a mocking laugh. "I have ceased to look for faithfulness anywhere. As soon as you are married, Henrietta--and that will, I trust, be before long--we will go back to France. Your brother's court does not suit me, and his friends do not suit me. Your brother, the Duke of York, is enamoured of Clarendon's daughter, Ann Hyde, and there has been much scandal--a secret marriage. It has set the people talking. I tell you I am sick of it all. There is a vulgarity which savours not of kings in the whole tone of England now."

Her daughter did not answer her; she could not--she did not understand what was amiss. She was but a girl still. When she was a woman she understood better.

Fortunately it was nearly Christmas time, and so that season brought a certain amount of gaiety and brightness. They were not accustomed to make as much of it in France as in England, where, then as now, everyone rejoiced, everyone made merry. It had gone out of fashion to a great extent during the Commonwealth, but people were glad to go back to their old ways and drag the Yule-log into the great hall. It was a good season for the poor, when before great fires bullocks and sheep were roasted whole in the streets. There were mummers, and morris-dances, and all manner of sports.

To Agnes's great disgust a week or two before Christmas she received a letter from Ann, telling her that they were going away down to their country place, because their mother could not abide in London. She was willing to feast the poor in the country and those who needed help, but the frivolities of London did not suit her, and she would not stay there. Indeed, she was afraid her mother would not let her come back, which grieved her sorely, for she loved her friends, and would have gladly served the Princess Henrietta.

When she received this letter Agnes wept bitterly.

"Is there no means by which she could be brought to court?" she said to Patience.

"I know of none except by the king's command," said Patience, "and unfortunately the queen-mother is not well inclined towards the Newbolts."

"Where is their country place?" asked Agnes.

"How should I know?" answered Patience. "They are new people who have old lands which by rights belong to others."

She spoke bitterly, and Agnes noticed it.

"Well," she said, "I like the Newbolts; I met the colonel last week when he was presented to the king. He is a fine man, but the queen received him coldly; and when I asked the princess why her mother did so, she said, 'Because she misdoubts all old Parliamentarians. There is not one of them but had a hand in my father's death'."

"'Well, at least Reginald hadn't,'" I said. "He was very young at the time, and both he and Ann have told me that when they heard of the king's death they wept and stamped their feet at their father, saying it was a shame, for which their mother flogged them both and sent them to bed with bread and water. 'But it only made us more loyal,' Ann said. By the bye, Patience, do you know I saw Reginald ride past the other day on his way to Whitehall in the full uniform of the King's Guard? He looked so handsome."

"Where did you see him from?" asked Patience.

"Oh, from the stained mullion window in the corridor behind my room. I often go and stand there because I see into the Strand. I think I like the town better than the river."

"Happily, it is a stained window, so people do not see you," said Patience. "It is not seemly for a maiden to be staring on to the public road."

"But people do see me," said Agnes. "Reginald saw me, and he saluted. You know he is my knight, Patience."

"I know I will not suffer you to behave thus," said Patience. "A cavalier saluting a maiden at her window, above all things a maiden in Somerset House! It must not be, Agnes; you are old enough to know better."

"I do not know what I am," answered the girl impetuously. "Sometimes I am a child, sometimes a girl, sometimes I am almost a grown woman, as suits your fancy, Patience." And the big tears gathered in her eyes and rolled down her face.

"My pretty, my pretty, do not weep," said Patience, and she put her arm round the girl's waist and drew her upon her lap. "You must mind what I am going to say to you, Agnes," she continued. "You are not like other girls, and you must be circumspect. You have no one to defend you from evil tongues, no one to lift you up if you were to fall; you are alone. The queen loved your mother; your father died for her husband, and so she harbours you; but she may not always do so. The day may come when she will go back to France, and that will be no place for you when the princess is married."

"Why not--why not?" said Agnes. "I shall go with her."

"Not if I can help it," answered Patience. "I love you too well, my dove, to let you scorch your wings in the court of the Palais Royal and Versailles. We must remain in England, Agnes, and the king must pension you; it is your due."

"But have I no kith or kin, no one belonging to me?" asked the girl.

"No one," answered Patience, "at least that I know of."

"And did my father and mother leave me no wealth and no lands?" said Agnes.

"What gold they had," said Patience, "I took to France with me, and all these years it has served us. There is not much left, and as for lands they are forfeited. Cromwell did what he chose with them and gave them to whom he would. So you see, my child, you must be prudent. One thing you have which you must hold--your good name."

"Agnes Beaumont," said the girl.

"That is not all, you have another name," said Patience, looking at her, "but I have sworn not to reveal it to you until your wedding day or till you are of age."

"Why not?" she asked. "Why should not I know my own name?"

"Because it might be a danger to you," answered Patience. "There are those who might wish you ill and do you wrong. When you have a husband you will have someone to defend you; when you are of age you must judge for yourself."

"Does no one except you know who I am?" asked Agnes.

"Yes, the queen-dowager knows, and the king," said Patience. "When he gives you back what is yours, then he will tell you himself what your station is."

Tears gathered in Agnes's eyes.

"I do not like it," she said. "Have I anything to be ashamed of?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"Ashamed!" exclaimed Patience. "No, indeed! far from that. I tell you it is for your own personal good, to shield you from those who have taken your lands from you and who might resent their being restored to you. You are the last of your race; your very birth has been hidden, but it will all come right one day if only you will be patient."

"Very well," said Agnes, "I will ask no questions; I will wait. It does not really matter, only I heard someone say the other day, 'Agnes Beaumont! What Beaumont is that?' and no one seemed to know."

"It was your mother's name," said Patience; "you have a right to bear it, for you were christened Agnes Beaumont. Your father's name alone is wanting, and that you will surely claim one day, either you or your husband for you."

"Oh, that husband!" said Agnes, laughing; "I wonder who he will be!"

"A noble gentleman, I trust," said Patience, "who will give you back all that you have lost."

Agnes pouted.

"I do not care to go to any man as a beggar girl," she answered proudly.

"That you surely will not," answered Patience. "Have no fear. And now let me dress you. The princess is going to Whitehall with the queen to-night, and you are to accompany her. It is a mistake, a great mistake," continued Patience; "you are too young."

"Ah! but I like it," said Agnes; "I like going to the king's court, and, if the Princess Henrietta goes, surely it cannot hurt me."

Patience shook her head.

"I am not so sure of that," she said.

"Oh, well, never mind!" said Agnes; "you dear old thing, you are always frightened lest something should befall me. Let me wear my satin gown embroidered with rosebuds to-night; it becomes me well."

"You cannot," said Patience; "the court is in mourning still, have you forgotten?"

"Ah! yes, I forgot," said Agnes. "The poor duke. Well, give me my lilac gown with the black knots." And thus soberly attired she went to court.

*CHAPTER V*

*May-Day*

Time flies for the young; the days, the weeks, the months seem to have wings; they heed it not, they are glad, because each day is a new joy, a new surprise.

So it was with the Princess Henrietta and Agnes. They had no cares, at least Agnes had none. She loved the winter, the biting cold, the snow, the frost; she would go out with Patience in all weathers, and ofttimes with the princess to St. James's Park, where they would skate and otherwise disport themselves. Gradually, however, Agnes fell into the background; she was too young to be at all the court parties, and Patience observed this to the queen-dowager.

"She is but a child, and the late hours are injuring her," she said; "let her abide at home with me." And the queen acquiesced; indeed, she knew full well that the king's court was no place for the young.

Arrangements were being made for Henrietta's marriage to the Duke of Orleans, and many noblemen and courtiers came over from France to greet her. Her time was much taken up with all this, so that Agnes naturally drifted into a quieter world, and was seen less and less in public, excepting when there were grand receptions at Somerset House. Some of these she was permitted to attend, for girls were older for their years in those days than they are now; still, she was not as much at home in the court circle as she had been when she was only a spoilt child. She did not care for, or rather she did not understand, the compliments which were sometimes addressed to her--for she was very pretty, nay, she was beautiful, and attracted not a little attention from women as well as men. She was a general favourite, and if Patience would have allowed it she would have had many invitations and have been made much of. But Patience was a very dragon of propriety.

"You shall not go," she said. "You are too young."

"I do not care to go," Agnes answered. "I cannot abide it."

More than once Patience found her asleep, her pillow wet with tears. She did not question her, she guessed what it was. The first sorrow in her life would soon come. In June the Princess Henrietta was to be married, and then they would be parted and she would be alone.

"That will not be good for the child," Patience reasoned. "What shall I do with her, where shall I take her?"

A curious thing happened. Ann Newbolt had returned to London and little by little had wound herself into Patience's good graces. More than once they had met in the park when Agnes was taking her morning airing. Ann was given to coming thither at the same hour with two dogs which she brought with her to give them a free run.

"I could not be without them," she would say, "and so I begged Father to let me bring them up from the manor for company's sake. Our big London house is so dreary."

Now Agnes had never had any animals of her own, and her delight was great when, after a few outings, Caesar and Juno--for so they were called--learned to know her, and would bound across the park when they saw her coming, and well-nigh knock her down with joy. She would run with them, she would play with them. At first this was much to Patience's displeasure; but Ann had her old nurse with her, and she said to Patience:

"Let the child be, let her run and play; she is too much cooped up in your palace. Do you not see she is growing pale?"

Ann chimed in, "She is like a hot-house plant; you are forcing her, Mistress Patience."

"Not I," returned Patience, "but those who surround her, those who do not understand that she is a child."

"Why do you not take her into the country and let her run wild for a year or two?" asked Ann's nurse. "Then you would bring her back as fresh and fair as a rose. Court life is not good for children."

"I would I could do it," said Patience; "but I am not mistress."

"Shall you go back to France with the queen?" asked Ann.

"No, I will not do that," said Patience; "I would rather carry her away and hide her. King Charles's court is bad enough; what the Duke of Orleans will be I dare not even think. No, I will keep my sweet lamb unspotted if I can. She knows no evil, therefore she sees none, though she be hedged in with wrong-doers. But that will not always be. I promised her dear mother I would protect her, and so, help me God, I will."

"You will do well," said Ann. "She is a sweet flower, and worthy of all care; I would she were my sister."

"I pray I may live to see her an honest man's wife," said Patience.

Such conversations as these were frequent between the two, Patience not having the remotest idea that it was the Newbolts who possessed the lands which should have been Agnes's heritage.

The Newbolts were equally ignorant that Agnes was a De Lisle. To them she was, and had ever been, plain "Agnes Beaumont", the queen's favourite and the Princess Henrietta's devoted companion.

But enlightenment was soon to come to Patience. The winter passed, and the spring began to show itself. The trees in the park were budding green; April showers succeeded March winds, and there was much gaiety in London. Gilded coaches went and came in the streets, barges floated up the Thames, and no one troubled, though many knew, that the royal exchequer was well-nigh empty. The people adored their king as they had never adored his saintly father. Wherever he passed there were shouts of, "Long live the king!" and his smiles and bows were received with enthusiasm.

Never had a king been so popular. There was laughter and merriment everywhere, dancing and songs even in the streets. The only place where any decorum was observed was at Somerset House. There the queen-dowager dwelt, and the people did not love her. She never had been a favourite. Many people were ready to lay the blame of her dead husband's errors upon her shoulders, so they frowned upon the queen-dowager and her sombre court, while they laughed at the merry court at Whitehall, and would not listen to the evil reports of the goings-on within its precincts.

The pendulum had swung back; the order of the day had changed; they treated Charles, his follies, his sins, as they might have treated the peccadilloes of a spoilt child. When he rode forth in his gilded coach or went on horseback through the city with his favourites and his brother, the Duke of York, in his rich attire of gold and satin, his long, curled wig, great hat with plumes which swept almost on to his shoulders, the people were wild with delight, and would press round him in their eagerness; and he would speak to them, calling them his good people, bidding them make way for him, with that wonderful charm of manner, that smile, which was the inherent gift of the Stuart race, and won every heart. They cared not what he did nor what he said; he was their king, their chosen one, their beloved. If he squandered money they laughed, and hardly grumbled at supplying his extravagances. Had he not suffered dire poverty in those evil days when Cromwell sat in his seat and the Puritan preachers thundered their maledictions against him from St. Paul's Cross? Every old English custom which could be raked up was brought to the fore, to the extreme delight of all men. He touched for the king's evil, and the sick believed they were cured. In the people's imaginings he could not do wrong, though wrong stared them in the face.

In olden days there had stood in the Strand a big May-pole, which was decorated on the first of May with flowers and ribbons, and round which sports, and dances, and great merriment were wont to take place; but when the Puritans were masters they exclaimed against this device, as they did against everything that savoured of pleasure, which they considered unholy. So the ancient May-pole, which stood a hundred feet high in the Strand, had been hewn to the ground; there were no more sports on May-Day. Indeed, there were few sports in England at all during that season of strict observance of the Sabbath.

Young men and maidens well-nigh forgot how to dance. They went softly, they laughed but little, because at any sign of outward rejoicing their elders frowned upon them. The faces of the men seemed to grow longer, the pretty curls on the maidens' heads were smoothed away beneath tight-fitting caps. It was not a genial time, and so now, when the sun shone, and the flowers burst forth, there arose a gentle murmur throughout the land: "Let us have our May-poles again."

London was, as usual, the first place whence this cry proceeded, and thousands responded to it--the king and the Duke of York among the foremost. Yes, they would have a May-pole, larger and finer than any previous one.

The citizens of London determined to make a display of their loyalty. We read in an old tract of the times, called "The City's Loyalty Displayed", how this tree was a most choice and remarkable piece. "'Twas made below bridge" (that is, below London Bridge), and brought in two parts up to Scotland Yard, near the king's palace of Whitehall, and thence it was conveyed, on April 14, 1661, to the Strand, to be erected there. It was brought with streamers flourishing before it, drums beating all the way, and other sorts of music. It was so long that landsmen could not possibly raise it; therefore the Duke of York, Lord High Admiral of England, commanded twelve seamen to come and officiate in this business.

They came, and brought their cables, pulleys, and other tackle, along with six great anchors. After these were brought three crowns, borne by three men, bareheaded, and a streamer displayed all the way before them, drums playing, and other music; people thronging the streets with great shouts and acclamations all day long. The May-pole then being joined together and looped about with bands of iron, the crown and cane ("the sceptre"), with the king's arms richly gilded, was placed on the head of it. A large hoop like a balcony was about the middle of it. Then, amidst sounds of trumpets and drums, and loud cheering, and the shouts of the people, the May-pole, far more glorious, bigger, and higher than any that had preceded it, was raised upright, "which", we are told, "highly pleased the merry monarch and the illustrious prince, the Duke of York, and the little children did much rejoice, ancient people did clap their hands, saying, 'the golden days had begun to appear'. A party of morris-dancers came forward, finely decked with purple scarves and their half shirts, with tabor and pipe--the ancient music--and danced round about the May-pole."

This went on for some time, and there never was seen again such a May-day as in this year of Our Lord, 1661.

From the windows of Somerset House Princess Henrietta and Agnes watched the ceremonies. The putting up and the decking of this token that "the summer had come ", aroused a more tenacious loyalty than ever.

Day by day, as they watched, Agnes's excitement increased; it was no use for Patience to tell her she should not be seen at the open window.

"I must, I must!" she cried; and, indeed, it would have been cruel to hinder her.

All over England that May-Day was remembered long afterwards. The king had come into his rights again, the people had come into theirs, and they would not be gainsaid.

As for Agnes, she tried to put care on one side, though she knew that Henrietta's marriage loomed not far distant; sometimes she wondered what was to become of her when it was accomplished. Once or twice she approached Patience on the subject, but she frowned and answered her:

"Do not trouble, child. Think ye that you are of less account than the sparrows on the house-tops or the lilies in the field?" And she would hurry away, leaving Agnes with her own thoughts and her own fears.

No wonder if on the child's face there came a serious expression, a certain sadness, which is often to be seen on the faces of children who are motherless and fatherless, a sort of yearning for something, they know not what, that has been denied to them.

And yet Agnes was not unhappy. Mistress Newbolt had refused at first to come up to London, but the colonel had insisted she should do so.

"It is injuring Ann's prospects," he said, "and I cannot entertain guests in a house where there is no mistress." Therefore she had been obliged to yield, but she did so only in so far that she ruled the servants and saw that there was no wilful waste. For herself she remained in her own apartments, and would not join in the entertainments which her husband delighted in, neither would she permit Ann to do so.

Thus it came to pass that Agnes and Ann drew closer and closer one to the other. Not a day passed but they saw one another. Agnes delighted to go to their house, and, strange to tell, Mistress Newbolt took a vast liking to her. She would let her follow her into her store closet; she would let her watch her make the dainty comfits for which she was renowned; and she would send her away with all manner of good things piled in a little basket which she kept for that purpose. But if she did her these kindnesses, she insisted that every time she came to see her she should go with her to her closet, and there she would read to her some portion of the Bible and would pray with her. Agnes conformed meekly to her desires. She looked upon her as a saint, and though she was stern and cold, and never caressed her, there was a certain motherliness about her which appealed to the child's heart.

So the month of June came, and the Princess Henrietta was carried over to France to meet the saddest fate that can befall any woman, namely to marry a bad man. Agnes thought her heart would break when she bade her and the queen adieu. Indeed, she fell quite sick with sorrow, lay on her bed, turned her face to the wall, and would not be comforted.

*CHAPTER VI*

*A First Parting*

Queen Henrietta had been loath to part from Agnes, and she would have kept the child about her person had it been possible for her to do so, and had Agnes been a few years older; but to take a child just budding into girlhood alone, without any other companion, or without any definite object in view, to the French court seemed folly.

It had been settled that Patience should make a home for her in England. The queen had spoken seriously to the king about Agnes, and he had settled a pension on her, "until I can do better," he said. "But we must first find out to whom her estates have passed. I'll enquire into the matter. I do not suppose I shall be able to restore them to her; but something shall be done either when she marries or comes of age. Till then I will give her a suite of apartments at Hampton Court."

"That is good," said Henrietta, "and my little lady shall have her town house too, for I will leave Patience in charge of my private apartments in Somerset House. I do not care for all manner of people to have access to them, and so Agnes can come to town when she likes."

"And to court when she is old enough," said Charles, with a merry laugh and twinkling eye.

"No, your majesty," answered Henrietta, "she must wait for that till my return, and until her position is settled. She has no womankind to watch over her except Patience, so she must abide at home."

"As you please," said Charles carelessly. So the matter was settled.

Henrietta explained all this to Patience, Agnes standing by and listening. They even went out to Hampton Court and looked at the apartments which the king had ordered to be prepared for her. The rooms were bright enough, looking out upon a sort of private garden, in a wing of the palace. The queen thought them poorly furnished, and added many little comforts and graceful remembrances, which made them look more home-like.

At times over this unfortunate queen's soul, seared and wounded by sorrow, the old gaiety, the warm, affectionate nature with which she was endowed, would once more show itself, oftener perhaps to Agnes than to anyone else, even oftener than to her own daughter.

"She grows so like her mother," she said one day to Patience, tears filling her eyes, and then she would give Agnes some present, and make much of her.

"My little girl," she said at parting, "it costs me a great deal to leave you behind, but I think Patience is right. You have much to learn. Apply yourself to study; both you and Henrietta have been neglected. It does not matter for her--the women at the French court are for the most part ignorant, some of them can scarcely read or write; but your home will be in England--your father and mother desired it--and some women are very learned in England. I have left you good teachers, a tutor, and a governess, so see that your time is well employed."

Then she kissed her.

It was a very lonely little maiden who walked on the terrace of Somerset House, a beautiful dove-coloured greyhound, which the queen had given her, her only companion. The animal kept close to its little mistress, thrusting its long muzzle into her hand as if to console her, its speaking brown eyes looking up at her as if to say, "Never mind. We are both young; we shall see them again"; and so she paced up and down the terrace, then, bidding Duke lie down and wait for her, she entered the chapel--a lovely piece of architecture, the work of Inigo Jones--the doors of which were always kept open, though, now the queen was gone, they would be closed.

It required considerable tact in those difficult religious times to bring up a child born of English parents in the midst of the French court. But Patience was a wise woman, broad-minded, and with what was then an almost unknown quality, a vast toleration. She held an anomalous position in the queen's household, even as Agnes herself did; but the marked deference the queen-mother showed her, made it evident that she was a person of high station. The education both of Agnes and the Princess Henrietta was left, to a very great extent, in her hands; it was the same with the religious teaching, the princess had the court chaplain, but Agnes knelt with Patience and learnt the great truths of religion from her lips; she guarded her soul as she guarded her body, she would allow of no religious discussions in her presence. To the grand services of the Church of Rome she did not take her. "You are too young, you would not understand," she said; but morning and evening she would go with her into one of the many beautiful churches in Paris, and in silence and devotion watch and pray. So the child learnt all reverence and the great gospel truths. The Bible was a familiar book to her, read in their quiet chamber. "When you are older you will learn many other things," she told her; and since they had come to England Agnes had awakened to the knowledge that the Christian Church was divided against itself. Sometimes the thought troubled her. Her soul was growing, she was striving to see and understand. Instinctively now, in this her first sorrow, she sought comfort where alone she knew it could be found, and so she entered the beautiful chapel and knelt and prayed that her friends might be given back to her. Then she crossed her arms on the back of the prie-Dieu, and her tears flowed fast and little sobs escaped her. Suddenly she felt a hand laid on her shoulder, and looking up she saw Patience. They both gazed into each other's eyes and smiled.

"Be comforted, sweetheart," whispered Patience; and the beauty of her face, the saintliness of it, struck Agnes as it had never done before.

In truth, Patience, even in appearance, was by no means an ordinary woman. She had a marked personality, was tall and slight, holding herself very erect, always dressed in black, plainly but not inelegantly. She had a certain distinction about her. In age she could not have been more than forty, and she did not look that even. Under her white coif her brown hair waved softly; there were no wrinkles or marks of age upon her face; her hazel eyes were clear, but with an ineffable sadness in them--indeed, sadness was the note which Patience struck. She was seldom seen to smile; even when Agnes was a little child she played with her sadly; but she loved her so intensely that the child did not feel this sadness. She would sooner be with Patience than with anyone; Patience meant home to her. She seldom openly caressed her, but then her whole life toward Agnes was one caress, and instinctively the child felt this.

Now she rose quickly from her knees, and threw her arms round her neck, murmuring:

"At least I have you, my own dear Patience; you have not forsaken me."

"Did you think that possible, my darling?" And taking her by the hand, she led her out into the open. With a short bark of joy and a prolonged whine, Duke sprang upon them.

"I was looking for you," said Patience, "and could not find you. Duke saw me coming along the terrace, and bounded whining to me. 'Where is Agnes?' I asked him. He turned, leapt towards the chapel, looking round to see that I followed him."

"Ah, he is a dear dog!" said Agnes, laying her hand on his head. "Why were you looking for me, Patience? You knew I should not be far."

"Because you forget you are alone now," was the quiet answer, "and you must not wander away; it is not safe for a young girl like you to be alone. You know how seldom I left you and the princess, and then you had an attendant."

"I thought that was for the princess," said Agnes, "because of her high dignity. It does not matter about me; I am nobody."

A slight smile played round Patience's mouth. "We are all somebody," she said; "we have our honour to safeguard, and a young maiden cannot be seen alone, in these times especially."

"Is that why I am to have a governess?" asked Agnes sharply. "I do not like it; let me stay with you, Patience."

"For you to run away as you have done now?" was the answer. "Besides, you need someone to teach you many things of which I am ignorant."

"And I am to have a tutor too; I cannot require both," Agnes continued. "We shall be happier alone, Patience, you and I. I will promise you I will work and never run away; and when you want to leave me, to see after the queen's affairs, Ann Newbolt will come and sit with me or stay with me if her mother will let her. I cannot have a governess sending me to the right and to the left; it would drive me wild; _that would_ make me run away."

"Well, we will see," said Patience; "I am not much inclined for it."

"Oh, you are not inclined for it at all!" said Agnes. "Think of someone always present in our quiet evenings, or when we stroll about as we are doing now; a third party would not be pleasing to either of us. If I must needs always have someone with me, then there is old Martha; surely she will frighten anyone away, and snarl like an angry dog if man, woman, or child come within ten yards of me."

Again Patience smiled--she never laughed. It was a sad smile, as if there lay beneath it a whole world of memories.

They moved to the edge of the terrace and looked up and down the river. The waters sparkled and shone in the sunlight of this lovely June day. Barges went and came, boatmen shouted to one another, the sky was blue, the light of the sun was dazzling: it was one of those days which have a touch of Italy in them--the very air was warm with perfume, and the scene was so bright that it seemed to sweep away the great sadness which had oppressed Agnes.

"Yes, you will think about it, Patience," she persisted. "We must be happy together, you and I. After all, I knew the princess would go one day."

Once more the tears gathered in her eyes; but they did not fall, for coming towards them was Reginald Newbolt.

He made them a deep bow, his plumed hat sweeping the ground, and his young handsome face alight with kindly sympathy. He saw the tears in Agnes's eyes, but taking no note of them, said:

"My mother has sent me to ask you on this lovely day to go with her in our barge to the park at Greenwich, which adjoins the palace. It is well in the country, and the air is fresher there than it is here in the city. You must come, because my mother so seldom proposes anything approaching a diversion. I have not known her go beyond the precincts of her own home for years. I think, Mistress Agnes, you have thrown your spell upon her."

Agnes blushed. "I should like to go," she said. "Can we, Patience?"

"Why not?" was the quiet answer, for Patience knew that Mistress Newbolt had conceived this plan to divert Agnes from her sadness.

"Yes, we will go," she said. "Where is the barge?"

"At London Bridge. You can use your own till you get there, then you will use ours. Ann and mother will be waiting for us."

A barge not unlike a Venetian gondola always stood moored to the steps leading down from the terrace to the water's edge, so they had not far to go. The distance to London Bridge was but short, and during the journey to Greenwich Agnes found herself made much of, not allowed to grieve or feel herself alone. She was verily a spoilt child, and whilst Patience and Mistress Newbolt sat beneath the trees in the Park, Agnes, Reginald, and Ann wandered into the quaint old garden of the palace known as "The Queen's House", filled with all the blossoms of summer, scented with great bunches of lavender and sweet marjoram. As they strolled about there the strength of her youth overcame the sorrow of her heart, and the great world in which Agnes had lived so lonely, fine gentlemen and ladies, valets and maid-servants, all those accessories to court life, seemed to drop away from her as useless and cumbersome. The sweetness and simplicity of nature, as she had never known it before, crept over her. She had lived all her life in palaces surrounded by etiquette, now for the first time in her life she walked with quiet folk, with neither queens nor princesses, only with this simple maiden Ann and this young man, who, notwithstanding his military attire, was so easy and kindly of manner that she had no fear of him. To divert her thoughts Reginald and his sister talked to her about things of which she knew little--the country, the flowers. They told her, too, of Newbolt Manor, and how pleasant it was up in the bonnie north.

"But you have not always dwelt there?" said Agnes.

"No," answered Ann, "we are new people. Cromwell gave it to my father for his services. One thing comforts me," continued Ann, "we have turned no one out, for there was no heir; the last owner was killed fighting for King Charles."

"It would not have mattered if there had been an heir," said Agnes, a little bitterly; "we Royalists were dispossessed of all we had. What was the name of the people who came before you in the land?"

"De Lisle," said Reginald shortly.

An old man busy weeding a pathway suddenly drew himself up and said sharply:

"De Lisle! Who talks of the De Lisles? They were accursed and driven out, possessors of church lands. Fire and sword have purified them; they will come back again."

He looked from one to another till his eyes rested on Agnes. Pointing at her, he added:

"Yea, verily, they will come back to their own again. Hate drove them out; love will bring them back."

There was a prophetic tone in his voice and a flash in his eye; both died out, and he went back to his weeding.

"Let us go into the park," said Agnes; "he has frightened me, I know not why."

Passing through a side gate they entered the park, crossed a stretch of level grass, and came to the foot of a steep hill.

"Let's see who will reach the top first," said Ann gleefully. "Not you, Reginald, that would not be fair." And off she went, Agnes running beside her, the one a strong north-country girl, the other a fairy creature, who had never climbed a hill in her life. But Agnes was so light, so swift, that she outran her companion, and stood at the top of the hill clapping her hands and laughing with pleasure. Reginald with long strides had followed them.

"You are a fay," he said. "Now let us run down."

"All of us!" exclaimed Agnes, excited with the unusual motion, and the fresh breezes which came from land and river.

"Give me your hand," said Reginald, "or you will be tripping."

She would have resisted, but he took it. And it was well he did, for she had not reckoned on the impetus of a downhill race, and more than once her foot slipped on the green sward; but he held her firmly, and they reached the bottom, laughing merrily, her pretty golden hair all ruffled with the wind, her face flushed, and her eyes bright.

Ann was equally joyous. They were a merry trio when they joined Patience and Mistress Newbolt under a great oak tree, where a cloth had been spread, pies, and cakes, and a heap of ripe strawberries presenting a tempting meal.

Verily there are bright days in life which leave their mark in our hearts, and bring a rush of gladness to the eyes and a smile to the lips when we recall them.

This day was a red-letter day; it had begun sadly, but it ended brightly. They re-entered the barge, and in the quiet evening twilight they floated up the great river on the top of the tide, and, landing once more at Somerset House, bade each other farewell, with a feeling of regret that so lovely a day had its ending.

*CHAPTER VII*

*A King's Vengeance*

For some time past both Mistress Newbolt and Ann had noticed a great restlessness in Colonel Newbolt's speech and manner. He was given to great rages. If anyone came suddenly into the house, he would start up and question them as to their business; indeed, it seemed to his family as if he feared something.

Ann told Reginald this one day, and the young man looked grave.

"I am not surprised," he answered. "Matters are getting serious; the king's exchequer is somewhat empty and difficult to refill, and those about him are not scrupulous as to the ways and means by which it may be replenished. You know that all the principal regicides, eighty or ninety odd, some of the best men, have already been dragged to the scaffold, and in most cases their property has been confiscated. But this does not suffice; there are hundreds of others, gentlemen and commoners, ministers, all sorts and conditions of men, who, if they did not vote for the king's death, did not vote against it. Many have been arrested and thrown into prison; some have fled to Geneva, where they are safe; others are in hiding; but some, like my father, have remained at home, fully persuaded that no harm is likely to befall them, seeing they have given their adhesion to Charles II. But I am much afraid this will not be enough. Courtiers are turning a cold shoulder to them, and I find myself somewhat put on one side.

"I should not be surprised at any moment if my father were called to account and in a certain measure made to refund, for the old Royalists are clamouring to be restored to their estates and to be rewarded for their fidelity. Charles tries to satisfy them in many cases, but not in all; he cannot, and there is much discontent. An empty exchequer and followers who have despoiled themselves for their masters are difficult to deal with. It is not a pleasant prospect, and both he and his ministers seem to think the only way of meeting it is by taking back what Cromwell gave, if it can be proved that the recipients were accessories to Charles's death."

"And our father commanded a regiment of horse at Whitehall on the very day of the king's execution," said Ann, looking up.