"But I do not. I only came hither yester-e'en with mine uncle. I am nephew to John Snowe of the Three Cups yonder. I am to dwell with him, and go to the Free School here. I would fain know all I can of Taunton Town. It is a right fair city. I like it well."
"And you have come on a good day!" cried my new friend, with brightening eyes. "To-night, so soon as the sun be down, we shall light a great bonfire in Paul's Fields, and all the town will be there to see. Ah! I would I had lived in the days when Taunton Town held for the Parliament against King Charles! But it may be even yet that we may some of us live to see fine doings and hard fighting; for if the King dies before his brother, and the Papist Duke of York sits upon the throne—"
The lad paused as if struck by the magnitude of the thought within him, and I glanced round to be sure we were not overheard, and asked with keen interest, "Well, and what then?"
"Why, then, methinks there would be hard blows struck for the rightful heir, the young Duke of Monmouth," answered the boy, with sparkling eyes. "All Taunton and the West Country would rise for him, as they rose for the rights of the nation against the King's father. The poltroons of London may lick the dust before a Papist usurper, but not we of the free West Country! We will know the reason why before we bow to a Papist, be he never so much the King's brother!"
The boldness of this boy astonished me greatly, and also his evident comprehension of the burning questions of the day, with which I myself was but imperfectly acquainted. My heart always warmed within me at any mention of the Duke of Monmouth, and I eagerly plunged into the story of my own miraculous cure at the hands of his Grace—a tale to which my companion listened with kindling eyes.
"Marry, but thou shalt come with me and tell it to my master!" he said, as I ended. "If proof were lacking, there it is; for none save a lawful King or his lawful heir can cure the King's Evil. There will be a ready welcome for thee at Master Simpson's. He is one that is bound heart and soul to the cause of the Duke."
"And what is thy name?" I asked, as I willingly allowed myself to be led whither my comrade would.
"Will Wiseman is my name, and I be apprenticed to Master Simpson, as I have said. I dwell beneath his roof; but yester-eve I visited my aunt in the North Street, and tarried with her till dawn. Thou sayest thou art nephew to Master Snowe of the Three Cups? He is a good man, one of our Capital Burgesses; and we take it he would be stanch to the good cause if the time should come for men to declare themselves."
I was considerably impressed by Will's way of talking. It was as though he were living in a world of which I knew almost nothing; as though he were looking forward to something definite and expected, whilst to me the future was absolutely blank and vague. I felt my ignorance so great that I did not know so much as how to frame questions; but I was saved the trouble of doing this partly from the eager talk of my companion, partly from our speedy arrival at our destination. For soon after we had passed the bend in High Street, where it turns sharp to the right toward Shuttern, Will paused before a door with a right goodly sign hanging above it; and after obtaining entrance, began quickly taking down the shutters, in which office I gave him what assistance I could, so that soon the bright light of morning was streaming into the interior of the shop.
So soon as this was the case I stood open-mouthed in admiration and wonder, for I had never seen so goodly a shop in all my life before. Master Simpson must be a man of much substance—so much I could see at a glance—and his wares were beautiful to the eye and delicate to the touch. There were bales of costly silk set in a mighty pyramid in one place; and cloths and lawns, and the good serge manufactured in Taunton Town, disposed with a simple eye to effect, in due order along shelves and in the large window. And besides all these things, there was an inner shop, visible through an archway, in which I saw a sight that made my mouth water; for there were shelves, guarded by wire doors, in which hundreds of books were arranged in tempting order—books new and books old—a sight that drew me like a magnet, so that I forgot Will and his work, forgot the strangeness of the house and my lack of manners, and went straight to the book-cases and began reading the names of the volumes one by one, speaking them half aloud without knowing it.
I was aroused by feeling a strong hand laid upon my shoulder, and by the sound of a friendly voice in my ear.
"Hey, but we have a scholar here, in good sooth! So thou art nephew to good Master Snowe, Will tells me; and hast been touched for King's Evil by our gracious Duke? Now, boy, tell me all about that, and how the cure was made, and I will give thee a book for thy pains; for it may be that this cure of thine shall be a notable thing in the annals of the day that be coming."
The speaker was plainly the master of the house and shop. He was soberly habited, as became his condition in life; but he had a strong face as well as a strong hand and voice, and I felt drawn towards him I scarce knew why, and told him my tale very gladly, with the story of my own brief and uneventful life to boot.
He listened with attention, nodding his head the while. Heaven forgive me if I did amiss. I had no thought to deceive him or others, but I spoke no word of the man of herbs and potions, nor of the ointments I had been using for my wounds ere ever the Duke's hand touched me. In good sooth, I had scarce ever thought of him and his simples since. Never for a moment did I believe that these had had anything to do with my cure. It is only long since, when I have heard from others how in nature there be such marvellous cures for human ills to be found by those who have skill and faith to seek them aright, that I have wondered if perchance it was the herb baths and ointments, and not the touch of the Duke's white hand, that made me whole and sound. But in those days no such thought ever came to me. I had well-nigh forgotten the kind old man with his long beard, and of him I spoke no word; only telling how weak and ill I was and had been from childhood, and how soon after I had besought the Duke to touch me I became sound and whole, and had no return of the Evil, which none but such a one as he could cure.
Master Simpson heard me with great satisfaction, and kept his word right generously, making me the proud and happy possessor of a small copy of "Æsop's Fables," with the Latin on one side of the page and the English on the other—a treasure that in those days was even more costly than it has become now, and which in spite of its shabby binding was looked upon as of exceeding worth.
"Thou hadst better learn the Latin tongue, an thou hast the chance at the Free School," said Master Simpson. "Learning is a grand thing, and will be a mighty power in the days to come. Learn all thou canst, boy, when thou art young. The time may come when thou wilt not have the leisure; make the most of that leisure now."
I was well disposed to carry out that sage advice, being greedy after knowledge, and I almost longed to run away then and there to study my book, and see if I could make out aught of the strange Latin words. Even the possession of such a book made me feel almost a scholar. But I could not refuse the invitation of Master Simpson to come and take breakfast with him, albeit my uncle and aunt might well be wondering what had become of me. But, as I reflected, the hostlers would tell him I had risen and gone abroad, and upon this festive holiday I did not think I should be chidden for my early walk.
Behind the shop was a pleasant parlour, and behind that again a kitchen, from whence a savoury odour proceeded. It gave one an appetite even to scent it, and I was nothing loath to follow the mercer into that same kitchen, where a goodly fire burned on the hearth, and a merry-faced young maiden was flitting about setting trenchers on the table, and humming a gay ditty the while. She made a reverence as we came in, and her father (for she was none other than the master's daughter) gave her a blessing; after which he turned him to a portly dame who was taking a steaming pot from the fire, and bid her good-morn, telling her my name and state, and how I was come to Taunton to make a scholar of myself.
From the likeness which showed itself between the pair before me, I felt assured that they must be brother and sister, as was indeed the case. Master Simpson was a widower, but his sister kept house for him, and played a mother's part to the young Eliza, who gave her almost a daughter's love. It was pleasant to see so much affection between those of a household, for at home, albeit we all loved each other well, it was not our fashion to show it; wherefore it seemed pretty to me to watch the sly caresses which Eliza would bestow upon her father, or the way in which Mistress Susan's glance softened when she addressed herself to the maid.
Will Wiseman and a young man who served in the shop, but who spoke no word and gave himself only to making a right royal meal, sat at table with us, though somewhat apart; and ever and anon Will would put in a word when his master turned to him with a question. He plainly heard and gave heed to everything that passed, with a keen intelligence that was shown in the glance of his eye and in the ready way in which his words came when he had occasion to speak. I took a great liking to Will from the first moment of our acquaintance, and everything I noted about him increased the good-will I bore him.
We had a merry meal, and I told the story of my cure yet once again that day. Lizzie's eyes brightened at the tale (Eliza was always called Lizzie both at home and abroad, since it appeared that there were many Elizas in the town, and confusion apt to arise), and she clasped her hands together and cried,—
"Faith, but Miss Blake will greatly rejoice to hear this! I will tell her forthwith, and I warrant me I shall be high in favour all the day for the same story. Good Dicon, thou wilt be a rare favourite in Taunton Town an thou dost uphold here the rights of our well-loved Duke!"
"Hist, lassie!" answered her father, yet smiling nevertheless. "It behoves us to talk with care even in Taunton Town. Let not such words be heard by the Rev. Mr. Axe, nor still less by Mr. Blewer. The Duke hath his foes as well as his friends within the town. We must not hurt a good cause by over-zeal ere the right moment comes."
Lizzie laughed, and asked with a pretty, saucy air who would trouble to take note of the words of such an obscure maiden as herself; and then she looked at the clock and sprang up, and said she must even go, or she should be late, and Miss Blake would chide. And I then learned that Miss Blake was the mistress of the school where this maiden went daily for instruction, and moreover that it stood adjoining my uncle's inn, and must indeed be the house I had been wondering about in looking from my windows on awakening this very morning.
So on understanding this much, I sprang up and asked leave to escort pretty Lizzie to her school; and soon we were walking along the garlanded streets, and she was telling me how greatly Miss Blake and Mrs. Musgrave loved the Duke, and how dear his cause was to the hearts of the people of Taunton. I also learned that Miss Blake and Mrs. Musgrave were two ladies of virtue and learning, and that they had each kept a school for girls in the beginning, but had now joined these two seminaries into one. Miss Blake took the younger maidens, and Mrs. Musgrave the elder ones; and my companion chattered so fast about her companions, telling me their names, ages, and accomplishments with such fluency, that I was quite bewildered; and the only item of information which I retained in my head was that there was one, Mary Mead, a youthful heiress, some years older than any of her companions, who had been educated by Mrs. Musgrave, and still remained in her charge, although since she was now of marriageable age it was likely that her condition in life would speedily be changed.
We parted the best of friends at the door of the seminary, where some other maidens were assembling, who looked curiously upon me as I took off my cap and made my best bow to them all. The door of the school was a few paces round the corner, and the house was of fine proportions. I well understood as I looked at it—Lizzie and her companions having now disappeared within—how it was that my room over our stable buildings approached so nigh to it. I felt a good deal of interest in the close vicinity of these bright-faced town maidens, who seemed so different from the country girls I had lived amongst hitherto. Not that I would disparage mine own sisters and their friends; but there were a brightness and ease of manner and readiness of wit amongst these damsels which dazzled and captivated me, and which I had never seen at home.
When I got back to the inn, I found breakfast well-nigh done; but I received no chiding for my absence, especially when I said whither I had been and with whom. Master Simpson was plainly a notable man of good repute in Taunton, and a friend of mine uncle's to boot. My uncle, too, was pleased at the gift of the book which I had received, arguing that Master Simpson must have thought well of my scholarship. I read him two or three of the fables; whereat he laughed not a little, and bid me hold myself in readiness to amuse his guests therewith on another occasion.
I was not to go to school till the following week, and to-day I had leave to wander whither I would, to see what I could and what I most desired, and enjoy the merry-making of the town.
My cousin Meg, a fine buxom lass of nigh upon twenty summers, was all agog to go with me; and I was proud enough to have such a companion. So after I had helped her with her dishes and so forth, being skilled in many feminine tasks through helping my mother at home when she and the girls were pressed, she donned her holiday gown and gayest hood—and well she became them both, as I failed not to tell her—and I put on my best clothes, which seemed to me fine enough even if somewhat lacking in the grace and fashion I saw in some of the towns-folk of the better sort; and forth we sallied to see the sights of the town, and to enjoy any revelry that might be going.
The best of the merry-making would be towards evening, when the shops would close, and the apprentices and shopmen be free to join; but even now there was plenty to see and to admire. The fine proportions of the streets and public buildings filled me with a great wonder; and when we dived down a passage past Huish's Almshouse, and came out in front of St. Mary's Church, I stood still and silent in speechless admiration, marvelling at its wondrous beauty and lofty dignity, and asking of myself whether St. Paul's itself in fair London town could be as goodly a sight.
It so chanced that service was going on, and nothing would serve me but that I must go in and hear what it was like. Meg was willing enough to gratify me: for from being bred a dissenter, like the majority of the towns-folk, she attended the services of the dissenting flock in Paul's Meeting Sunday by Sunday; and the offices of the Establishment, which she was wont to hear stigmatized as "Popish," were quite unfamiliar to her, and had therefore a certain fascination.
There were two clergymen taking part in the service; and when we were in the street again, Meg said to me (interrupting my raptures about the architectural beauties of the place),—
"He with the grey hair peeping from beneath his wig is Mr. Axe. He is much beloved in Taunton, although men say that he is an enemy to the Duke of Monmouth, and tells men freely that he can never be lawful King, but that if the King dies childless, as seems like, we must submit to see the Duke of York upon the throne—a thing which is abhorrent to the minds of many. Yet in spite of this he is loved and trusted. But the other, Mr. Blewer, is hated and feared. I scarce know why we all think so ill of him, but he hath a cruel face and an evil eye; and some say that he is the bitter foe of all who follow not the teachings of the Established Church, whilst there be others who call him a Papist at heart, and say that when the Duke of York is King (if ever such a day comes, which Heaven forbid!) he will show what manner of man he is, and evil will fall upon many in Taunton through him."
"He has a bad face and a cruel mouth," I answered, having studied his face with a sense of reluctant fascination for which I could not account as I knelt in the church. Could it have been that some presentiment of his cruelty stole over me even then? I know not how that may be, but I do know that though my hair is now grey, and though I have lived beyond the allotted span of man's days, I cannot even now think of that miscreant without a tingling of the blood in my veins such as I seldom experience for aught besides.
That day was a notable one in my life, although it seems like a dream now. I looked upon the outside of many a noble building—St. James's Church; Paul's Meeting, which I was to worship in for a time; the Castle; the Free School, which I was to know right well erelong; and the Almshouses, which had been erected by the charitable in bygone years for the benefit of the aged poor.
The town was all bedecked with flags and garlands, and the bands of singers went about chanting their ditties, receiving rewards from many of the richer and more prosperous of the towns-folk, as well as the humbler, who were all so devoted to the cause of what they termed "liberty and right."
In the evening there was a grand bonfire in Paul's Field, and another in Priory Fields at the other extremity of the town.
Will Wiseman and I joined forces, and rushed from one to the other, getting an excellent view of both; and we danced around the fire with the best of them, and hooted for the Duke of York and the Pope, and shouted for the King and the Duke of Monmouth, until at last we had no voice left wherewith to shout more. When the embers burned low, and the sheriff's officer came to bid the people disperse, we went reluctantly home with the crowd, talking in friendly whispers of the glorious days that perhaps were coming, when we should be able to show the metal of which we were made, and almost ready to wish for the excitements and horrors of another civil war, if only we might bear a share in its glory and its danger.
We had heard so many stories from the bystanders who did remember those days, that our blood was fired, and we ardently longed for a repetition of such exciting events.
Well, we were destined to see something of bloodshed before many years had passed over our heads, and one of us was to shed his blood—as he sincerely longed at that moment to do, but whether in the fashion that came about it is not for me to say here.
And so ended my first eventful day in Taunton Town.
MY NEW LIFE.
If I were to begin to set down in order all the many things that happened to me without and within the town of Taunton during the early days of my residence there, I should go far to fill a volume ere ever I had reached the matters of which it is my intention more particularly to speak.
So I must strive after all the brevity of a skilled master of the craft of penmanship and story-telling, and seek to skim the cream from the surface of events, without wearying the reader with overmuch detail.
Let me say, in the first place, that I was very happy in my new life. I was kindly treated by my relatives. I made myself useful to my uncle in many ways, and I was a favourite with his guests, who delighted to hear the news of the day read to them whilst they smoked their pipes at ease, and who were all ready to talk with me when the reading was over, one telling me one bit of public gossip, and another another, till my mind was quite a storehouse of information, and I was able to talk upon almost any subject with the air of one who knew something about it.
The reputation for cleverness and knowledge which I soon gained (though in good sooth it was less knowledge than a good memory that I possessed) gave me a small standing of mine own in the place, and I had quite a brisk little business erelong, in writing letters for those who could not do it for themselves, and getting them passed on by trusty hands, by means of some of the many visitors who passed to and fro between our town and other places. My uncle let me keep for myself all such moneys as I gained in this fashion, and so I was able to take home to my mother and sisters presents which made them open their eyes wide in amaze, on the occasions when I mounted Blackbird and rode over to my former home. I was looked upon now as a person of some importance; and although only a lad of thirteen summers, I felt as if I should soon arrive at man's estate.
I had something to suffer at the Free School from the gibes and the envy of the other boys, who liked not to be surpassed at their books by the "hunchback clown"—such was their name for me for a time—and who paid me many an ill turn and played off many a malicious trick, until at last they wearied of it, or I gradually grew into favour, I scarce knew which, and I was let alone to go mine own way. But in spite of all this I was happy in my school hours, for I was learning every day something new; and if the boys misliked me, the masters took good heed of me and favoured my thirst after knowledge, so that I was able to study with zeal and success, and to win the praise of Mr. Axe, who would come from time to time to hear the boys recite, or to ask them questions from Scripture or secular history, and who never left without a word of kindness for me.
I came to revere and love Mr. Axe right well. He was not truly the Vicar of beauteous St. Mary's Church. The Vicar, in very sooth, was one Mr. Hart, who was (so it was told me) also Canon of Bristol and Prebendary of Wells, so that he had but scant time to think of his duties here. Mr. Axe, however, supplied all that was lacking, and was greatly beloved by us—as much beloved as Mr. Blewer was mistrusted and feared: for we would cross the street to avoid coming within the radius of his basilisk glance; and I for one never saw him without the feeling that he would prove a cruel foe ere we had seen the last of him.
Now I had scarce been a month at my uncle's house before a great excitement befell us, and a great fear fell upon many of our towns-folk; for it was rumoured that this thing would lose the Duke of Monmouth his head, and that even if his life were spared he would have to fly the country, and be no more seen in this land.
And the reason for this rumour, which filled all Somersetshire with sorrow, was the discovery of a vile plot against the life of the King and that of the Duke of York, which wicked and slanderous tongues were eager to charge upon the virtuous and high-minded Duke of Monmouth.
Well do I remember the day when first the news of this infamous plot, which came to be called the Rye House Plot, reached the good citizens of Taunton.
It was upon a Sunday morning, and I, together with my uncle and aunt and his daughter Meg, had started forth for Paul's Meeting, which we always attended for morning service, when we noted that the people in the streets had an air of gravity and anxiety which was not usual, and that all seemed to be asking questions one of another, although none seemed to be ready with an answer.
Now generally we were the first to hear any news that might reach the town, because that travellers were wont to put up at the Three Cups rather than at the other hostelries, which were less beliked than our house. But to-day there had been none arrival, and my uncle stopped to ask the first acquaintance he encountered what was the meaning of the general discomposure.
Now it chanced that this acquaintance was none other than Heywood Dare—"Old Dare," as he was often called, less perhaps from his actual years than because he had a son who was also a notable man in his way, and who had a part to play in the days that were coming.
Now old Dare had a story of his own, and was a great man in Taunton. He was by trade a goldsmith, and a man of substance to boot; but it was not his wealth that had gained for him the repute in which he was held, but his courage and devotion to the cause of liberty and justice.
It was one of the grievances of the times that the King would not permit Parliament to sit sometimes for long years together. Men whispered that he received great sums of money from France, which enabled him to dispense with the summoning of his own loyal subjects to grant supplies. However that may be, the people were grieved and wroth that their assembly was not called and permitted to sit, as they claimed that it had the right to do; and petitions from townships were constantly sent up to his Majesty imploring him to call together his Parliament, until the King grew greatly incensed, issued proclamations forbidding the presentation of these petitions, and threatening with severe penalties those who went about "getting hands," as it was termed, to put to these documents. Indeed many barbarous severities had been put in practice against those who still strove to collect names for such papers; and curious enough were such documents when they were drawn up, for three-fourths of those who "set hand" to them could not write their names, but could only make a mark which was to stand instead of it.
Now some four years back Old Dare had got up a notable petition, and it had been signed or marked by half Taunton, and by Bridgewater and Ilminster and many another fair town. The sturdy old goldsmith pursued his way to London with it. It was his intention to deliver it to the King with his own hand; and this intention he carried out, meeting the King hard by the Houses of Parliament, and presenting his paper on bended knee. The King took it unsuspecting—for it was a bold man who would venture to place one of the abhorred petitions in the royal hands; but on unfolding it he became instantly aware of its nature, and turning sharply upon the offender, he asked him how he dared to do such a thing. "Sire," replied the intrepid goldsmith, "my name is Dare!" And forasmuch as there is always something noble in fearless courage, and that his Majesty is not without nobility of soul, no hurt was done to the bold petitioner, albeit no good that I ever heard of came from his petition.
Well then, to return to my present tale, it was Old Dare whom we encountered in the street to-day; and when my uncle asked what the coil was all about, he shook his head and answered,—
"I cannot say with knowledge; but a messenger rode post-haste to the house of the Mayor but now, and it was plain, by the stains of travel on him and his horse, that they had been hard pushed to reach the place. It is something of note, I take it, and something of evil, I fear." He lowered his voice and said in my uncle's ear (yet I heard every word, being very keen of hearing), "I fear me it will prove to be some plot to ruin the Duke and his Council of Six. It may be that they have been something rash and forward. I fear me we shall hear bad news ere the day is out."
I knew well what was meant by the Council of Six. The Duke of Monmouth had some faithful friends, lovers of liberty and constitutional rule—my Lord of Russell and Mr. Algernon Sydney being of the number—who met together often to discuss what might be done for a country beginning once again to groan beneath the yoke of an arbitrary exercise of the power of the Crown. Representations had been made to the King, it was said, to summon Parliament, and give to the people their lawful voice in the government; but this having proved of none avail, it had been whispered that these men had spoken of another Great Revolution, such as had cost the King's father his head; and of course such talk was accounted rank treason in those days, and was like to cost many a man his life.
Now we of the West Country in general, and of Taunton Town in particular, knew very well that if any rising or tumult took place, it would be like enough to be in our neighbourhood; and that, even if we kept ourselves tranquil, we might get the credit of being turbulent, and have our rights infringed, even if our charter were not taken from us, as it had been early in the King's reign, although restored seventeen years later. Also, we all of us pinned our chiefest hopes of constitutional government and the Protestant religion on the hoped-for succession of the Duke of Monmouth; and if he were to be implicated in a plot which should cost him liberty or life, our hopes would receive a crushing blow, and nothing lie before us but the succession of a bigoted Papist and a man of known cruelty and tyranny.
Small wonder was it, therefore, that our faces were grave, and that we all looked anxiously at our minister, Mr. Vincent, as he mounted the pulpit a little after the usual time, and looked seriously upon our upturned faces. He made no attempt at a regular sermon that day, but after giving thanks for the merciful preservation of his gracious Majesty the King from a recent and great danger, he proceeded to tell us that a plot had been laid against the King's life and that of the Duke of York, and how it was currently rumoured that the Duke of Monmouth and his friends were concerned in the matter. Arrests had been made of certain persons, and the Duke had fled and hidden himself.
Mr. Vincent also told us, with great seriousness, that rumour had already been forward to declare that an insurrection had commenced, with Taunton as its centre; and counselled us, as we valued the peace of the realm and our own safety, to avoid any cause of offence, and to remain perfectly quiet and tranquil. The time might come in the future when it would be a righteous thing to rise up and strike a blow for the liberty and the faith of the country, but certainly that day had not yet come. The King upon the throne was the rightful one; his rule was on the whole fair and just. There was no quarrel with him. Nothing would so injure the righteous cause as a revolt against law and order; nothing would so greatly hurt the cause of the young Duke of Monmouth. We must show discretion and wisdom at this time, that none might have cause to look with suspicion upon us.
This wise counsel from one who was a pillar of strength amongst us was not without due effect. We looked at one another and resolved to abide by Mr. Vincent's counsel. We knew that our Mayor was a bitter enemy to all dissenters, and would fasten upon us an indictment of disaffection if we gave the smallest ground. Indeed he took instant action upon hearing of the plot, and called some bands of the militia into the town; and I verily believe that it was with his consent, if not at his instigation, that a deed was done in the town which made us who called ourselves dissenters tingle with rage and feel almost ready to raise the very tumult of which we were altogether innocent in fact.
Now the thing of which I speak was nothing less than the demolishing of the great chapel called Paul's Meeting, of which I have spoken, and in which hundreds of citizens met to worship Sunday by Sunday. And this thing was done, to the great shame of those concerned in it, just when the excitement which I have mentioned prevailed, notwithstanding that Mr. Vincent and Mr. Burgess, both of whom preached to us there, were godly men, and taught us submission to lawful rulers, and spoke no evil of dignitaries.
The first I knew of this was one evening just before our house generally closed for the night—it was summer then, and not dark till ten of the clock—when Will Wiseman came rushing into the yard, all bursting with excitement, and crying out to me in panting gasps,—
"Dicon, Dicon, come and see! come and see! They are pulling our meeting-house to pieces, and say they will make such a bonfire of our pews and pulpit as shall light to bed every dissenter in the county! Come and see! come and see! I would not go myself till I had told thee!"
Will Wiseman was certain to be in the forefront of everything; but I had no mind to be left behind. Forthwith we both rushed out from the yard, and soon the noise of a great tumult fell upon our ears. In the streets men were gathered together with dark faces and threatening mien, some talking angrily against the dissenters, who, it was declared, had been guilty of plotting against the King's life, but many more holding a stern silence and regarding their enemies with silent hostility; whilst hoarse cries and shouts rent the air, and grew louder and more distinct as we drew near to Paul's Meeting.
Once within sight of the building, we saw that it was lighted up from within; and unable to come near to the door for the surging mob around it, we climbed up to one of the windows and looked in.
What a sight it was! There were a hundred men inside, I should think, armed with hammers and saws and other tools and weapons; and these were all engaged in hammering, sawing, breaking down, and demolishing the whole of the woodwork in the chapel; and as fast as some pew, or great piece of panelling, or any large fragment of pulpit or gallery was broken off, other men would rush forward and drag it forth from the door, to carry it away into Paul's Fields, where it was plain that the great bonfire was to be made. And all the while they worked, they shouted out threats against their fellow-townsmen, calling out, "Down with all traitors! Down with the King's enemies! We will have nothing but the Church and the King!"
Yet many of the fellows now working like furies and shouting out these words had attended many a service in Paul's Meeting, and were friendly enough towards us, albeit perhaps not men of much personal godliness. But they were carried away by the excitement of the moment, and by the coward fear of getting into trouble with the Mayor should they show any lack of zeal. Men all over the kingdom were trembling just now in apprehension of arrest; for informers were going about the country, and many a lowly as well as many a noble and high personage was flung into prison on the most trivial charge. To join hands in reviling the dissenters and calling down blessings upon the King and the Church seemed the safest way of propitiating the authorities at such a moment; and this was what our towns-folk were now doing, by demolishing our chapel, and showing their zeal towards the Court party.
It was all very exciting; and though my heart and Will's swelled with indignation, we could not help watching till the whole of the building was stripped. Then we followed in the wake of the shouting crowd, and soon saw a great pillar of fire rising up from the midst of the assembled throng. As the great mountain of flame rose higher and higher, and waved its crown of smoke and sparks up to the roof of heaven as it seemed, the crowd yelled and shouted and danced around the pyre, bawling out every kind of folly that came into their heads; whilst outside the yelling ring, and a little distance away, stood the stern-faced men who had been wont to worship there, together with the ministers who had occupied the pulpit, and they looked on in silence, and gathered sometimes in groups together. Will Wiseman, who had the faculty of hearing what everybody said without seeming to listen, whispered to me, "They are saying that they will still meet for preaching and prayer whatever is done to their meeting-house."
And so indeed it proved, although the Mayor looked stern and dark, and sometimes uttered hints that sounded almost like a threat against "conventicles," as he termed them. Indeed he made himself so heartily misliked amongst the towns-folk, that but for the authority and protection bestowed by his office, I think some mischief would have been done him. But though a time of exceeding excitement prevailed for many weeks, there was no rising in the country; and by-and-by we were made glad by the tidings that there had been a reconciliation betwixt the Duke of Monmouth and the King, although Lord William Russell and Mr. Algernon Sydney ended their lives upon the scaffold.
Not that these men had any complicity in the murder plot against the King's life. They had souls far above the treachery and meanness of assassination. But the lesser and more villanous plot of minor conspirators was grafted upon the larger and wider-reaching intentions of these champions of liberty and of rule by constitutional rather than autocratic methods, and they were judged guilty of treason, and were doomed to death. Some said that the Duke of Monmouth had been led by promises of restoration to favour to bear witness against his friends. How that may be I will not say. At this time all Taunton was indignant at the aspersion cast upon the fair fame of the gallant young Duke, and the story was indignantly discredited, and by no one more hotly than by me. Now when my blood is cool, and I have grown wiser and have heard more of those days, I cannot be so sure of the innocence of the Duke as I felt then. Men are sorely tempted sometimes, and fall into sin almost ere they are aware of it. Human nature is weak, and a man may have many faults and many weaknesses and yet be the idol of the people for many a long day.
It was at this time that I grew better acquainted with several of the families in Taunton. I was in great request when the weekly news-letter came to my uncle's house—he had one of his own as well as that which was brought to the Mayor; for, as I have said, the Mayor was a bitter enemy to the dissenting portion of the towns-folk, and that was a very large section, as the well-filled building, Paul's Meeting, bore witness Sunday by Sunday.
Foremost amongst my friends I still reckoned Master Simpson and his family. Will Wiseman was my chosen comrade on all occasions, and Lizzie was the object of my boyish gallantry, and I continued to think her the prettiest and most charming maid in all Taunton Town.
But I must not omit to mention others who had a part to play in the drama that was slowly approaching. Of these I must mention the Herring family, father and mother, with three daughters, Anne, Susan, and Grace, all of whom attended Miss Blake's school; and Master John Hucker, a notable serge-maker, with his daughter Eliza; and the Hewling family, than which none other was more greatly beloved and esteemed in the whole of the town.
Mistress Hannah Hewling was mistress of this happy household. She was a spinster of some thirty years of age, and she played a mother's part to two virtuous and handsome young men, who were at the time of which I am now writing aged twenty and seventeen years respectively. This family had another home in London, where their parents lived, but owned this house property in Taunton, too, where these two brothers and their sister lived in the greatest amity and peace. The Hewlings were gentry, and people of substance, yet so friendly and kindly disposed towards their towns-folk that we all regarded them as friends. They would stop to speak a friendly word to any one of us in the street, and many were the evenings when they would invite some amongst us to their hospitable house. Sometimes there would be music to enliven us after supper—for Mistress Hannah played both harp and spinnet right sweetly, whilst Master Benjamin discoursed eloquent music on the flute, and Master William could draw strains from his violin that brought tears to the eyes of the listeners before they well knew it—or failing music, some one would read aloud from a godly book, or from some history of past days, and the elder members of the party would be invited to discuss the subject, whilst the rest of us listened in respectful silence, and framed our own opinions on what we heard.
It was in this way that I came to understand much of the questions of the day from the standpoint of those who believed the Duke of Monmouth to be the champion not of freedom and constitutional rule alone, but also of the Protestant religion. The things we read about the awful cruelty and treachery of those who were tainted by the curse of Popery often made our blood run cold within us; and when it became increasingly certain that the Duke of York was Papist up to the neck, and would throw off all disguise when once he ascended the throne, it was scarce to be marvelled at that we should fix our eyes upon one who might rise up to be a champion and deliverer, and save us from the oppression of a tyrant and bigot.
I was heart and soul with all men who held this view, but I noted often that my uncle would sit mute whilst such talk was going on, and that he was always slow to commit himself to any open opinion. And once when I had grown too excited to hold my peace any longer, and had openly spoken out some of the thoughts that were burning within me, he had taken me to task afterwards, not sternly indeed, but somewhat seriously, and had warned me that I had better learn the art of holding my tongue, and watching the turn of the tide before I launched my bark upon untried waters.
"But, uncle," I exclaimed eagerly, "surely you are for the Duke?"
"I am for the rightful King of the realm, whoever he be," was the cautious answer. "It is not given to us to choose our monarch. God sets Kings upon the throne, and bids us submit ourselves to the powers that be. That is my principle, and will be my practice; albeit I should greatly prefer to serve a King of the true faith."
I was puzzled by this way of stating the matter, for it was not after such cautious fashion that the greater part of our friends talked; but I began to note as time went by that my uncle was more cautious in many of his ways than were others, and that he made some small changes in his methods and habits.
After the Rye House Plot there was great excitement in the country, and greater efforts than ever were made to force men to attend public worship in the churches of the Establishment instead of in meeting-houses of their own. Many such meeting-houses and chapels were wrecked (like our own) in various places, and the flocks scattered, so that they could no longer hear their favourite doctrines preached by their favourite ministers, but must either absent themselves from public worship or go to church with the orthodox.
Now in St. Mary's Church there was held a grand service of thanksgiving for the safety of the King and the Duke of York, and the Mayor and Burgesses all attended in civic pomp. My uncle went, of course, in his capacity of one of the Capital Burgesses; but rather to our surprise, he desired that all of us should be present; and from that day forward he regularly attended the parish church, taking his wife and daughter and other members of his household. He gave as his reason for this, that it was right to obey the wishes of the ruling sovereign in so far as it was possible to do so without violation of the conscience, and that so long as good Mr. Axe filled the pulpit of St. Mary's, he could go and hear him with edification and pleasure.
I was quite of that opinion myself, used to the order and liturgy of the church, and finding the long extempore prayers at Paul's Meeting less to my liking than the collects set down in the prayer-book. I was glad to go to church; but I was a little puzzled by my uncle's sudden zeal for submission and orthodoxy. He said nothing that our friends could cavil at, and was hearty and warm towards them as ever; but he seemed to desire to be "all things to all men"—a line of conduct which I was far too young and hot-headed to understand the use of.
But I must not omit to mention, in dealing with my early experiences of Taunton, the school next door, and the two kindly gentlewomen who conducted it.
Meg had once been a scholar there, and kept very friendly relations with her mistresses. My aunt, too, was very kindly disposed towards them, and would often send me in with some small delicacy for their supper; and by-and-by I used to be admitted to the parlour where the ladies sat, and was sometimes bidden to take a seat and to tell them some of the gossip of the town. For these gentlewomen seldom stirred abroad themselves, and all their exercise was taken in the old garden behind the house, where the pupils walked or played for an hour in the middle of the day when the weather permitted. As I grew to be better acquainted with them, I was asked sometimes to read awhile whilst they plied their needles; and this reading became such a pleasure to them that by the time the first winter of my stay in Taunton arrived, I went in about once a week to read the news-letter after it had been exhausted at the inn, and to tell them all I had gleaned from travellers or from the talk of the towns-folk upon it.
It was these readings which introduced me first to the notice of fair Mistress Mary Mead, of whom I had heard upon the very first day of my sojourn in the town, but of whom I had had no thought till I was months afterwards brought into her presence.
And I think it behoves me here to explain somewhat of the history of fair Mistress Mary; for these pages will have a good deal to say of her, and it may be well that it should be fully understood what manner of person she was.
Her grandfather had been one of Cromwell's generals—a man stanch to the side of the Parliament; and he had fallen at the siege of Taunton, of which mention has been made. His son, Mistress Mary's father, had been enriched by the spoils of the Cavaliers in their misfortunes, and had amassed a considerable fortune. This daughter was his only child, and his wife, who was said to be of a noble royalist family, died in giving her birth. Sir Thomas Mead—for he had won his spurs of knighthood—died when his child was ten years old, leaving her to the guardianship of his friend the Earl of Lonsdale. Sir Thomas had trimmed his sails with the times, and had welcomed the King back from exile at the Restoration; but it was always supposed that he had not changed his views to any notable extent, and that his daughter had been brought up to glory in the doughty deeds of her grandsire, and to hate and abhor all undue exercise of royal prerogative, and all indications of Popery.
The girl had been brought up for convenience at the school where the better towns-folk sent their daughters, Sir Thomas not having yet learned to hold his head higher than the compeers of his father. When the child was left an orphan, Lord Lonsdale had summoned her to his house, and it was supposed that she would remain beneath her guardian's roof until she married; but some four years later she was suddenly sent back to the care of Miss Blake and Mrs. Musgrave, not exactly on the footing of the rest of the scholars, but to remain in their charge as a member of their household, and to observe the same secluded life as they did themselves.
Various surmises were afloat with regard to this sudden and unusual arrangement. Some declared that Mistress Mary's faithful attachment to her instructors (which was an admitted fact in all quarters) had led to this step, and that it was her own earnest pleadings which had caused her to be sent back. Others affirmed that her guardian was alarmed and displeased by her independence of mind and by her revolutionary tenets, and had sent her away in disgrace; but that theory was rather quashed by the improbability of Lord Lonsdale's choosing Miss Blake's school as the asylum for a refractory maiden, since both the heads of the establishment were known to be much of the same way of thinking. The third whisper was that Lord Lonsdale's son, the gallant and dashing Viscount Vere, had shown such unmistakable signs of falling in love with his father's ward, that Lord Lonsdale in a great fright (for he had other views of a more ambitious nature for his son) had sent Mary away in haste, choosing a place where she was known to have friends and to be happy, and hoping she would shortly relieve him of all embarrassment by selecting a husband for herself. But if this was the case, his choice of a place had hardly been a happy one; for Mistress Mary led a life of almost nun-like retirement, and had already been four years with her former mistresses without showing any signs of entering into bonds of wedlock.
I had heard all these tales and surmises respecting her before ever I was favoured by the sight of her fair sweet face and graceful form. But she came to be present often at the readings, and I learned to think her more exquisitely beautiful every time I saw her. There was a charm in the steady dark grey eyes, the delicate mobile features, and the easy grace of her every movement, which my poor pen has no power to describe. Her voice was low and sweet, the sweetest I have ever heard, and the rare laugh was like music. Surely had I been a man, and a comely and gallant one to boot, I should straightway have fallen in love with sweet Mistress Mary Mead. And I ceased to marvel at the stories of Viscount Vere; for even as a child she must have been passing fair, and how could he help loving what was so gracious and so good?
But I had no suspicion in those early days what I should be called upon to do for Mistress Mary Mead, nor how great a part I should play in her life's story.
I GET AMONGST FINE FOLK.
I have been something remiss all this while in saying no word about my faithful four-footed friend Blackbird, who had accompanied me to Taunton, and who remained as constant in his attachment to me there as he had done at home, notwithstanding all the blandishments and the praise he received from the hostlers at the inn, and from the travellers and servants who chanced to note him in the stable. I could have sold him again and again for a good round sum had I been so minded, and had he not been so persistent in suffering none other rider than myself to mount him. Not that I was ever tempted to part with my comrade; for I was in no need of money, and I found continual pleasure in the journeys of exploration around Taunton which I made on Blackbird's back. I came in time to be well acquainted with the whole of the surrounding country; and very rich and beautiful country it was, as all men know who are acquainted with our "Queen of the West," the name given by Taunton men to their beloved city. And in due time the possession of Blackbird, and my reputation for riding, brought me employment of which I had never dreamed before.
I have spoken of beautiful Mistress Mary Mead, whom I came to regard with a great admiration and reverence. She was like a star in the firmament of my sky—far, far above me, and yet on whose loveliness I was ofttimes permitted to gaze, and who would sometimes give me a kindly smile or a gentle word of praise, which set all my pulses hammering and the blood tingling in my veins.
But there was better than this in store for me as the dark cold winter days passed by, and the spring sunshine began to coax forth the shy flowers in the meadows, and to woo the swelling buds to show their tender tints of green and gold.
Sweet Mistress Mary had been looking somewhat pale and fragile during the inclement winter, and when the first heat of coming spring filled the air, it seemed to make her languid rather than brisk; so the leech who was called in to see her said that she must take the air without the fatigue of walking, and, in fine, prescribed horse-exercise for her.
Now in mine uncle's stable was a fair grey palfrey which he had bought for her good looks, and which carried a lady as carefully and softly as it is given to steed to do. As soon then as I heard what was spoken anent Mistress Mary, I set to work to groom and tend Lady Jane (for so the palfrey was called by us) till her coat shone like satin, and all the long hair of winter was groomed away. Then I led her round to Mistress Mary to show her how fair a steed she was; and no sooner had she seen her than the wish to mount her and ride out into the open country lanes arose within her heart, and the blood mantled in her fair cheek, and already the medicine seemed like to work.
Now hanging upon Mistress Mary's hand, as she came to see Lady Jane, was a younger maiden whose face was well known to me by this time, and whose rank in life was equal to that of Mistress Mary, and much above that of those scholars of Miss Blake's who came to her from the town. Belike it was this that made these twain consort much together, as I heard from Lizzie that they did. The laughing maid with chestnut curls and dancing blue eyes was one Mistress Mary Bridges from Bishop's Hull, a goodly house lying west of Taunton about a mile away or something over. Mistress Mary was the only girl out of a fine family of boys. Perchance she was like to grow somewhat too much of a boy herself, for it was whispered that she could handle a carbine and shoot straight to the mark, and that she was as bold and fearless as a young lion; so it may be that for this same cause she was sent to Miss Blake's school, to be educated with Mistress Mary Mead, who was known for an accomplished and right gentle lady. During the inclement months of the winter, the younger Mistress Mary had dwelt beneath the roof of Miss Blake's house; but I had heard that with the approach of summer she would ride in and out on her palfrey. And the words that I heard her speak showed me that this was like enow to be true.
"Ah, Mary," she cried, with her rosy face all aglow, "now we will have right good times together, thou and I. We will go riding forth whither we will, when I have my pony in good John Snowe's stable. I will show thee mine own home, and all the beauteous glades and woods of which I have told thee. We will ride hither and thither, and be free as air! I have been but as a caged bird all these weeks. Now we will spread our wings and fare forth together and see the world. I will be Rosalind, and thou shalt be Celia! I will protect thee, and we will live the life of the forest together!" And she laughed so joyous a laugh that I could scarce forbear to join, albeit I knew my place, and strove to look unconcerned.
For a few days I heard no more of the matter, and then my uncle suddenly told me that he had promised I should attend the two Mistresses Mary three days in the week upon their rides, and that I must curtail my studies somewhat in order to be able to do this. Some attendant they must needs have, and to my great satisfaction and happiness I was told the Mistress Mary Mead herself had said that she would prefer Dicon Snowe to any other.
Now, although I say it, I think the maidens had made wise choice, for I doubt me if any other could so well have shown them the country round Taunton as Blackbird and I. Moreover, knowing what would be wanted by the courageous and high-spirited ladies, I went out often early upon Lady Jane, and taught her the tricks of leaping, creeping through hedges, and overcoming obstacles that Blackbird was famous for; and since Mistress Mary Bridges' pony was as daring and eager as herself, there was little that we could not accomplish together when our minds were set upon it.
I knew my place, I hope, and I was careful to speak no word to my ladies save such as became their servant; but as we grew acquainted one with another, they would often draw me into their talk, in that way which the really high-born have no fear of doing, and discuss with me many matters in which I was more versed than they. And this I say without boasting of any learning; for what the ladies desired greatly to learn was news of those things that were going on in the world about them, of which little reached them, whilst I was always hearing stories from the travellers who passed by; and though some told one tale and some another, so that it was not easy to sift the grain of truth from the chaff of falsehood, yet one felt to know something as time went on, and I could tell my ladies many a tale which made them hang upon my lips as though I spoke words of magic charm.
And ever and again would our talk come back to the Duke of Monmouth, and the chance of his succeeding to the crown.
Mistress Mary Bridges came of a race that belonged to what men called the "Court party." At home she heard no good spoken of the Duke of Monmouth, and told us that her father had many times said with authority that there was no truth whatsoever in the story of the black box; that many men believed the Duke of Monmouth to be the son of Colonel Robert Sydney, and not of the King at all; that her father always declared him to be much more like "handsome Sydney," as he was called, than like the King; and that it would be vile sin and shame to England if any attempt were made to place upon the throne a man upon whose birth there rested such a stain and slur. His mother, as all the world knew, had been a vile woman, and the son was like to be little better than his mother. These things had young Mistress Mary heard her father say when he was speaking to his wife and others of this matter, and the daughter had been brought up to look upon the succession of the Duke as a silly fable, which would never come to aught save empty talk.
Her winter's residence in Taunton, however, had done something to shake this conviction. Her ardent and romantic nature had caught some of the fire of Mistress Mary Mead's silent but intense love and enthusiasm for the Duke; and when I told of my own adventure, spoke of his kindly ways to the people, his gentleness to me, and the miraculous cure he had worked upon me, she was still more shaken in her former beliefs, and looking from one to another of us would say meditatively,—
"Ah! I wonder which is the truth? I would fain believe him the King's lawful son. That treacherous black-browed Duke of York will be a terrible tyrant. I would it were any one else to succeed the King! But my father says we must never do evil that good may come; and to support an usurper would be that, even should he make the best King afterwards that the world has ever known!"
But then Mistress Mary Mead's soft eyes would light up with a glow of wondrous beauty, and she would say softly,—
"But he is no usurper; he is the lawful heir to the throne, and some day all men will know it! God will light for the righteous cause, and the truth will be made clear as the noonday. I know it, I know it! my heart tells it me!" And such a look would come into her face that all we could do was to gaze at her as though she had been an inspired prophetess; and the other Mary would throw her arms about her and cry,—
"Now, when thou lookest thus, I cannot but believe every word thou sayest. I could believe that the angels had revealed these things unto thee in vision."
And truly I could almost believe the same; for never saw I more perfect trust and confidence than in the lovely face of Mistress Mary, and I knew that she was one of those who would gladly lay down her life if need be in what she held to be a righteous cause.
Now, though I must not linger too long over the story of these pleasant rides, I must not omit to mention that more than once as we sallied forth into the lanes and woods we encountered a very gay and dashing young gallant, who (unless my fancy deceived me) looked long and earnestly at Mistress Mary, with a strange fixedness in his eyes, as though he saw something in her aspect that touched him nearly. And this thing happened more than once, till at last I began to wonder whether our comings and goings were marked and noted by this same gallant, and whether he put himself of set purpose in our path.
The first time or two when it happened I doubt if either of my ladies heeded the passing rider. But there came a day when we met him in a very straight and narrow way, and had to pass him in single file; and then it was that a strange thing happened. Young Mistress Mary had gone in front, and Mistress Mary Bridges followed her—I keeping, as behoved my position, somewhat in the rear. As Mistress Mary passed by this horseman, who had drawn rein and pulled his steed well-nigh into the hedge to let the ladies go by, I saw him put forth a hand and lay it for a moment on the neck of her palfrey, whilst I was certain that I heard these words pronounced in a very low tone, "Mary, sweetheart, hast thou forgotten me?"
I saw her start, and turn her head towards him who had thus addressed her; and albeit it was little of her face I could see, yet even that little had flushed, as I saw well, a vivid and beautiful crimson. She seemed to pause for a moment, as if without knowing it, and I think she spoke a soft word, though what it was I could not hear. But I saw his eyes lighten, and his hand seek hers for a moment, and again I heard him say as they passed each other by, "I will be faithful, I will be true."
Now all this greatly aroused and interested me; for Mistress Mary Mead was in very sooth the queen of my heart, and that she should be beloved by so fair and gallant a gentleman seemed to me most right and fitting. I knew not this dashing young lord (for such I rightly judged him to be), but I looked at him well as I passed by, and thought that his face was a right goodly and honest one, and that if any man deserved the love of my sweet lady, it would be one such as he. Methought he gave me a quick and earnest glance as he rode by, but he said no word, nor did he address either me or Mistress Mary when he met us on other occasions. Yet methinks there is a language of the eyes which is often more eloquent than that of the tongue, and I noted that the bloom returned with wondrous speed to Mistress Mary's pale cheeks, and that the languor and weakness from which she had been suffering grew less day by day.
The gay spring-tide flew by as upon wings, and the hot dry summer followed. There had been something of a drought the previous year, and again this summer there was great lack of rain, and some of the crops suffered, although others did well, and all men rejoiced in the brave sunshine and the way in which the hay was got in and the corn grew and ripened.
With these summer days, too, came the holidays at the schools. I had no more studies to prepare for my tutors and masters; nor had I any rides to take with my ladies, for Miss Blake's house was empty. Mistress Mary Mead had gone to spend the vacation with her friend at Bishop's Hull, and I might have felt my time hang heavy, missing their kindly notice of me, had it not been that another call was made upon my time, and one which brought me into contact with one in whom I had come to have a great interest.
I was standing idly in the court-yard one day, watching the comings and goings of various travellers, and exchanging a word now and again with one whom I knew, when all of a sudden I woke up to a sense of keen interest and excitement; for into the yard rode the gallant young gentleman whom we had so often encountered in our rides, and I at once went up and held his stirrup for him to dismount, asking him how we could serve him.
He looked hard at me, and I saw that he knew me instantly.
"Can I have speech with John Snowe?" he asked; and I at once said that my uncle was within, and would attend him in person. But he still remained standing beside his horse regarding me steadily; and before he moved away towards the inn, he remarked with would-be carelessness of manner, "I have not seen thee abroad of late with thy ladies."
"No, my lord," I answered—for I had made up my mind he could be nothing less—"the ladies be gone away for a while. They will not return till the summer has waned."
I thought he looked sorrowful, but he said no more, and turned towards the inn, bidding me hold his horse till his return, as he should not be long over his errand. I was curious to know what that errand could be, and to know the name and rank of the gallant gentleman. I was sure to find out that from mine uncle, who knew every one, high and low, in these parts; but my curiosity was gratified sooner than I looked for, for within five minutes I heard my uncle's voice calling to me to come in.
Leaving the horse with one of the hostlers, I ran to obey the summons, and found myself in the best parlour, where the stranger was half seated upon the table, tapping his riding-boot with his cane as he talked, my uncle standing respectfully before him, his cap in his hand. This confirmed my impressions as to the rank of the visitor; for my uncle by no means capped to every chance traveller, even of the better sort.
"This is the lad of whom your lordship has heard, Dicon Snowe, my brother's son," said my uncle as I appeared. "If he will suit your noble father's purpose, and if it be not for too long a time, we will make shift to spare him, albeit his place here will not be easy to fill."
"You shall not be the loser by it, good John," said the young gallant with a laugh; and I saw that his eyes lighted up with surprise at my entrance, and I thought that his face looked pleased.
He did not, however, speak openly to me, only giving me a friendly nod as he said something about "the morrow" to my uncle; and only when he was gone and we had seen him ride gaily past the windows did I venture to ask my kinsman, "Who is he? and wherefore has he come? What is it that he wants of me?"
"That is young Lord Vere—Viscount Vere, if you will—eldest son and heir to Lord Lonsdale of Court House, West Monkton. Doubtless you have been near the place sometimes when riding forth with the ladies."
"No," I answered, "Mistress Mary would never ride that way; but I have seen the house when I have been alone, albeit I knew not who lived in it. Is it not Lord Lonsdale who is guardian to Mistress Mary Mead?"
"Ay; and some say his son was so smitten by her girlish charms, that to keep mischief from following she was sent to Miss Blake, and the Viscount to London and thence to foreign shores, whence he has but lately returned. But the business that brought him here was to obtain for his father, my Lord of Lonsdale, the assistance of a reader, who can beguile his leisure and write his despatches, whilst he recovers from an inflammation of the eyes which is keeping him a prisoner in his room. His secretary is away upon some mission, and his lordship has been doing all himself of late; but his eyes have suddenly become greatly inflamed and painful, so that he is unable to use them. It has been told him that I had here a youth who was an excellent reader and ready likewise with the pen, and he has sent to ask for him to be sent to Court House for a while. And so I must e'en make shift to spare thee, boy; for one must give favourable answer when a lord is the suer."
I gathered from what I had heard that it was something more than courtesy which prompted my uncle to part with me; but I was not disposed to fall foul of his motives, seeing that I was greatly the gainer thereby. For, like all young things, I was greedy of change, and thought that it would be a fine thing to belong for a time to my Lord of Lonsdale's household—to sit with him in his library and read to him and pen his despatches. I felt an inch taller as I went from my uncle's presence to make my simple preparations for leaving on the morrow. I had been not a little fascinated by the beauty and manly grace of the Viscount, and the thought that he was the secret lover of sweet Mistress Mary Mead gave him an added charm in my eyes. Perhaps I should be able to help those two to a happy termination to their courtship. Did not the mouse in the fable loose the bonds of the lion? And surely I might be able to do as much as that!
On the next morning I set forth in great spirits, riding Blackbird, and carrying a change of apparel in my saddlebag. I knew Court House well, for I had often seen its chimneys and gables from mine own home, from which it lay not so very far away by miles, but divided therefrom by a stretch of swampy land, so that there was no good way of approaching it. I did not even remember who lived there, though I must surely have heard. For until I came to dwell in Taunton, I took but small interest in the affairs of the neighbourhood, save those of the neighbours and friends amongst whom we lived.
But I was interested enough as I rode up and passed under the archway to the stables and inferior offices of the house and made known my errand there. I thought the men looked rather disdainfully at my crooked back and small stature, but whether they would have been rude or not I cannot say, for the Viscount chanced to pass that way, sallying out to see to a favourite horse that was lame; and seeing me he nodded in his friendly fashion, and calling to an indoor servant, he bid him conduct me to the Earl without further ado.
So I was taken through one long passage and up a flight of stairs, and along yet another and a longer passage, and through a door into a hall of such vast and noble proportions that I would fain have lingered to look at it, only I was constrained to follow my guide, who turned down a long corridor lighted by tall narrow windows high up in the wall, and hung with many a fine picture the likes of which I had never seen before, until he paused at a massive door sunk in a niche in the wall, and almost immediately I found myself entering a room almost as large as a church, with windows filled with lozenges of stained glass bearing heraldic devices, and with cases of books the very sight of which made my mouth water and my fingers tingle in the longing desire to know what was within them.
At the far end of this room, beside a bureau heaped with books and papers, sat a stately gentleman, soberly but richly clad, and wearing over his eyes a shade to exclude the light. He held a paper-cutter like a dagger in his hands, with which he seemed to have been impatiently toying, and as soon as ever the servant had retired after explaining his errand, he pointed imperiously to a wooden chair near to the table, and said, "Sit there, Dicon Snowe, and read to me these letters one by one. Pause not unless I bid thee. And read thy best and clearest."