I obeyed in some fear and trembling, for I found it a very different thing to read out written matter to a lord from having to read the print of book or news-letter to my uncle's guests, or even to Miss Blake and Mrs. Musgrave. However, I knew that I should only do worse by letting myself think of this, and by getting frightened at my position; so I went to my task with what courage I could muster, and soon found the work so interesting that I forgot all about Lord Lonsdale's rank, and was as much at home in my task as though I had been in my uncle's parlour.
I may say without vanity that I pleased my master. I found this out by degrees as I pursued my avocations under his directions. There was always a good deal of reading and writing of despatches to be done in the mornings, and sometimes gentlemen would come in and talk with the Earl, whilst I sat silent over my task or waited idle for orders. I saw Sir William Portman frequently, the owner of Orchard Portman, and also of a fine timbered house in the town; and Sir Ralph Bridges, the father of Mistress Mary, came sometimes and talked long and earnestly with the Earl.
I could not hear a great deal of their talk from where I sat in my recess, and often I had writing to do which engrossed my attention; but I gathered that the health of the King was beginning to give anxiety to the Court, that the question of the succession was becoming an increasingly burning one, and that the power and influence of the Duke of Monmouth were steadily waning.
This was regarded as very satisfactory by the friends of the Earl, as I very well saw, although my own heart used to grow heavy within me as I heard their talk. The Duke was not in England now. He had fled to Holland, and was sometimes heard of there, sometimes in Brussels. It was said that he was planning a secret visit to England, to get speech with the King and seek to regain his favour. All believed the King to be greatly attached to him, and feared the result of a personal interview. But all were equally convinced that Charles would never pass over his brother and rightful heir, or seek to pass any measure putting Monmouth into the succession. These men of the Court Party seemed quite secure on this head; but the unpopularity of the Duke of York in the country, and the strange influence which Monmouth possessed over the hearts of the people, were sources of danger which they could not ignore. I heard the matter discussed in all its bearings, and felt every day to enter into a better understanding of the case; but all this did not shake my loyalty and love for the Duke one whit, though it opened my eyes to the knowledge that he would have a harder battle for his crown (thus I put it to myself) than I had hitherto believed.
In the after-part of the day I generally read other things to the Earl: history, poetry, learned writings of great men whose names I had never heard—nothing came amiss to Lord Lonsdale, who was a very learned man; and he was exceedingly kind in pausing from time to time to make some explanation which rendered the theme under discussion more intelligible to me. Of course I never paused to ask a question, but if he stopped to ask if I understood what I was reading (as he sometimes did), then I had to answer no, and he would give me a brief but masterly summary of the matter, and permit me then to ask a question if I did not understand. So I came to have a great love and reverence for the Earl, and to feel my mental horizon growing wider round me every day. I was well treated by the servants of the house, with whom I consorted at other times; and above all I began to feel an intense and growing admiration and love for young Lord Vere, who took much notice of me as the days went by, but of whom I will more fully speak in another chapter.
VISCOUNT VERE.
It may be that what I have now to relate will have something of a presumptuous sound, seeing that I was a lad of humble birth, and that my lord the Viscount was heir to a noble name and estate. Nevertheless truth is truth, be it never so strange, and there be laws of the heart which follow not the laws of custom and use. Nor was it anything strange that my heart should go forth to one so handsome, so noble, so kind of nature, so brave and gallant as the youthful Viscount, Lord Lonsdale's son; but it always seems passing strange to me when I think how he made of me a friend and comrade—me, a crook-backed lad of but fourteen years when first we became acquaint, the son of a farmer, and nephew to an inn-keeper—one who might never dare to speak such a word as "friendship" in connection with such an one as my Lord Vere. Yet so it turned out, and friends we became; and I may e'en write the word down without shame, albeit in all humility, since to this very day he speaks of me as friend, and loves to talk over with me those stirring adventures in which we both bore a part, as you shall hear.
How this strange friendship came about it now behoves me to relate.
I was, as I have explained, installed for a time in Lord Lonsdale's household, intrusted with the office of reading to him, and of writing such of his letters as he desired. My duties, however, did not occupy the whole of my time, and I had many hours of leisure to call mine own.
It was, I think, upon the third day of my stay, and I had found my way to the stables to look at Blackbird, and to ask whether it would be deemed right for me to take him out for exercise, when Lord Vere came into the yard, and seeing me there, cried out in his free and friendly fashion, "Well met, Dicon; let us ride forth together. I have somewhat to say to thee; and that pony of thine looks wild for a gallop."
So before a quarter of an hour had passed we were riding through the great gateway—I following in the wake of the Viscount, as was just and right, but feeling greatly honoured by being permitted thus to attend him.
I would fain describe my gallant young lord, only I fear that my poor pen lacks the skill to bring him before the eye of the reader. It is easy to speak of handsome, well-cut features, stamped with that high-bred look that is the birthright of so many of our noble families, of sunny blue eyes, delicately-arched brows, and a figure full of grace and power, and skilled in all martial exercises. But these words sound cold and poor, and do little towards conjuring up the picture of youthful grace and manhood that was presented in those days by young Lord Vere. There was a brightness about him which was like nothing so much as the golden halo round the head of a pictured saint. He seemed to carry sunshine and light with him. It shone in his eyes, it sparkled in his smile, it brought light and happiness to the faces of those with whom he spoke. I have lived long in the world now, and have seen many men and women whom I have had good cause to love, admire, and revere; but none amongst these has ever possessed that gracious and brilliant charm of the Viscount. Never have I felt my heart so stolen away and enslaved as it was by him. I know what the love is of man to maid, and how it makes all the world new, and makes a heaven of this earth; but even this love and glamour is not quite like that which filled my boyhood's heart when young Lord Vere rode beside me and made of me his friend. I always think when in Holy Writ I hear how the soul of David was knit unto the soul of Jonathan, and of how the love of Jonathan and David is spoken of as a love "passing the love of women," that I understand the import of these beautiful words better perhaps than other men may be able to do.
I felt the beginnings of this glamour as I rode after Lord Vere through the stately park and watched the sunlight playing in his golden curls and lighting up the bright tints of his riding coat and vest. The Viscount's hair was so thick and abundant, and curled with such a natural grace, that he wore no wig, like the greater part of the gentry in those days; and for my part I think that nothing could have so well become him as did his own bright hair, although I have heard envious gallants, who would fain have copied him an they had known how, sneer at his "maid's face" and floating love-locks.
We had scarce passed beyond the view of the house when Lord Vere reined in his horse and signed to me to come up beside him; and then with one quick glance round, as though to assure himself that there were none to overhear, he said in eager accents, "Dicon lad, I have wanted speech of thee for a purpose. I prithee tell me all thou knowest about sweet Mistress Mary Mead."
I was not greatly surprised at the question, albeit it had come somewhat soon and suddenly. Nor was I loath to speak of Mistress Mary; and I told my young lord all that I knew of her—how I was favoured sometimes to read to her with others in Miss Blake's parlour, and how I had been made her attendant since she had been bidden to take exercise on her palfrey with young Mistress Mary Bridges.
He listened eagerly, ever and anon putting some quick question anent her health or the fashion in which she occupied herself; and when I had told him all that I could, he looked thoughtful for a moment, and then said, "Boy, dost thou think her happy?"
Truth to tell, I had never seriously considered this question. Mistress Mary seemed to me as a thing apart, so greatly above my world that I did not judge of her as I should of others nearer to myself; but having had the thought suggested, I pondered awhile upon it, and then I answered,—
"Methinks, perhaps, that she is as one who feels a shadow resting upon her life. She is ofttimes pensive. She but seldom laughs, and her smile is sad as well as sweet. I could think of her as one who has some secret trouble which she is nursing; but I do not speak with knowledge, my lord, only as my heart prompts me, thinking of her and what I have noted when in her gentle presence."
Now although I could not doubt that the Viscount greatly loved Mistress Mary, yet methought his face lighted as if with joy to hear that she was ofttimes sad. And if at first I was surprised at this, I quickly began to understand better the reason for this joy.
He rode on for a few minutes in silence, one expression chasing another over his face; and at last looking earnestly at me, as though he would read my very soul, he said,—
"Dicon, I must speak to some one, else my heart will break for very impatience of these bonds of silence. Boy, I like thee. There is that in thy face which draws me to thee. Canst thou be discreet? canst thou keep a secret? and wilt thou be true to me if I tell thee more perhaps of myself than any man knoweth as yet?"
My heart bounded within me at these words. Already it was enslaved by the charm of this young noble. Even though I had been but three days in his father's house, I had heard nothing but praise of him, and had come already to regard him as a bright particular star. To be taken into his confidence was a favour so far above my merits and so far removed from anything I had dreamed, that I was bewildered with joy, and could only breathe forth a hearty and cordial promise that I would be true to the death, silent as the grave, and the very humble and devoted servant of the Viscount in any office in which he could employ me and in which I could serve him.
He looked at me smilingly as I blundered forth my clumsy asseverations, but I think he read in my eyes that I meant every word that I said; and when I had finished he held out his hand, and I placed mine within it, feeling lifted into another sphere by the very touch of those strong slim fingers.
"There, lad, that is the seal to our comradeship," he said, as he released my fingers with a strong pressure. "Now I must e'en speak to thee with some freedom; and yet, perchance, thou hast heard somewhat of this very matter. Has it ever been told thee that I love Mistress Mary as a man loves the maiden he would fain seek for his wife?"
"I have heard something of it, my lord," I answered; "albeit I think that none know rightly whether there be truth in the rumour or no."
"If men say that I love her as never woman was loved yet, they speak in very sooth no more than the truth," was the impetuous answer, and the young lord's face flushed with the generous ardour of his love, whilst his eyes kindled with such a light as methinks no maiden could resist; but after a brief moment the flush faded, and he smiled at his own vehemence, and said,—
"Nay, but I must not prate and rant like a hot-headed boy. I have reached man's estate, and as a man will I woo and win my fair lady. And thou, good Dicon, shalt help me to this, an thou wilt; for men have raised barriers betwixt us that be not easily broken down. Not only have they taken her away and placed her with those who would keep her from me, but they have taught her to think that her sweet love will injure me, and that to wed with her would be to do me grievous hurt."
"Is that so?" I asked, marvelling; and walking our horses at a foot's pace under the green trees, the Viscount told me all his tale.
"Truly I think that from very childhood we loved each other. Thou canst well guess how sweet a maid she was when she came to us, and how in my lonely boyhood she seemed to come like a creature of light and air; how we roved the woods and dells together, and played that we were king and queen of all the earth; and how we plighted our troth a thousand times, and never thought of life save as a thing to be shared together.
"I verily believe that, had my mother lived, she would have taken our part; for Mary was in sooth a daughter to her, and she loved her with a great and tender love. But she was taken away, and methinks the grief of that parting changed Mary from child to maiden at an early age. Be that as it may, when she was not yet fifteen years, and when I was but eighteen, I could refrain myself no longer, but told her fully and freely of my love; and she hid her sweet face upon my breast, and said that she had never known a thought or a wish save to be mine. And so we plighted our troth standing over my mother's grave, where it was that her tears had roused within me the resolve to speak at once and for ever, and to win for myself the right to chase those tears away. Our troth-plight was the more hallowed to both of us, I know, for that it was taken in that spot, amid so many memories of her who had been so infinitely dear to both."
The Viscount paused a moment and turned away his head; and I thought none the less highly of his manhood that the memory of his departed mother had brought tears to his eyes. For a moment he paused, and then he continued his tale, speaking in a graver tone, and with less of emotion.
"Having thus opened my heart to Mary, the time had come for me to speak to my father. I went to him without fear, and yet I was aware of some small misgiving in my heart. Not that I could see how he could, by any manner of means, find aught amiss with my choice; yet I remembered how he had from time to time spoken of my marriage, and had seemed to think that a daughter of our good friend Sir William Portman would prove to be the lady of my choice. Hitherto I had only smiled when he spoke thus, and had given the matter scarce another thought, having no intentions towards marriage till Mary should be older. But I remembered it as I approached the door of his room that day, and my heart sank somewhat within me."
"But surely, my lord, your noble father could not have aught but love for one so sweet as Mistress Mary?" I hazarded.
The Viscount slightly shook his head.
"Thou wilt find as thou growest in wisdom and in years, good Dicon, that a father may love a fair maid right well, and yet not desire her for his son's wife; and that he may care little for the lady he desires to call his daughter-in-law the whiles he is very eager to betroth her to his son. I was speedily to find that my father would hear not a word of my troth-plight to Mary. He strove first to laugh; and when I would not have the matter slighted, he grew stern and hard, told me that he had other projects for me, and that in these dangerous and perilous times—for they are more perilous than thou dost well know, Dicon, and are like to be more so should aught happen to the King—no man could walk too warily. He said he had chosen a wife for me out of the family of the Portmans, as, in sooth, I had half believed, and that Mary was no fit match for me. Some wealth she had, but her lineage was not equal to mine, and, child though she was, she was deeply tainted by the disloyalty and rebellious notions of her father. He had watched with pain the development of the germs of this evil, which had been fostered by those to whom her education had been intrusted, albeit at that time he had not known this. In short, he would have none of it. He would not listen to my pleading. He told me that I was but a boy, and knew not what was for mine own good; whilst she was a child, and would say yea to any swain who came a-wooing. And since I was unwilling thus to be treated, and asserted my manhood and my unchanging devotion in the finest phrases at my command, he took another line with me, and said that I must have a chance of seeing other maidens than my Mary; and, in fine, he told me to make ready to be sent to the King's Court, where it was full time that I presented myself, and where he intended to send me forthwith."
"Was not that good news, my lord?" I asked as he paused. "Surely your lordship must have desired to see the gay world of fashion and the person of the King's Majesty?"
"I wanted nothing so much then as to bask in the sunshine of Mary's bright eyes," answered Lord Vere quickly. "Nevertheless, if that might not be, and if it were needful to prove my constancy, I was willing to obey my father; and, indeed, I had no choice but to do as I was bid. Mary herself told me that I must submit myself to my father's will; and within a week I had bidden her farewell, vowing to be constant to her for ever, and quickly found myself in London, and welcomed at Court by many of my father's friends."
"And what is the life of the Court like, my lord?" I ventured to inquire; but the Viscount laughed and shook his head.
"Ask me that another time, good Dicon, and I will give thee thy fill of stories of its follies and pleasures and wickedness; but my thoughts are with my Mary to-day, and I will not sully her name nor her image by mingling with it any of these polluted memories. I was there some three months when my father came; and I heard then from him that Mary had been sent away from Court House to Miss Blake's, or rather to Mrs. Musgrave's care, in Taunton. My father said that a maid needed the care of women—which is doubtless true; and that, now my mother was dead, there was no one here to be a companion to her. I wrote her a letter when I was able to find a safe messenger; but she was long in replying, although I begged her to let me hear from her. And when she did write, it was to tell me that she would not hold me bound by any of the words I had spoken to her; that, since it would not be for my happiness or welfare to wed with her, she freely gave me up. She bid me do my father's will without thought of her; and albeit a spirit of gentle, sorrowful love breathed in every line of her letter, not a word of love did it contain, and I understood well that my father had made her believe it would injure my fortune to mate with her, and that she was striving to help me to forget, so that I might do that which was thought by others to forward my fortunes in the world."
"Ah! that was like her—that was like her!" I could not refrain from exclaiming. "That is what all who know her say of her—that she thinks always of others, never of herself. That is why all love her so much. They say of her ofttimes that she is like one of the holy angels, so full of goodness and purity."
Lord Vere's face kindled, as I soon found it always did at any praise of Mistress Mary; but he made no direct answer, only going on with his narrative.
"It was two years before I saw Court House again; but those years had served only to deepen my love for sweet Mary. Beside the image of her which I carried always in my heart, other women looked to me like 'painted Jezebels,' as I called them in my thoughts. I never saw one amongst them who stirred my heart or recalled in anywise the feelings with which I had regarded my Mary; and when I came back, I was resolved that I would rid her mind of those false notions which had been instilled into it by others. But, alas! I was something too impetuous and outspoken, and my father got wind of my intentions. What steps he took I know not, but Mary had left Taunton ere ever I was able to ride over to seek her. All I could learn was that she had been taken away for the sake of her health, and whither she had gone my father would not tell me. Kind in all else, he was inexorable about Mary, and soon I was so seriously beset to pay my addresses to Mistress Julia Portman, that I was glad to leave Court House once more, and travel abroad or pay visits at the Court; and only of late have I returned home, having arrived at man's estate and come into possession of the fortune bequeathed me by my mother, as fully bent as ever upon winning my Mary for my wife, albeit I have learned to go to work more warily now, and to use policy in my methods."
"And does my lord the Earl know that your heart is yet unchanged, my lord?" I asked eagerly.
"To him I have spoken no word," answered the Viscount gravely. "I trow he thinks my boyish freak forgotten. What he may have said to Mistress Mary, or to those who have charge of her, to keep her from me, I know not. That he still desires an alliance with the Portman family I cannot doubt, although Mistress Julia is now wed, and it is her younger sister Edith whose praises are from time to time sounded in my ears. But I have seen Mary. I have spoken to her, as thou, good Dicon, dost know. I have read in her sweet eyes that however she may strive to turn from me, yet her heart is mine as mine is hers. Her words may be few and cold, but her eyes speak eloquent language. Obstacles and difficulties may lie in our path; but I will overcome them in the strength of my love, and Mary shall be mine at last!"
As he spoke, my very heart went out to him in his generous, chivalrous love; and stretching out my hand and bringing it down upon his charger's neck in my eagerness, I cried,—
"O my lord, what maid could stand out against such love? And if I can do aught to help you, I am your very humble and devoted servant ever."
"Good lad, I believe thee," he answered warmly. "There is something in thy face which draws me to trust thee. I have watched thee oft when thou hast little known it: for when Mistress Mary rode forth I have seldom been far away, though not often have I dared to show myself. I read in thine eyes that thou didst love her. I knew that thou wert faithful and watchful. And now, tell me true, boy: is she, as my father would have me believe, one of those who look upon the young Duke of Monmouth as the coming saviour and deliverer of this nation? And would she look with aversion and displeasure upon one who (if indeed in days to come it comes to be a question of fighting) would be forced by duty and conviction to take up arms upon the other side?"
At that question I felt my face grow grave; for I knew right well how Mistress Mary's heart was with the Duke of Monmouth, and how she did indeed regard him as the coming deliverer of the nation, and the champion of the cause of true religion. Very deep in her heart were these matters buried. Very sacred in her eyes was the cause of him whom she often declared to be the embodiment of all that she held dear in matters appertaining to freedom of government and of faith. Could she indeed ally herself to one who was banded upon the other side? It would be a hard struggle betwixt love and duty—that at least I was sure of; and did she think also that her love would be hurtful to him to whom it was given, why, then, in very truth I thought that the scale would be turned against him.
The Viscount's face fell as I spoke to him of these matters, and told him of the assurance Mistress Mary felt, not only of the integrity of the Duke, but of his right to rule the kingdom as the legitimate son of the King; and I saw his face cloud over almost as if with impatience, as he answered sharply and decisively,—
"Why will people persist in believing a mischievous fable? If the King had a lawful son, he would be glad and thankful to proclaim him, and have done with the endless cabals and plots which are making his life a misery. Why, Dicon, there have been times when he must have been sorely tempted by his black brother's jealousy and spite, and by his love for the Duke, to proclaim him his lawful heir. But he has never done so; nay, more, when it has been almost offered to him—as it was to the great Eighth Harry—to appoint his own heir and make an end of these disastrous disputes as to the succession, he has never let himself be tempted to do this injustice to his brother. Honour has withheld him, though certainly were Monmouth his lawful son he would have acted very differently. Some say he is not the King's son at all, despite the affection between them. I tell you plainly, Dicon, that he is by no means the hero you good folk of the West Country imagine. He has many good qualities. He has distinguished himself in the Dutch wars by many acts of bravery; but he is tainted by the treachery of the Stuarts—for I will not deny that they are a treacherous race, though I am a loyal servant to the King. He is a bad husband to his virtuous Duchess. The vices of his mother are appearing in him; and though he is a stanch Protestant and a hater of Popery, yet he is not the saint and the deliverer you enthusiasts believe him. Have a care, Dicon, how you act if ever this comes to be a question of blows and of fighting; for the kingdom is not with the bastard Duke. We may not do ill that good may come, nor fight against our lawful King to set an usurper on the throne, be he never such a champion of liberty. What followed when Cromwell was ruler though not called King? A tyranny worse than the nation had ever groaned under in the King's time. The people had had their will then, and it ended in their sighing for their rightful King and bringing him back in triumph. And so it will be again if the Duke of Monmouth is ever foolish enough to try to claim the throne. I doubt me if he will ever succeed in winning it, but I am quite certain that he will never keep it; and there will be evil days then for those who take his part."
I listened with grave face and sinking heart to words which affected me more as coming from Lord Vere than they had done when spoken by his noble father and the other gentlemen. Somehow I had fancied that all young and generous souls would go out in love towards our idol the Duke, and to hear him spoken of by Lord Vere in such terms gave me a curious shock. I could not but tremble to think how Mistress Mary would take such words—she who had dreamed her dreams about the Duke till he became to her as the hero of some noble tale, as the stainless knight of romance going forth in the might of truth and righteousness to tread down all enemies with lofty courage and devotion.
Methought the Viscount would need all the charm of his grace and the attraction of their mutual love to approach Mistress Mary with such words on his lips and such thoughts in his heart; but after all, was not such love as theirs proof against all difference of opinion in outward matters? Only to Mistress Mary these things went deep, deep into her heart, and she could not regard them as mere externals.
This first ride and first talk were by no means the last; and before I left Court House (with a generous gratuity in my pocket, over and above the sum paid to my uncle) I felt that, despite the wide difference of our stations, I knew the heart of the Viscount as nobody in the world knew it, and that the word "friendship" between us was no mockery.
Heart and soul was I with him in his desire to win speech of Mistress Mary, and to plead his cause in person; and I took back with me a long letter written by Lord Vere, which I promised faithfully to deliver into her own hands, unseen by all the world, so soon as she should be returned and I could find a way of doing this discreetly.
A WINTER OF PLOTS.
I went back to my uncle's house with my head full of romantic stuff about lovers and love's dreams, and with every intention of working might and main to bring about the happiness of the two beings in whom these romantic notions centred—namely, the dashing young Viscount and sweet Mistress Mary Mead. Not only did I resolve to deliver the precious letter upon the first possible opportunity, but I also made up my mind to speak such glowing words of praise anent the writer thereof as should move the heart of any maiden, still more of one who I was very certain was predisposed to think kindly of him of whom I should thus speak. I was little versed in affairs of the heart; yet I had not read my Shakespeare so earnestly for nothing all these years, and I felt very sure that the heart of a young maid was not of adamant, and that the youthful wooing of which the Viscount had told me could not have failed to make an impression upon the tender and ardent imagination of Mistress Mary.
Nevertheless, in spite of all the eagerness on my part to set things in train for a happy consummation, I was destined to disappointment; for not only had Mistress Mary not returned to Miss Blake's house when I got back, but I speedily heard that she had accompanied her young namesake on a visit the latter was paying to some relatives in the adjoining county of Devon, and that she was not like to return to Taunton for some months to come. Moreover, I could not learn her exact whereabouts in Devonshire, only that it was at the other side of the county, and nigh to Cornwall. There was plainly no chance for me to pay her a flying visit on Blackbird. I should have to wait until she returned to her abode in the town. I shrewdly suspected that my Lord of Lonsdale had had somewhat to do with this journey of hers far away. Belike he had spoken to his friend Sir Ralph Bridges of his wish to keep his son from the fascinations of Mistress Mary, and this visit for her had been arranged between them.
Lord Vere was very sorrowful when he heard what had befallen, and declared it all part of a plot. But he was resolved that no machinations on the part of those about them should sunder him from his Mary, and made up his mind to wait in patience till she returned, and then see if he could not make shift by hook or by crook to get speech of her, and plead his cause in person. Meantime he hung much about Taunton, and improved his acquaintance with that city and with many of its inhabitants, making himself well beloved by all who saw him for his gay and winsome ways, and his gracious kindliness of demeanour to his inferiors. And doubtless this paved the way for what followed later.
I had not been home long before Will Wiseman sought me out, and with an air of secrecy and importance invited me to come when occasion served and visit him of an evening at Master Simpson's house.
"There be meetings twice or thrice in the week, Dicon," he whispered, with his finger on his lips. "Men say that the King cannot live long—that he has a mortal disease which is slowly consuming him. The friends of liberty are laying their plans, and are taking counsel together what it is best to do. They meet at Master Simpson's ofttimes, and if thou wilt come I will take care thou dost hear all that is said. Money is being got together, and men are secretly working amongst their fellows, so that at the right moment the whole county will rise as one man for the right. Come and hear for thyself; but not a word to thine uncle. He is too cautious a man to join with the friends of freedom. He desires to see how the issue will be decided ere he commits himself to take a side. That is not the stuff of which heroes are made." Will's eyes flashed with his enthusiasm; and I caught the spirit from him, and vowed I would come so soon as my duties would permit me.
What Will spoke of mine uncle was too true for me to resent. He was one of those who desired to embrace the winning side, whichever that side should be. I knew well that in his heart he favoured the cause of the Duke of Monmouth; but he was less sanguine than some of his towns-folk of the chances of the Duke's success, and he had no wish to imperil his life or his living by any unguarded movement that might cause him trouble later. He went steadily about his daily business, talking freely with all who came and went, but always professing that he had neither time nor knowledge to judge such matters. The making of kings was no business of his; all he strove after was to obey the laws of the land, and give his allegiance to the reigning sovereign.
By these methods he succeeded in keeping the confidence and liking of all men; for a pleasanter companion, and a more hearty man in his ways, it would be hard to find. If ever he heard me speak an unguarded word on great matters, he would smite me on the shoulder, and give me a kindly hint to guard my tongue, lest it should bring me into trouble, and urge me not to meddle with matters beyond my understanding. But I could not abide by such prudent counsel, and was all agog to hear what was the talk of Master Simpson's parlour, whither I repaired whenever I had the chance.
The men most frequently gathered together there for discussion and mutual encouragement as the winter drew on were the two Hewling brothers, of whom mention has been made, and who had wealth and leisure as well as good-will to expend in the cause; Master Herring and Master Hucker; a gentleman of the name of Sharpe, who was son to the Rev. Emmanuel Sharpe, who had once been Vicar of St. Mary Magdalen; and last, but not least, the two Dares, father and son, who always seemed of all present the most to incline to bold counsel and resolute action.
I should weary the reader were I to give too much in detail all that was planned and discussed at these meetings; but as the winter days drew on, and rumours from London spoke more certainly of the King's declining health, there was greater and greater desire amongst our friends to rouse in the minds of the people of the West Country a resolve to make a stand against Popery and unlawful tyranny. And I remember well how Heywood Dare stood forth one day and said that he would straightway go to Holland, find the Duke of Monmouth, and take counsel with him; whilst those who remained behind were to work ceaselessly in his interest here: so that when a blow was struck it might be a heavy and decisive one.
The Duke of Monmouth was now living at the Hague in a sort of honourable exile. The King had never ceased to regard him with affection; but the jealousies and dissensions of the Court, and the hostility of his own brother, had made him decree this thing for the sake of peace and quietness. It seemed to us that it should have been the Duke of York who ought to have been sent away; but unluckily we had no voice in the ruling of these matters. It was the Protestant Duke who had been forced to quit the country, and it certainly seemed an excellent thing to establish direct personal relations with him through the medium of Heywood Dare, a man of so much courage and devotion.
Those who worked amongst the people, sounding them and striving to kindle within their hearts an enthusiasm for the cause, reported favourably of the temper of the common people, but said that the gentry held aloof, and were not to be approached. The influence of the Earl of Lonsdale, Sir William Portman, and Sir Ralph Bridges was very great around Taunton, and all these gentlemen were loyal in their allegiance to what was termed the "Court party."
Sometimes I was called in and questioned about what I had heard at Court House of the matters appertaining to the Duke, and my reports were not favourable to our wishes. But I ventured once to hint that I thought perhaps the young lord, Viscount Vere, might be won over to our cause; and Mr. Benjamin Hewling was forthwith requested to seek him out and strive to sound him in the matter. For all those who knew most about the chances of such a struggle and the fortunes of war—should it ever come to a passage of arms—declared many times that we must have men of the better sort to lead and advise our recruits. Undisciplined soldiers would follow an experienced and gallant captain, when they would fall away in confusion and fear if they had no one above themselves to look to. I could well believe that there were hundreds who would follow the Viscount to danger and death, and fight to the very last gasp, who would turn tail and run like sheep had they only a plain townsman at their head.
How Mr. Benjamin Hewling fared on his mission I did not hear at once, but I thought in my heart that Lord Vere would scarce be adamant to a cause in which his Mary's heart was so bound up. He despised and hated the Duke of York—I knew that very well—albeit he declared his conviction of the necessity of supporting the rightful heir to the crown be he never so personally unbeloved. But if Mr. Benjamin, with his silver tongue and gentle ways, or Mistress Mary, with pleading glances and eloquent words, could make him see the matter differently, why, then, in him the good cause would have an able recruit; for my Lord Vere was skilled in every kind of martial exercise, had seen action abroad, and was of no small personal valour and gallantry.
I not unfrequently saw him in the streets arm in arm with Mr. Hewling, and I heard of him as being seen within their hospitable doors, whilst men spoke of the friendship which was growing up between him and the two brothers, of whom all men thought so well. That they were growing to be friends was evident enough, but whether the brothers Hewling would persuade him to look at public matters with their eyes was what none could say as yet.
Things were in this way at the approach of Christmas, and of that busy festive season which kept me so close at home that I could scarce stir abroad in search of amusement or information. There seemed to be nothing but coming and going from morning till night—the lack of rain, which still continued even during the winter, making the roads better for travellers, and the excited state of the country tending to make men restless and anxious for news.
But what excited me more than the rumours from London or the preparations for Christmas-tide was the return of Mistress Mary to Miss Blake's house just before the festive season came.
I did not know that she was back; for the school had broken up for the recess, and my informant Lizzie, who kept me conversant with what went on within those walls, had not heard anything of the matter when I was asked to come and read to the ladies, as I was in the way of doing from time to time. When therefore I entered the parlour, with my book beneath my arm and the most recent news-letter in my hand, who should be there, in her accustomed seat beside the fire, but Mistress Mary Mead, looking as sweet and lovely as ever, though perhaps a little pale; and seated beside her, with his hungry, cruel-looking eyes almost always fixed upon her face, was the Rev. Nicholas Blewer, the man whom above all others in Taunton Town I feared and hated.
How came he there? and how dared he sit beside Mistress Mary as though it were his right, and keep his evil eyes so constantly upon her face as he was doing now? I felt my blood boil in my veins as I saw him, and I should well have liked to take the knave by the throat and fling him out at the door. But instead I was forced to sit in my place and read to him as well as to the rest, and listen to his comments upon the news of the week—comments which, as I well saw, brought the flush of anger many times into Mistress Mary's cheek. For Mr. Blewer was a bitter enemy of those who held for liberty and the Duke; and it was whispered that at heart he was a Papist, and every whit as cruel as the Duke of York.
Now I trust that in thus speaking of Mr. Blewer it will not be thought that I would willingly speak evil of any man called to a holy office, or that I have any hatred towards the clergy of the Established Church of the land, for this is far from being the case. I hold that we owe them all reverence and honour, and, as these pages will show, I account Mr. Axe a great and noble man, albeit he took our contrary part in the struggle I am coming to. Yet inasmuch as there are black sheep in every flock, and as the cassock and surplice do not do away with a man's evil nature—nay, the very fact that a man of unbridled passions should blaspheme the name of God and the Holy Ghost by taking upon himself vows for which he is unfit, makes his office of necessity a mockery and a stumbling-block—so it always has seemed to me that if an ordained priest of God is untrue to his calling, he becomes a much worse man than if he had not mocked God by taking such vows into his lips. At least I can but say that Mr. Blewer always appeared to me to be an emissary of the Evil One disguised as a servant of God, and I am sure that Mistress Mary shrank from him as though he were indeed such an one.
It was a great matter of wonderment to me how he came to be in Miss Blake's parlour, for I was sure that neither she nor Mrs. Musgrave had any love for him. These ladies and their pupils (such as resided beneath their roof) attended service at St. Mary's Church, as it was considered right and proper to do, and Mr. Axe was revered and beloved by them. But why this evil-faced Mr. Blewer was admitted was a source of much perplexity to me, and my perplexity was turned to alarm when I perceived that upon rising to take his leave he saluted Mistress Mary's hand with a look which could not well be mistaken, and made as though he would have gone further and saluted her lips also had she not drawn herself away with a decision that was not to be mistaken.
I saw an ugly look spring into his eyes at that, and thought his smile more hideous than a frown would have been.
"Ah well, I must be patient, sweetheart," he said. "We shall learn to understand each other better in time."
Then, with a bow which included all the ladies, he retired, and I was almost astonished to see gentle Mistress Mary dash the hand that he had kissed against the marble mantel-shelf with such force that she must have bruised the tender skin.
"That odious man!" she cried, with unwonted heat. "Prithee, dear madam, have pity upon me, and let him come here no more."
"Dear Mary, I like him as little as thou," answered Miss Blake, with a shake of the head. "I know he is an evil creature. But what can I do, when your worthy guardian bids me give him access from time to time, that he may pay his addresses to you, and tells me that he does this with his approval and consent?"
I almost gasped at this, for I began to see that Mistress Mary was like to be made the victim of a plot which seemed vile and base to me, although I was certain that Lord Lonsdale had no idea of acting unjustly or cruelly. Doubtless he would think Mr. Blewer a suitable husband for his ward. No one knew aught against him, so far as I had ever heard, and he had some money, and came of a family as good as Mistress Mary's. To get her safely and quickly married would, of course, be the easiest way of keeping her out of the path of his son. I could not wonder at the turn matters had taken, and yet my heart felt hot within me as I thought of the Viscount and then recalled the cruel, wolfish face of Mr. Blewer.
That night, as I reached my room, I stepped out upon the balcony and eagerly scanned the windows of the house I had just quitted. Once or twice it had been my hap to see the fair face of Mistress Mary looking out from a window not very far away; and to-night fortune favoured me, for I had not been at my post more than a few minutes before a curtain was drawn aside and a gleam of light shone out. Then quickly a casement was flung open as if by an impatient hand, and Mistress Mary leaned out into the clear frosty night as though eager to inhale the fresh cold air. I thought I heard a sound break from her like a sob or a sigh. That she was in perplexity and trouble I could not doubt, and I longed with a longing that would brook no delay to go and comfort her.
I looked into the yard below. All was perfectly quiet and tranquil. I scanned all the windows of both houses, but no light shone from any save Mistress Mary's. I stood above her in my balcony, clasping the letter I had dashed in to fetch in my hand. The next minute I had hidden it in the breast of my doublet, and was swinging myself like a monkey from balcony and waterspout to balcony and waterspout, till my movements attracted her attention, and she gave a little cry of fear.
"Hist, mistress!" I cried in a low voice; "fear not. It is I—Dicon Snowe. I have somewhat to say to thee, and somewhat to give. Have no fear; I will reach thee without hurt."
For if my back was crooked, and my legs not of great service for long walks, I had a length and strength of arm that made amends for much, and such a transit as this was but child's play to me. I was soon upon the balcony outside the window by which she stood; but I came no further, knowing my place better than to intrude upon her.
"Mistress Mary," I said eagerly, "I have a letter for you from my lord the young Viscount Vere. I have had it these three months, but never have seen you to deliver it. I sware to him I would not let it leave my hands till I could place it in yours. Take it and read it; and if there be any answer, I will make shift to deliver that. For I love my lord as much as he deserves to be loved by high and low; and since I know his heart is bound up in love for you, I would fain carry him good tidings."
It was perhaps overbold of me to speak so, but my heart seemed burning within me; and although Mistress Mary's cheek glowed and she turned away with her letter, yet I saw the soft light which had come into her eyes, and I knew that her heart was not cold to him, however she might have schooled herself to think she must thwart his love.
She read her letter from end to end whilst I stood and watched her, though since she discreetly turned her back to me I could not see its effect upon her. Nevertheless, when she turned round I was sure there were tears upon her cheek, and I did not think that they were tears of sorrow.
"O Dicon," she said, coming forward towards me with the confidence that a sister might show to a brother, "Lord Vere says he has told all the story to thee. What must I say? What must I do when there be so many things against it, and it will hurt him so with his father if I let him have his way?"
"Methinks, lady, it will hurt him the more if you be cruel to him," I answered eagerly; "for his very heart is bound up in this matter, and he has been faithful all these years."
"I know it, I know it! How can I doubt it, and how could I help loving him, when he was suffered to be all the world to me in days of yore? But a maid may not always wed as her heart prompts, and I would suffer untold woe myself sooner than hurt him. And it has been said to me that it would hurt him grievously if I were to wed with him; and in very truth there be many and grievous barriers betwixt us," and she sighed heavily, whilst a cloud came over her face.
I guessed of what she was thinking, and that it was the different view they took of the coming strife, and I knew not how to reassure her here; but I ventured to remark,—
"But Mr. Blewer hates the cause of the Duke and of freedom as my lord the Viscount never would. Sure it were better to marry a noble foe than one so cruel and false!"
"Marry Mr. Blewer!" cried Mistress Mary, with a vehemence I scarce believed her capable of; "sooner would I die than do that! Nay, come what will, none shall coerce me there. I can live and die a maid, if Heaven so will it, but I will never wed with yon bad man!"
Right glad was I to hear her speak with such spirit and resolve; for we of the stronger sex are always half afraid that women may be cajoled or coerced into anything if only the persecution be determined enough. Yet I could not get her to intrust me with a letter to Lord Vere, nor yet with a direct message; only when I said that I would tell him what had passed betwixt us twain, she did not say me nay.
I had no rest till I had got speech of the Viscount and had told him all that had passed. His brow darkened ominously as he heard of Mr. Blewer, and of his own father's support of such a suit.
"He had better have a care how he goads me," I heard him mutter through his shut teeth; "he may chance to find he has gone too far an he treat her and me thus."
Then I told of the interview I had had with Mistress Mary, and his face kindled at the recital. As I finished he burst forth,—
"They have made her think she will injure me by her love. I must see her myself, and show her the folly of that belief. Dicon lad, thou art a trusty comrade; thou must do yet one thing more for me. Thou must show me how I may get secretly to the balcony of my lady's room, and so have speech with her, no man but thee knowing it. Once face to face with her, I warrant I will chase away her fears and her doubts. Thou shalt keep thy watch whilst I speak with her; nor will I enter her room, but only stand without as thou hast done. But see her I must, else shipwreck may come of the happiness of two lives. Wilt thou help me in this, good Dicon?"
I think I would have helped him to whatever he asked with such a look and smile; but anything so like a repetition of the romantic story of Romeo and Juliet kindled my ardent enthusiasm and interest. I had very small doubts myself that Mistress Mary would be at her window again to-night, half repenting her of her refusal to send a message, and on the look-out for more news of her lover; therefore as soon as the house was quiet I showed the Viscount how the transit to the balcony might be made, and myself stood in another balcony commanding all the windows, just out of ear-shot, but in full view of the lovers, and ready to give them any assistance by warning or counsel.
It was a bold scheme, but like many such it won its reward. My lord had not waited there above ten minutes before the curtains were drawn back, the casement opened, and then, with a little cry which penetrated even to my ears, Mistress Mary came face to face with her lover.
I was very happy at the success of this experiment; but I confess I had time to grow very cold before the casement closed again and my lord called cautiously to me to join him. I did this without much trouble, and then showed him how he might reach the ground without danger of falling. Soon we stood together in the paved court-yard of the inn, and he grasped my hands in both of his, whilst I could see that his eyes were shining as brilliantly as stars.
"Dicon," he said, "thou art the best and truest of comrades. I will never forget thy good offices this night."
And I felt already abundantly rewarded for what I had done.
It was not my place to ask questions, but surely there was no need in face of my lord's joyous and triumphant bearing. He seemed to tread on air. He passed his arm through mine, and drew me forth into the street with him through the arched gateway, which was not closed at night in quiet times; nor did we pause till we reached the bridge and stood looking down into the flowing dark waters together.
"I could walk all night for very happiness!" cried the Viscount, with that exhilaration of spirit which comes from a deep joy. "Can England itself boast a fairer and more gracious maid than my Mary? Ah, the days will come when my father will rejoice to welcome her as a daughter! None could stand long against such sweetness and beauty."
Then, his energies having been spent in pacing awhile through the frosty night, we turned our steps homewards. I gained ingress by means of a small side door, the key of which I had in my pocket; and my lord slept that night at the Three Cups, and rode forth in the morning; whilst a white hand was waved for a moment from a window above the yard, and then quickly withdrawn.
The next time that I was able, at Will Wiseman's eager instigation, to find my way to Master Simpson's when a meeting had gathered there, I saw Lord Vere enter arm in arm with Mr. Hewling; and Will gave my ribs a triumphant dig with his elbow as he whispered joyfully,—
"See, we are getting nobles to join us at last. Mr. Hewling has prevailed with my lord Vere."
I nodded, keeping my own counsel; but I had a shrewd notion that something else besides the arguments and persuasions of Mr. Hewling had prevailed to make a convert of the Viscount.
"LE ROI EST MORT."
"Dicon! Dicon! Come down, lad; come down! The whole town is beside itself, and we want thine eyes and thy tongue here. Get up and come down. Lose not a moment! Heaven help us all if the thing be true!"
I was roused from my sleep on a bright February morning by the hearty tones of my uncle's sonorous voice. I lost not a moment in springing up and hurrying into my clothes, for there was an urgency in his manner which betokened that something unwonted was afoot.
Truth to tell, I was later abed than was my wont, owing to having aided my Lord Vere to another stolen interview with Mistress Mary the previous evening, followed by a second stolen interview at Mr. Hewling's house, where some important letters had been read and discussed, and where Mr. Speke, from Ilminster, had attended, and had given an encouraging report of the state of public feeling in his part of the world.
It was now known all over the country, I suppose, that the King was grievously ill and like to die; albeit there were many who declared that he would be given back in answer to the prayers from the churches. I suppose all men who had any sort of love for their country or interest in public affairs felt grave anxiety just at this time. For there could be small doubt that it would go hard but that bloodshed of some kind there would be, were the Duke of York to succeed to the throne; and yet there seemed no other to take that place, seeing that the Duke of Monmouth was an exile, and that he would have to fight for the crown ere he could hope to wear it. Men who remembered the horrors of civil war a generation back, the disruption of families, and the bloodshed and confusion, shook their heads mournfully, and advised any submission rather than a repetition of such fearsome things; but we of younger and rasher spirit—we who had never tasted of such horrors, but looked only on the glory and honour to be reaped in warfare—felt very differently. I think I, despite my physical deformities, should have been grieved to the heart had any prophet arisen to say that there would be no fighting in our days. The martial spirit had seized upon me. I, in common with others, watched eagerly the marshalling and exercising of the train-bands and militia whenever they assembled under their leaders; and although we knew right well that they were thus mustered and put through their exercises with a view to showing the towns-folk how useless would be any rising of the rabble, when these bands could at once be brought out to crush it, yet knowing the individual men in the ranks, we were certain that half of them at least were hot in the cause of our Duke, and that if the chance for joining him arose, they would come over, arms, ammunition, bright-coloured uniforms, and all.
But I must return to that day when the great news reached Taunton. I rushed downstairs, finishing my toilet as I did so, to find all the lower rooms filled with excited folk who had come in from the streets the moment the news had got wind, and were so crowding round a travel-stained messenger that it was some time before I could approach near enough to hear what he was saying. But I did not need to do that to know what had happened, for the news was in every mouth,—
"The King is dead! the King is dead! God save us all! The Duke of York is proclaimed King in his stead!"
"The King was poisoned by his brother!" whispered a voice in the crowd. I know not whence it came; but the word was taken up in the lowest of tones, and one heard it go surging along accompanied by a sort of shuddering sigh, as though men half feared to utter the fearful words. Other wild whispers soon got afloat. Some vowed it was the Queen who had administered the poison in her intolerant jealousy; others, that it was the notorious Duchess of Portsmouth; but the favourite and most lasting impression of those who believed that foul means had been employed to put the King out of the way, was that his brother the Duke had contrived to poison him, either through his snuff or in his food,—and since he was the man of all others to reap advantage from that death, the opinion flourished and gained ground amongst his enemies apace.
But crowding round the weary messenger, who had galloped to Taunton with the news since noon the previous day, we strove to learn from him every detail of the calamity; and he told his tale again and again.
That the King had been out of health since the fall of the previous year was a thing known to all the country. Some called it gout, and said it was a matter of small moment; others shook their heads over it, and said it showed a break up of the sound constitution which had hitherto marked the monarch. But although there had been much anxious discussion as to the succession, men were not really prepared for this sudden end to the King's life; and when we heard that he had been only four days actually ill, the end did indeed seem to be sudden.
But the terrible thing to us was the story with which the messenger said that all London was ringing—namely, that upon his death-bed the King had been admitted into the Romish Church; that a priest had been found and brought to him by his brother; and that all the courtiers, with the exception of the Earls of Feversham and Bath, had been turned out of the room whilst extreme unction had been administered, and his Majesty confessed and shrived by the priest found with some difficulty for the office.
This was indeed grave news; for if the Duke of York had acted thus, was there any hope but that he would openly profess the Romish faith when he was set upon the throne? At once a vision of Smithfield fires rose before the mind's eye of numbers and numbers of those who heard the story. It seemed to us that with a Papist King, a man notorious for his cruelty and love of inflicting misery and bloodshed, any sort of horror was possible. What wonder that faces grew pale, that we looked at each other in silent amaze, whilst the women wept aloud and gathered their children into their arms as though to protect them from some menacing peril!
"And the King himself, what did he say?" was asked in many quarters. "Did he speak of the Duke—the Duke of Monmouth? Did he say aught of him and his rights?"
The messenger shook his head as this question reached him. The man was one who knew our Duke and thought well of him. He was a West Country fellow himself, and not yet vitiated by the atmosphere of the Court in which he had lived so long.
"His Majesty called for his other children," said he—meaning, of course, children born out of lawful wedlock; for, as all men know, the Queen was childless, to the great grief of the nation—"but of the Duke of Monmouth no word was spoken. The King did not breathe his name—so, at least, it is averred. None dared to speak of him, the Duke of York standing by. Nay, my friends, I fear me there is no hope for England in that quarter. The Duke of York is King in his brother's stead. But what we may lawfully do to stand by the laws and the rights of our nation and our faith, that let every man do to the utmost that is in him. James may wear the crown and be called King, but we will have no tyrant forcing us to a faith against which we have fought and triumphed years ago. He may rule us indeed, but he shall not make of us Papists nor slaves!"
A muffled cheer went round the room as these words were spoken; but many were there standing by who did not endorse the first part of the speech, but cast looks one at another which seemed to say that it would go hard before they would acknowledge a Papist King!
Then a news-letter was produced, and I was called upon to read it loud whilst the weary messenger supped. Of course it stopped short before the death of his Majesty, but it gave an account of the life of the Court up till the time of the King's seizure; and gay and scandalous, indeed, did the history of the last Sunday evening read to us quiet and sober country folks. Women shook their heads as they heard in whose company the King spent his time, and whispered that death had come as a judgment from heaven. Yet few eyes were dry as the letter spoke of the sufferings of the King, and of his fortitude and courage under them.
"After all he was the King, with all his faults and vices," they said; and we all felt how little there was of kingliness in the dark Duke who had succeeded him.
I conjured up before my mental vision the picture of the other Duke as I had seen him a year or two back, his handsome open face, his winning address, his kindly grace of manner, and his care and love for all his poorer subjects (for so did I call them even now in my heart). How could I help trusting in him as the rightful King, when his touch had made me whole, as only the touch of a true King's hand could do?
I found myself telling the story again almost ere I knew it, and the messenger, who was working steadily at the platter of good victuals before him, kept throwing keen glances at me and at the people round, and making odd sounds the while.
I had hardly finished the reading, and the telling of my well-known tale, before a little stir in the crowd announced an arrival; and looking over the heads of the people—for I was set upon a stool to be better heard and seen—I beheld the cadaverous visage and lantern jaws of Mr. Blewer. He came in looking to right and left with his sharp, ferret-like eyes, and his ears seemed to be on the alert to catch any words that might fall from unwary lips. Something in the sinister aspect of the man, and in the loathing with which I had come to regard him, caused the words I was reading to die away upon my lips, and the sudden silence which fell upon me attracted the attention of all present to the entrance of the new-comer.
Mr. Blewer was little beloved in Taunton. It was firmly held by many that he was nothing more nor less than a spy in the interests of the Duke of York, or the King as we must needs learn to call him; unless, indeed—but such things are best not spoken too openly. There were only too many rogues abroad in the world who lived by selling information to one or other of the different parties at Court, and men were strongly of the opinion that the Rev. Nicholas was one of these miscreants. His very appearing so stealthily in our midst at this time of excitement seemed to augur ill, and the murmur of voices died into silence as he made his way into the room.
"Have a care, good people, have a care!" he said, with a leering smile that was uglier than his scowl. "I thought I heard some suspicious word—some phrases that savoured too much of sedition! Have a care how you let your unruly member run away with you! There be birds in the air to carry such words whither ye would not. If God has thought good to take one monarch to Himself, He has given us another of the same name and race to set upon the throne. Let us thank Him from our hearts for this great goodness, and cry aloud in joy and gratitude, 'Long live King James!'"
As he spoke he lifted his hat and waved it above his head, and all who wore theirs instinctively uncovered, and many amongst us, led by the hearty voice of my uncle, strove to raise the shout, "Long live King James the Second!" But the words seemed to stick in the throats of many; and Mr. Blewer looked sharply round upon us, saying, with that evil smile of his,—
"Why, that is but a sorry shout for a new-made King; but perchance your loyal hearts are too full yet of grief for our noble King Charles to give a right royal welcome to his successor!"
"Ay, sir," said my uncle; "that is the case with us. We can scarce yet rejoice in the thought that any other sits in the place of good King Charles, be he never so great and good a prince. Prosperous and peaceful has England been beneath his fatherly sway; and sad are we to learn that he is no more, though I trow that Taunton men will not be lacking in loving loyalty to his successor."
Many asseverations of this kind were made, and the talk grew animated and general. Being no longer required to read the news-letter, which Mr. Blewer had taken into his own hands, I slipped away through the throng, and found myself face to face with Will Wiseman, who caught me by the arm and drew me forth into the street with him.
"It has come then, Dicon!" he whispered, evidently in great excitement: "the King is dead, and another King must sit upon the throne. But whether King James the Second, as in sooth he will be, will be—"
"Hist, Will, be not so rash!" I exclaimed, drawing him into an entry and looking nervously round; for I had caught some caution from the precept and example of my uncle, and I knew that men had paid dear before now for rash words spoken under stress of excitement. "Take heed how thou speakest. If Mr. Blewer were to hear thee, it might go ill with thee in the days to come."
"A pest upon his ugly face and meddlesome, prying ways!" cried Will hotly; for he hated Mr. Blewer even more than I did, and with some reason, since that worthy had done many an ill turn to his master, and had dealt many cuffs and hard words to the lad himself.
Will, as ill-luck would have it, had in his pocket a piece of chalk, and being gifted with the power of drawing lampoons with a wondrous ease and dexterity, he solaced himself by drawing upon the wall, as we stood, two representations of Mr. Blewer, in both of which his hideous face, lantern jaws, and great cavernous mouth were delineated with more truth than flattery. In the first of these pictures the clergyman was represented as preaching from the pulpit, the ungainly action of the man being hit off with wondrous fidelity. In the other he was portrayed as being whipped by the hangman at the cart's tail—a fate we had amused ourselves by prophesying for him sometimes when reckoning upon the good days which Taunton should enjoy when "King Monmouth" should be upon the throne. In both pictures his mouth was equally wide open, and beneath each Will wrote, in rude letters,—
"THE WORSHIPFUL AND REVEREND MR. NICHOLAS BLEWER
EXTOLLING THE DIVINE RIGHT OF KINGS."
I doubled myself up with laughter at the clever picture, and a small crowd of laughing men and boys gathered round to admire. We were passing comments far from flattering to Mr. Blewer, and Will was touching up his handiwork so as to make the likeness a little more frightful, when a sudden scattering of the bystanders and a few words of whispered warning made us turn suddenly, to see Mr. Blewer himself regarding us with a baleful light in his eyes, and such a scowl of malevolence upon his brow that I wished Will's talents anywhere else at that moment. I drew him away as fast as I could, but not before we heard the harsh, grating tones of Mr. Blewer's voice following us,—
"Very good, Will Wiseman, very good. It will not be the fault of Nicholas Blewer if thou dost not taste the discipline of the hangman's whip before he has done with thee."
"O Will, why didst thou do it?" I asked, in an access of fear and trembling. "My uncle ever teaches us to speak with respect of dignitaries, even though they be none of the best. I fear me we were wrong in this, and shall suffer for it. Mr. Blewer is not a man who forgives or forgets."
"Let him remember an he pleases—I care not," answered Will, who had a much higher courage than I, and far more of that reckless daring which I read of with envy and admiration, but never attained to myself. It was one of the things I most admired in him, though it sometimes made me fear that he would get into trouble sooner or later.
We walked back to his home together, talking eagerly of the great news of the day. Personally, we had no especial regrets for his late Majesty, and could not but rejoice in the prospect of the coming strife; for that England would calmly accept James Duke of York as her King was a thing incomprehensible to us, owing to the element of faction in which we had been living. We ourselves so thoroughly believed in the rights of the exiled Monmouth, that we could not credit or understand that these had never been greatly believed in by the mass of the nation, and that the King's brother was likely to obtain all the support of the lovers of established monarchy, as well as of those who, whilst personally regretting the character of the man, would not be a party to a measure of exclusion which should keep the true heir from the throne, or favour a possible usurper.