When, at the proposal of Mistress Katharine, the ladies left the hall, they proceeded to the Lime Walk: here they separated, Aunt Alice taking Sophia Lambert aside to show her a late addition to her aviary, and Katharine leading forward Jane towards the fish-pond, where, upon a low bench, placed under the broad arm of a noble cedar, they sat down quietly in the shade.
Under all the disadvantages of a most neglected education, and a rusticity of manner very near to rudeness, Jane Lambert had some rare and valuable qualities, which greatly endeared her to those who took the pains to discover them. This Katharine had done. As for the last three years she had been thrown much into the society of the Lamberts, owing to their residence at Bolton Grange, and the frequent, but yet unavoidable, visits of Sir Charles, she had studied all their characters thoroughly; and the result of her observation satisfied her, that in Jane there was at the bottom a fund of sterling worth, high courage, and genuine affection. Her attainments were few and very imperfect; but she had a vigorous and a healthy intellect, which digested well the best and most generous sentiments of the few books which she was careful to read. Not a tenant or cotter upon the estate of her brother but had a look of honest love for Mistress Jane; and the falconers and foresters were proud of a bright lady who knew their craft so well, and had so true an eye for the slot of a deer or for the dim-seen quarry. If any poor man had a favour to ask of Sir Charles, it was through her, as the ready advocate of all who needed help or implored mercy, that the petition was preferred. Her admiration and love for Katharine Heywood were unbounded: she looked up to her as a model of exalted excellence, and with that affection which partakes of reverence; not that this was of a nature to check or chill the natural display of fondness in their ordinary intercourse; but at times the power of the loftier sentiment over her was so great, that her exuberant and unguarded levity would be in a moment abashed and driven away by one look from Katharine. Thus it had been to-day at table; and now, as they sat, she pressed her hand upon the shoulder of Katharine, and leaned her cheek upon it, and said feelingly,—
“Dearest cousin Kate, why did you look so very sad and so very grave to-day? I was only joking; do not be angry with me, my sweet coz: I shall fret if I think you have been really angry.” Katherine bent her face and kissed the presented cheek.
“Was I ever angry with you, Jane?” she asked. “You know that I never was; but it is true that you often make me very anxious for you, and sometimes quite sad, by your ill-timed and thoughtless gaiety. Consider a little more the consequences of idle words, and their effect on strangers.”
“Well, my dear, I will: but there is no harm done, for I do not look upon Juxon as a stranger; and he is so sensible, and so good-tempered, that he will never take any speech by the wrong handle, and so honest and straightforward, that he will never look under it for a hidden meaning.”
“But yet, Jane, even Juxon will think it odd, that while the victim of your brother’s passionate frenzy still lies on a couch helpless with his wound, and while your brother, who has narrowly escaped committing the heaviest of crimes, has absented himself for very shame, his sister should sport, as if nothing had happened, and be as playful in her words as a girl without care.”
“Do you think so? I should be sorry for that: but you know that I do not love my brother; and Cuthbert is safe from all danger, and out of all pain; and you are well, cousin, and not the sadder for this accident, if I know your heart as well as I love your happiness; and why then should I not appear cheerful, when, in truth, I am so. I should be vexed, indeed, if Juxon thought the worse of me; for he is one whose good opinion is worth having; but as for that of the world, I care not a jot about it.”
“There you are wrong, dear Jane: the opinion of the world may, and must be, in some things, despised, but the rule of its established proprieties and gentle observances can never be transgressed, without bringing some heavy penalty on the offender.”
“I do not love the world so well, dear Katharine, as to care for either its frowns or its favours; and I looked not for an advocate of its cold maxims and its deceitful forms in you—let it see me as I am.”
“There is your error, Jane: it cannot, it will not, it cares not to take the trouble to see you as you are; it looks only at your seeming; and though to be is better than to seem, and many seem fine gold that are but base metal, yet no one can despise the judgment of the world without rashness and without danger. They who place themselves above the opinion of the world, and the best rules of society, cast off a useful and an appointed restraint in the discipline of life.”
“Sweet coz, I love to hear you lecture, but you will never make me wise: I was born under a common star, and reared with foresters:—look as I like, and speak as I think.”
“Ah, dear Jane, you will some day learn to govern your bright looks, and to keep your sweetest thoughts locked closely in your heart. Wisdom herself, and, perhaps, though God forbid, sorrow will be your teacher.”
The serene eyes of the majestic Katharine were clouded, for a passing moment, with such a sadness as a compassionate angel might have worn; and she pressed Jane tenderly to her breast.
“Promise me,” she said, “dearest cousin, promise me faithfully that you never again hint even to any human being, the idle fancy that hung this morning on your lips, or the name you would have connected with it.”
“The promise has been already made in my own mind: your look was enough to make me wish the light word unspoken, and the tongue that uttered it blistered for a month to come. You are the only one at table who could have understood my allusion. I am certain that the most distant thought of my meaning could not enter the mind of your father or your aunt.”
“This, I believe, and it is well it should not: the bare suspicion, harboured in his mind, would make him miserable for life, and embitter his last moments with unworthy fears. I know his nature well: much as he loves me, and confides in me, to pacify his anger, and quiet his jealous apprehensions, would be, even for me, an impossible achievement; and yet he knows, or should know, that I am an English daughter.”
“How is it, Katharine, that you command all hearts? that not a man approaches you but he is at once, as by some sweet force, compelled to love you? and yet it is no wonder: there cannot be on earth another Katharine.”
“Cousin, this is idle and wicked talk; you must not use such vain and sinful words: would you could see me as I see myself, when, prostrate in weakness, I implore and find strength where alone it is to be obtained; but you cannot understand me yet.”
“Nay, Katharine, do not rebuke me so sharply for simple truths: why Charles himself is so tamed and altered for the day whenever he returns from Milverton, that I have sometimes been selfish enough to wish to see you his, in the hope that I might find a brother changed in nature; but no, dear Kate, I love you too well ever seriously to dwell on such a desire.”
“Jane, do not, prithee, do not pursue this foolish fancy further.”
“It is not fancy: can I not see? have I not eyes, and the perceptions and sympathies of woman? I tell you, the poor woe-begone scholar, that lies lonely on his couch above there, did look upon you as good men look up to the blue heavens.”
“Cousin, I will not stay another moment with you if your discourse is not changed to some better tone than these weak and unwomanly delusions of your idle brain do give it.”
“As you will, blessed coz, I say no more; but one need not be very deeply read in love-craft to prophesy that one of these fine days the worthy young rector of Old Beech will tell you that himself which I may not tell you for him.”
“Jane,” said Katharine, as she slowly rose, and they moved back towards the Lime Walk, “you are not, my dear girl, serious, I hope, in this last surmise: you are not in earnest: it would greatly perplex and trouble me if I thought you were, and had good reason: about Cuthbert I am sure that you are altogether mistaken.”
“No, Katharine; I am a poor unfashioned creature, with little knowledge of the world, and little skill in books, or fair accomplishments: but this one gift I have,—I can read the human countenance, and see written thereon the thoughts of the heart, the play of the secret passions, the inclinations of the inner will, in characters plain to my faithful eye, and plainly I repeat my conviction that both these men do love you. The one will give you no trouble: his flame will burn within his melancholy heart, like a lamp glimmering in a tomb; but the other will make open avowal of what he is proud to feel, and will surely be courageous enough to confess: now do not look so pale and grave, but thank me for the timely caution. Kiss me, sweet coz; my sister is calling for me, and we must go.” The tall and queen-like Katharine folded her young cousin to her heart; and Jane felt a tear fall heavy on her cheek as they embraced and parted.
Katharine had one of those fine and stately forms which the sculptor of ancient times would have chosen to copy with his happiest skill, as the incarnation of wisdom. Her features were Roman; her dark hazel eyes were long and even, and there shone in them a soft, chaste fire; her mouth was pensive; but though the expression of her countenance was ever serious, yet was it human, gentle, and she would more fitly have represented the melancholy vestal, than the calm, passionless Minerva. She returned leisurely to her favourite cedar, and seated herself in that sad repose of the mind into which even the strongest and most virtuous will sometimes allow themselves to sink, as a short relief from the internal conflict. It was clear to her that Jane had penetrated that one secret, which she would hardly confess to herself, and which she could have wished had been altogether confined to her own bosom, and that one other, from which she felt resolutely and for ever divided. It was strange that the open-hearted girl had never mentioned it before; it was well that she had only now hinted it so vaguely as to leave it impenetrably veiled to others; it was well, too, that she had thus early arrested the danger of all further discovery, and obtained from the fond and faithful Jane that promise of secrecy, on which she could safely rely. Still it was disturbing to her pure and noble spirit, that even this sweet girl should be privy to her heart’s great trial. However, Jane would understand her future silence on the subject, and well knew that those confidences, which the weaker order of women are ever ready to pour into the ear of the female friend, would never pass her lips. She held them too sacred, and she had that dignity of soul which in a sorrow of that peculiar nature is all-sufficient to itself. Could Cuthbert from his couch of patient suffering, or George Juxon from his solitary rides and walks, have looked in upon the heart of Katharine, and seen the image, which often rose before her mind’s eye, and as often as it did so was felt to be a cherished one, the former would have striven against his weak idolatry yet more resolutely than he already did, and the manly Juxon would have given to the wind his vain hopes, and would have forborne to distress her with the language of a suitor.
Katharine did not return to the mansion till long after all the guests had departed.
It was the hour of supper; but she pleaded headache, retired to her chamber, and seated herself at the window to watch the dying day. There was a universal calm in nature; every leaf was still: there was a holy hush around; colours of a blessed hue streaked the far western sky; they grew faint, they faded, and the grey gloom of a summer’s night rested upon all things. She was roused from a long reverie of sweet though solemn fancies by the entrance of her maid with a lamp, and in a few minutes afterwards she was joined by her aunt Alice.
There was never in any nature more of the milk of human kindness than in Mistress Alice:—her own disappointments had subdued her vivacity, without souring her temper, or freezing her manners. Forgetful of herself, she lived for and in the happiness of others, and her niece Katharine was to her as a daughter;—not that she exercised any thing like a mother’s control; Katharine had so ripe an understanding, and so mature a judgment, that Mistress Alice leaned upon her mind as though it were that of a sister or a bosom friend, to whose opinion she was pleased to defer her own.
She loved Sir Oliver with a true affection, but she was not blind to the faults of his character. She knew him to be impatient of contradiction, full of strong prejudices, easy and indolent—the being of habit and of custom—but violent when thwarted, and selfish when opposed. Nevertheless a kind brother, a fond father, a liberal master, and a most loyal subject. It always deeply grieved her when she heard him speak harshly of her nephew Edward Heywood, and his son Francis, for they were the offspring of an unfortunate brother, to whom she had been very closely attached from her childhood.
“This has been a trying day to me as well as to you, Katharine,” she said when they were left together. “I think my poor brother allows himself to be more troubled about public matters than is good for him; and I wish that he would avoid the mention of your unhappy cousins in connection with those subjects—however wrong they may be, they have cares and troubles enough for pity, rather than hard words and ill wishes.”
Katharine looked steadily at her aunt when she began to speak, and was rather startled at her opening words; but as she proceeded, discerning clearly it was only a sympathy in common with her own that she invited, replied, quietly, that “it was indeed very painful to see the good temper of her dear father giving way so early in times like these, which were only the beginning of troubles; but consider, dearest aunt, he has passed all his life in pleasure and ease—my blessed mother made his peace her study; and, though she could never win him to her own happiest views of the only bliss, her whole life was a transcript of those gentle and charitable sentiments which were the secret springs of all her actions. He reposed upon her character, and found a tranquillity, of which he shared the comfort, but which lived not within his own breast.”
“Well, Katharine, I am sure you follow in your mother’s path, and as far as daughter may, you supply her vacant place in his esteem and reverence. He loves you not as parent loves a child. You are his daughter, but you are also, in all seemly matters, his cherished adviser:—I have often noted it, my dear, with joy.”
“Do not humble me so sadly—my mother’s path!—alas! I am far from it—far out of the way, when I think of her exalted hopes, her self-denying life, and her settled peace; and when I look within, I am ashamed, and may well tremble at the comparison:—but yet I cherish the memory of her bright example; and the words you have just spoken shall rouse me to do all by my father, which if her sainted spirit could look down upon us she would herself approve. I know the duty of a daughter, and I know how much the happiness and the honour of a father may be promoted by her due performance of it. You have well shown me the better way. For my father, and to my father, I will devote my life, and cast self and all softer wishes behind me. When the first rough steps of difficulty are passed, the noble qualities of my father will all be seen:—bless you, Aunt Alice, for your sweet counsel.”
“My dear Katharine, you are not wont to be thus excited: your calmness and your even dignity have ever been beyond your age: I meant simply what I said, and designed not, by any hint, to stimulate you to any course of conduct beyond that which I have always observed you to pursue:—you are not well—you think too much of what may happen—troubles are fast travellers, and need not be met half way—you are not well.”
“I believe you are right—I cannot be well—the day has been oppressively hot—and my temples throb with pain.”
Mistress Alice taking from the dressing table a curious shaped bottle of eastern porcelain, which contained elder-flower water, sat down tenderly by Katharine, and bathed her temples with gentle care. The noble girl leaned back upon her chair, silent, passive, grateful:—no sob escaped her; no nervous tears were allowed to fall; but to a keener eye than that of her benevolent aunt a slight quiver on the lip, and a heaving of the folds above her bosom, quicker than the wont, might have told that very deep and painful emotions were struggling in her full heart.
Mistress Alice would not leave her till she saw her quietly put to bed, when, giving her the kiss of peace and good night as her pale cheek lay upon the pillow, she took her lamp, and went softly out of the chamber.
Restored to solitude and silence, Katharine sent her sweet thoughts and prayerful wishes to that distant land, where, upon the narrow clearing of some tall and ancient forest, in their canvass booth or rude hut, after a day of new and unaccustomed toils, her self-exiled but heroic cousins reposed: the picture of their labours was to her mind primitive and sacred—and all the images presented to her fancy were peaceful.
CHAP. X.
The good parson of Cheddar was never informed of the severe misfortune of his son till all danger was long past, and his convalescence was advanced to such a point that he could assure his parents he should soon be perfectly restored to health and to his wonted activity and strength.
Noble and his wife were both deeply affected at the thought of all which Cuthbert must have suffered, and at the considerate care which he had manifested for their feelings. His letter was brief, and his relation of the conduct of Sir Charles Lambert was given in such a calm and quiet tone that it was plain he had learned the hard lesson to forgive an enemy. Yet it contained some expressions which troubled his father with the too sure presage of that course which Cuthbert was about to follow.
He intended, it said, to leave Milverton at Michaelmas, and should recommend that Arthur, who was sufficiently forward in his studies, should be then entered at the University. “I shall not,” it added, “accompany the dear boy to Oxford; indeed, with my sentiments, it would be alike unjust to Sir Oliver and to the youth himself to retain my present office in this family. Where a tutor is called upon to conceal his opinions and suppress his feelings (on the most important and the most sublime subjects which affect the present interests of society and the everlasting happiness of man), in his daily intercourse with his pupil, both parties are very seriously injured.”
It was particularly remarked by his mother that, in this letter, while Cuthbert acknowledged, in general terms of warmth, the kindness with which he had been treated throughout his illness by the whole family at Milverton, and while he mentioned the friendliness of Juxon, of whom they had never previously heard, and dwelt still more on his deep obligations to Master Randal, the surgeon, he never even named Mistress Katharine, of whom he had spoken with such a romantic warmth in his former correspondence.
“My dear,” said Noble, “Cuthbert has been on the brink of the grave, and his mind is full of all that has been solemn and awakening in that awful experience; but it is not a good sign that he has avoided all detail of that experience to us. I doubt not that his piety has been deepened, but I am not without a fear that his head is taken up with new notions, both of doctrine and of duty, and that he was unwilling to open them out to us. However, if by any path he has advanced to a nearer and more affecting view of his Redeemer than that to which he has hitherto attained, let us rejoice and thank God. He has all along been deficient in that simplicity of view which begets humility, peace, and joy:—he refines too much on every subject which is presented to his mind; muses when he should act; speculates when he should pray; and is lost in the cold and unsubstantial clouds which veil the mountain, when he might stand upon the serene summit in the warm light of the Sun of righteousness.
“It was ever thus with him. In childhood we neglected to subdue his will, and we shall suffer, and he himself will suffer for our fond but mistaken indulgence.”
“I am sure, dear, that he was always affectionate and dutiful, and always will be.”
“Nay, Constance, that does not follow. He will always love us, I am well persuaded; but whether he will remain obedient to our wishes in those trying scenes which may sooner or later be presented to our eyes is very doubtful.”
“Well, Noble, it will be time enough to think of that when the trial comes:—happen what may, I feel certain that all will be safe and happy where you are. God ever takes good care of his own; and I always feel that there is a blessing and a guard round about our dwelling, for your dear sake.”
“Wife, how can you talk so weakly. What is there in two worms of the earth, like you and me, that should procure for us an exemption from calamity?—but this is unprofitable talking—sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof—to enjoy is to obey—and the voice of thanksgiving is melody. Let us bless God for past mercies, and bless him by trust for all future goodness.”
Their conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of Peter, to say that Master Daws, the sour precisian, who, it may be remembered, would have before prevented the customary sports and pleasures on the festival of the Mayday, was at the gate, and wanted to see Parson Noble, for a few minutes, on very urgent business.
To rise and go out and ask him into his study with all courtesy was, of course, the duty of Noble, both as a brother minister and a Christian gentleman; but it was with no doubt as to the nature and object of his visit that he did so, and with a desire to bring their interview to as early a close as might consist with common civility.
The contrast of the two parsons as they entered the study, and as Master Daws seated himself in the tall chair which Noble drew forward for him with a quick and rather, indeed, an impatient motion, was comic in the extreme, and would have greatly diverted any of Noble’s old college cronies, as it would, of a truth, the good vicar himself, could he have looked on, and been spared the vexation of playing as a principal in the dull performance.
Master Daws was a tall, gaunt, bony personage, of a stature exceeding six feet by nearly two inches: he presented a rigid outline of sharp angles from his cheek bones to his pointed and protuberant ankles. His features were coarse; his complexion muddy; his eyes round and dull; his forehead low; and there was an expression of bad temper about the corners of his mouth. His black hair was cut close, and he had thin weak eye-brows.
He seated himself with a slow solemnity of manner; placed his tall greasy cane erect between his knees, and folded his clumsy hands upon the top of it; turned up the whites of his eyes in a pretended ejaculation; and in a drawling tone delivered himself of his hypocritical errand as follows:—
“My dear brother in the Lord—thou art esteemed a master in Israel—thou hast a name to live. I would fain hope that thou art not a willing partaker of the sins of thy people; but verily they stink in the nostrils of all true Christians, who are thy neighbours. We have conferred together—we are sore grieved—we are ashamed for thy sake—and I am come to reason with thee alone concerning the abominations which are daily committed in thy parish, lest thou perish and thy people with thee.”
The good parson listened to this strange address without anger, without wonder, and without reply. The graceful ease of his composed attitude of attention,—the clear light of his kind intelligent eyes,—his high pale intellectual forehead,—his frame slender, and a little bent with the weight of advancing years, and the thin white hairs scattered on his temples,—would have made the sincere but deluded fanatic hesitate to proceed, or would have melted his remonstrance into all that was gentle and affectionate in expression. On the conscious, the interested, and the incensed hypocrite, however, his calmness had the opposite effect; and Master Daws, with a most stern tyranny of tongue, in language clumsily misquoted from the sacred books of the prophets, and grossly misapplied, went forward to denounce the wrath of Heaven against the poor rustics of Cheddar and their aged pastor. This speech we would rather leave to the imagination of such readers as may be familiar with the incongruous and disgusting jargon in which the sour zealots and the gloomy sectarians, who were then daily extending their severe notions, uttered their iron anathemas against the innocent gaieties of life. At the close of his very offensive harangue, he drew forth from his pocket a small volume in black letter, and presented it to the good vicar with these words:—
“Brother, I have been perhaps too warm; but the fire burned within me, and it is accounted the first duty of a servant to be faithful. It is my zeal for the Lord;—and herewith, in love and compassion to thy poor blinded people, and in pity to thy soul, I do present to thee for thy private reading, and for the instruction of thy benighted mind, this book, which is The Anatomie of Abuses: containing a Discoverie or briefe Summarie of such notable Vices and Corruptions as now raigne in many Christian Countreyes of the Worlde: but especially in the Countrey of Ailgna: together with most fearfull Examples of God’s Judgements executed upon the Wicked for the same, as well in Ailgna of late, as in other Places elsewhere. Very godly, to be read of all true Christians every where; but most chiefly to be regarded in England. Made Dialogue-wise by Phillip Stubbes. This wordy title-page, placing his spectacles upon his nose, he read slowly with a nasal whine, which the compression of the ill constructed spectacles he wore not a little assisted.”
“Neighbour Daws,” said Noble patiently, “I do not need thy service in this matter, seeing I have on my own shelves the book of Master Phillip Stubbes; and I deny not that it contains some godly maxims and sound precepts, and it may have done some good by its ridicule of many vanities, and its condemnation of many sins and abuses: but I think he distinguishes not between things innocent and hurtful, and tears up many pleasant flowers of God’s giving, under the dark fancy that they are poisonous weeds;—for the rest that thou hast spoken thyself concerning the little flock and fold over which the providence of God hath made me the humble and willing shepherd, I will not call thee unmannerly and uncharitable. I have heard thee with pain, though with patience; and, while I give thee full credit for sincerity in thy opinions, desire not to hear them further, now or ever again.”
As thus he spoke, he rose, and indicated by that action his wish that the interview should not be prolonged. Daws also, with a horrible smile upon his hideous face, in which was to be discerned all the mad irritation of a mean person, who felt himself despised, and for the moment baffled in producing alarm, raised himself slowly from his seat, and answered,—“Satan, the prince of hell, is lord over thy village and thy people—and he has blinded thy aged eyes, and sealed thy dumb mouth:—verily the Lord shall visit for these things, and that speedily;”—so saying, he stalked out with uplifted eyes, and as he passed the threshold stamped the dust from his feet with a vindictive action, and departed. “I wish that Cuthbert could have witnessed this scene,” said Noble, as he saw the ruthless and envious bigot pass forth out of the wicket, and stride angrily across the church-yard; “but the wish is vain.”
Upon inquiring of Peter, he learned that, on the preceding evening, this morose personage had found a dozen children playing round a small bonfire, in a glen about half a mile from the village, and celebrating, as a game of play, the festival of St. John’s eve,—the observance of which had in the present reign been discontinued. The joyous urchins, alike innocent of pagan or popish idolatry, were dancing about the flames, and tossing flowers into the rivulet, which flowed past the spot where they had kindled them, when Daws, who had his secret designs in many a walk which he took to the neighbourhood of Cheddar, came suddenly upon them, and driving them off with execrations and blows, kicked the half burned sticks into the water:—the little fearless sinners, however, making a swift and active retreat up a rock, where they felt secure from pursuit, revenged themselves by shouts and laughter; and in this the little fellow who had witnessed the ludicrous fall and flight of this same Daws on May morning, and who had been again recognised by him this evening, led the merry chorus of impudent little rebels with conspicuous glee.
Although Noble listened to this news with a smile, the severe and mischievous spirit evinced during his interview with Daws, both in language, tone, and manner, gave him more uneasiness than he chose to impart to his wife, to whom he related much of what had passed between them in a light and jocular vein. But, alone, he could not but be impressed with the conviction, that a curate of this harsh and malevolent character was a very uncomfortable and unsafe neighbour, and might hereafter prove dangerous.
However, he had now plainly paid his last visit in the quality of brother clergyman; and, if he was ever to come in that of enemy and accuser, he could only do so under the restraining guidance of that mighty, merciful, and mysterious Providence, which ordereth all things wisely and well.
The good pastor was ill qualified to counteract the intrigues, or to contend with the violence, of parties. He was a quietist, an optimist, a dweller at home, enjoying to-day, and taking little anxious thought for the morrow. His hours were divided between his parish, his study, and his garden.
Old Blount, the most honest and hospitable of English franklins, was the only neighbour with whom he could associate upon a footing of mutual intercourse: but there was not a threshold in the village which he did not often cross with some friendly inquiry or cheerful words upon his lip; not a child, that would not rather run to than from him; and the cottage curs were too familiar with his step and voice to do more than raise and turn their heads as they lay watching at the doors, when Noble passed by.
His chief recreation was the weekly visit to Wells. As regularly as the appointed day came round, the worthy parson mounted his old white mare, with her well stuffed saddle, rejoicing, in a seat covered with cloth of a pale sky blue, much faded, and he was carried at a meditative jogtrot to the fair and ancient city.
Here, at the house of his friend, he would refresh his spirits by listening to (and sometimes joining in the rich performance of) the best madrigals of the never surpassed composers of that day, and taking his part in most pleasant and tuneful exercises on the viol and the lute.
The troublous aspect of the times had of late somewhat altered the character of these meetings; and the two holyday hours were now for the most part, if not entirely, consumed in grave and anxious consultations on public affairs. The severe spirit of the church reformers of that period frowned upon every semblance of pleasure: to them the song of harvest, the dance of the village green, and the merry catch round the winter hearth, were things sinful and forbidden, and the peal of the solemn organ in the house of prayer and praise was hated as an abomination.
Yet they might have read in Scripture, in the very words of holy men of God, that “the ear of the Lord listeneth to the song of the reaper, and the joy of harvest; and that he delights not to turn the dance of the vintage into mourning, nor to make the young cease from their music:” but because the good provisions of God are daily abused by the many, who consider not the gracious Giver of them, therefore they would have the bread of all steeped in tears, and eaten with the bitter herbs of mourning. Of a truth, in some degree every Christian man, and minister more especially, must be a mourner, and is: but the spirit would fail and faint if it might not also taste the rich consolations of a hallowed joy; and if, amid the labours, the toils, and the mean cares of the daily pilgrimage, man might not stoop to gather the flower at his feet, or pause to listen to the feathered choristers of God’s own temple, it would be to refuse and put away, with a sullen unthankfulness, the comforts which the Father of mercies has provided.
Of such enjoyments Noble was most fearlessly fond. To him the world of nature was a vast and richly illuminated volume; on the various pictures of which he could pore for ever, with all the wonder, and with all the rapture, of childhood:—“his Father made them all”—that was his feeling. The arrows of trouble and disappointment fell blunted from a bosom, the shield of which was a God seen, acknowledged, and felt, in all things visible, as the very essence of love.
CHAP. XI.
The summer months at Milverton rolled swiftly on, Cuthbert slowly, but perfectly, regained his strength; and, early in August, he was once more able to walk abroad and to take exercise on horseback; but his vivacity and animation did not return with his health: he was no longer the cheerful and entertaining companion at table, or in the intervals of leisure. Sir Oliver found him a dull restraint, and wearied of his presence: even his pupil, who was truly attached to him, and was still, in the hours of study, delighted with his preceptor, felt the sad and depressing change; and if it had not been for the frequent visits of George Juxon, would have been disappointed of many of those joyous and manly exercises which Juxon delighted to encourage, and in which he excelled. The only diversions by which Cuthbert could now be attracted were fencing, and the use of the broad sword: but he practised them without a smile; and there was an earnestness of attention and a seriousness of effort about him, whenever he took a lesson from Juxon, which drove away smiles and jokes. His stamp was angry; the glance of his eye rapid and piercing; and after six weeks of occasional practice, when Juxon told him he would soon be a strong and complete swordsman, the grave scholar, so quiet and gentle in all his ways and words on common occasions, hastily and vehemently exclaimed, “Thank God.”
“For what?” asked his good-tempered instructor, “for what do you thank God so warmly?”
“It matters not, it matters not,” replied Cuthbert, hastily; “time will show.”
Juxon put down his sword, and, looking him earnestly in the face, asked him if he was well?
“What a strange question! quite well.”
“No, Master Cuthbert, it is not always that a man is well who calls himself so, or even who thinks himself to be so. We are alone; we are friends; tell me what has thus moved you; tell me what it is that has so changed and saddened you; what are the dark purposes which lie hid in your bosom?”
“Methinks this question is yet more strange. I have no purposes that be not honest; none that will not bear the light of open day; but, yet, I may not care to trouble others or myself by babbling of them.”
“Does the blow still rankle in your bosom, Cuthbert? Have you retracted the pardon uttered on your bed? And do you mean to seek out Sir Charles, and make him do battle for your revenge?”
“Master Juxon, that is not well asked: such purpose would be dark, indeed: was not my pardon spoken before God, and at the grave’s mouth? No; I forgave him as I hope to be forgiven; nay, in that it was a stab which sought my life I forgave it more readily than I could have done a blow; that, indeed, such slaves we are of pride, that might have rankled still.”
“True—I had forgotten—and my words have wronged you; but, Cuthbert, whatever are your purposes, they do not make you happy. I met you the other day riding much faster than is your wont, and your countenance was clouded, and your teeth were set, as if in hottest anger, and you would not stop, but only muttered a good morrow as you passed swiftly by. What do all these things mean?”
“They mean that I am sick at heart for England; sick for the meek man’s wrongs. I had just then met an aged countryman, his furrowed cheek newly branded, for a churchyard brawl: I questioned him closely, and found him a sufferer for conscience’ sake, falsely accused and persecuted by a godless parson of his parish.”
“Cuthbert, did the countryman tell truth? Did he name the parish and the parson?”
“He did; I know them well: in Oxfordshire was this outrage done, and the crime is not three months old.”
“Well, here is a case of wrong to be made known and to be redressed. Scandals there must be, even in the most sacred offices, when they are held by mere men. Some are cruel, and some are wanton by nature, and to punish these we have our judges and our bishops.”
“Yes we have—and the same who ruled the decisions of the Star-chamber. The wrong redressed! it would be smiled at; and if it were punished, what then? There’s nothing but the grave-worm can take away the brand from the old man’s cheek: his grandchildren will put their little fingers on the mark and ask the story of it, and he will tell them what he told me, and more. It is a hard world, Juxon.”
“And always was, and always will be. Legislation is a coarse thing: some innocent will always suffer with the guilty.”
“The guilty! is liberty of conscience guilt? Look you, Master Juxon, there are good men and true ready to stand up for that liberty.”
“And for a little more, perhaps: your secret is out; so, instead of our sword-play being mere exercise for pastime, after college fashion, I have been teaching the noble science of defence to a stout Parliamentarian, to an enemy of mother church.”
“Nay; no enemy to any persons or any institutions, but to the oppressor every where, and to oppression every where, by whatever titles or names they may be disguised.”
“You confess, then, that you wish an appeal to the sword.”
“I say not so; but if it come, as it may, and as in my present judgment it surely will, I shall be well pleased that my fingers have been taught to fight; for I would not be wanting in the day of battle.”
“I have heard you, Cuthbert, speak words of Christ’s religion since your late illness, which I have thought of so sweet and heavenly a temper, as might well engage all men to follow the truth in love. Surely the weapons of a Christian’s warfare are not carnal.”
“I tell you, the fat heart of the oppressor is proof against all other, and they that govern with the headsman’s axe must look to be wounded by the patriot’s sword.”
“Stop, Cuthbert, we’ll say no more on this subject—you are standing upon a precipice—the gulf beneath is treason.”
“Not against Heaven, Juxon; and it is a poor thing to me to be judged by my fellow man.”
“Yes, Cuthbert, against Heaven. Your father will say so.”
“Never; though it is true that my father is old and timid, and he would bear the errors of the crown in charity and in hope, rather than see them openly opposed by arms.”
“And you would punish them in the field of battle?”
“And gain a victory over the crown for the greater honour and more golden purity of the crown itself!”
“Are you so weak, Cuthbert, as to think that a crown, beaten from a king’s head by the sword, and lying soiled by the dust of a fall, can ever be replaced on the same brows with honour?—No! but among the successful rebels, some stern spirit would be found to wipe it and put it on; whose sceptre would have no peaceful globe surmounted by a dove; but would rather be a naked sword crimsoned to the hilt with blood.”
“Never, never:—you, like many good and generous persons, are the creature of prejudice and of circumstance; you do not see, and you will not believe, that the temple of true freedom needs only to be opened, and all the virtuous and the holy will flock there to worship in peace, and they will guard it alike from the rude tyrant and from the slavish rabble.”
“Cuthbert, you dream, and will awake some day in bitterness of soul. But if these be your sentiments—if thoughts like these fill your mind and colour your gloomy fancies—no wonder that your looks are sad.”
“My fancies are not gloomy. They are solemn. I am not sad, but I am serious. In visions of the night, I have seen this earth regenerate—its people walking in peace—holiness on the bells of the horses. I have heard the voice of thanksgiving and the song of praise. I have listened for sighs, and looked for tears, but there were none. I have asked about their happiness, and they have told me, ‘In this region there is no one to hurt or to destroy:—we do not teach every man his neighbour, for from the least to the greatest we all know God.’ Such have been my revelations; and I have been called, and chosen by name, to join that sacred band, which is to awaken a slumbering and captive people, and lead them forward to prepare the way for that monarchy of truth and universal love which is even now about to descend and bless mankind. The spear shall be broken, the sword turned into a ploughshare, and the sovereign Lord of all shall stand a second time upon the earth, and proclaim his promised reign of holiness and peace.”
Juxon listened to this rhapsody with awe and pain; and not without an effort to shake the strong delusion, which was evidently taking a fast hold upon the mind of Cuthbert.
“My dear friend,” he said, laying his hand gently upon his arm, “I confess that you greatly alarm me. Consider that, for the first two months after your wound, you were very weak in body; you were often obliged to have recourse to opiates to procure rest; and you was not in a state to examine the impressions made on your mind, and to separate illusion from reality. There is nothing wonderful in these phantasma having floated past your mind’s eye: it is with sounds as with sights; the music of a dream is often clear and ravishing to the mind’s ear; and our name may be thus, to our sleeping fancy, very distinctly called and connected with some message or charge of solemn import spoken as by a voice from Heaven. Or, it may be, Cuthbert, that the enemy of your soul, knowing that you can only be led aside from the path of duty and peace by the fair semblance of true religion and freedom, hath assumed these angel shapes to lure you to your ruin.
“I can understand the plain and manly language of a Hampden, but this I cannot. It is unhealthy; it is the false fire of the fanatic. Rouse your intellect, and turn away from these notions, or you will be entangled and overcome: strangle the serpent while you have strength to do so.”
Cuthbert replied only by the grave smile of one so firmly persuaded of the truth of his own convictions as rather to pity than resent the very unwelcome effort to disturb them. However, he now communicated to Juxon that, in another month (it being then the end of September), he should accompany his pupil to enter at Oxford, and should there leave him, and proceed himself to join a friend in London. This arrangement, he observed, would enable him to reach the capital about the time when the new parliament was to assemble; for it had been just resolved by the King, in his great council of peers held at York, that a parliament should be called to sit on the third of November following.
George Juxon was truly concerned to find that Cuthbert was so far gone in his views, that to reclaim him seemed hopeless; but there were so many amiable and engaging points in his character, that he could not allow any one chance of recovering him from a course which he truly thought would distress his father and destroy his own peace of mind, altogether neglected.
He was aware that Cuthbert maintained a scrupulous silence on the subjects on which he had just spoken in his intercourse with the family; but he had often observed that, whatever was the matter of discourse at table, or elsewhere, the opinion of Mistress Katharine had great weight with him. He determined, therefore, to make a full disclosure to her of the state of Cuthbert’s mind, and to engage her good offices to dissipate, if possible, the cloud of illusions which obscured or dazzled his present judgment. He was, however, obliged to defer this step by the sudden arrival of Sophia and Jane Lambert; the latter of whom instantly joined Sir Oliver and the ladies in the gallery, to communicate the arrival of their brother at the Grange, and his intention of again presenting himself at Milverton that evening, to express his sorrow to Sir Oliver for what had passed in the spring, and to acknowledge duly the frank and Christian forgiveness of Cuthbert Noble.
Juxon learned from Sophia Lambert that Sir Charles having met with Sir Philip Arundel at some place of public amusement, had demanded satisfaction of him for the insulting words which Sir Philip had addressed to him on the evening when they last parted at Milverton; that they had retired to an adjoining tavern with their friends; and Sir Philip having been wounded, the quarrel was amicably adjusted, and the parties shook hands.
By this duel, Sir Charles at once succeeded in stopping the mouth of one who would have reported the occurrence at Milverton more to his disadvantage and shame than it was yet considered among his London acquaintance, and knew that he should in some degree recover his lost ground with Sir Oliver and his neighbours in Warwickshire. For the credit of their family the sisters were naturally desirous of this; and, therefore, they had preceded their brother with cheerfulness, and with an earnest anxiety to secure him a good reception. Jane, indeed, well knew the feelings of Katharine Heywood, and loved her happiness far before that of Sir Charles; but still he was a brother, and the head of their house; and though she secretly determined to divert his attentions and his hopes from Katharine, she wished that the two families should resume their old footing of neighbourhood and frequent intercourse.
The various projects devised by the kind heart of Jane Lambert were always most readily aided by an acute and contriving mind.
She had already rendered Katharine a most important service in the matter of George Juxon’s suit, which she had put an end to before any declaration of it distressing to the fair and noble object of it had been made.
The modesty, the good sense, and the manliness of Juxon, enabled him, with very little assistance from the delicate though playful management of Jane Lambert, to discern the painful truth. He plainly saw that Katharine Heywood was not at all disposed to favour, or even entertain, his pretensions as a lover; and he made a worthy and successful effort to stifle in his breast the sentiment, which she had inspired, that he might still enjoy the privilege of visiting at Milverton as an intimate, and might attain to the happy and soothing distinction of being her true and faithful friend:—this consolation was already granted to his manly heart. Katharine saw and valued his sterling qualities; and to no one in the whole circle of her acquaintance were her manners more open, cordial, and confiding than to George Juxon.
It was a curious thing, that evening, to see with what a shy, embarrassed air the noble Cuthbert, noble even in his errors, received the silken, though forced and momentary, submission of the man, whose savage anger had well nigh deprived him of life. No looker on, ignorant of their peculiar relation to each other, at the first interview, could have remotely guessed it from the manner or bearing of either.
The cheek of Sir Charles was indeed coloured by a deep, though transient, stain of crimson, as he made his obeisance to Mistress Katharine, and took her slowly extended hand,—but with Sir Oliver he was quite at his ease immediately; not so, however, with Juxon, whose presence a little disconcerted him throughout the evening.
As the weather was, for the season, very open and mild, and as there was a fine moon, it was soon arranged by Sir Oliver, that the party from the Grange should sup at Milverton, and ride home by moonlight. To Sir Oliver the reconciliation was most satisfactory; and as he saw Cuthbert sitting at the table, as strong and healthy as before the misfortune, and as he considered the name of Sir Charles completely white-washed in society, by his duel with Sir Philip Arundel, he dismissed all further thought about the ferocious crime which he committed. It was now passed without the sad consequences which might have followed—it was forgiven—it was already dwindling into very insignificant proportions—and was soon to be altogether forgotten.
After the pleasant customs of that time, when supper was ended, the music books were introduced—the viol and lute were brought;—and an hour, or more, was delightfully spent to the health and refreshment of mind and body, in that familiar concert, where each person was expected to sing the appointed part at first sight. Among the permitted pleasures of our existence, those derived from the gift of sweet sounds, and from the divine art of musical composition, may be classed among the purest and most refined.
They sung a few of the best madrigals of Orlando Gibbons, and Bird’s rich harmony—“My Mind to me a Kingdom is;”—and they closed with a flowing glee for five voices, from Gibbons, entitled “The Silver Swan.” The summer parlour in which they sung had been found so warm that the casements were half open, and the moonlight streamed in, scarcely overpowered by the lamp, which stood upon the table, and but dimly illuminated the oaken wainscot and ceiling. Except a whispered word, to the one sitting next, on the richness of Bird’s harmonies, or on the delicate and sweet style of Orlando Gibbons, a long and silent pause followed the evening’s performance, and they seemed to be enjoying again in memory what they had just made vocal. Suddenly there stole upon them from among the trees, at a short distance, a simple and soft melody of a most tender expression. It was the music of a pipe or reed, but such as none of the party had ever heard before. The tones were various,—now full and clear; now faint and exquisite; now died away into a charmed stillness; now, again, they were heard slow, chaste, and solemn, as if the burden of the air were some sacred hymn. At last, after ravishing the ears of the astonished party, who stood at the window, or leaned upon their chairs with mute attention, by breathing forth airs of strange harmony, which none could distinctly recognise, the invisible minstrel closed the magical prelude, in heavenly and melancholy notes of surpassing sweetness, with the favourite air of “Now, O now,” by the famous Dowland, the well known friend of the immortal William Shakspeare. Not one of the party observed the sudden paleness and deep agitation of Katharine, while the sweet notes of this beautiful air were sounding in their ravished ears. All were silent, and most of them absorbed in still attention; and Katharine sat back in the shadow of the apartment, so that her countenance was hid.
“Methinks it is a spirit,” said Jane Lambert, with a smile.
“Nay, if it be,” observed Mistress Alice, “it is a good one, and has been gently bred.—I am sure I felt quite sorry when the last air ceased; and as for poor Master Cuthbert, I never saw any man so affected by music before.—Do you not observe it, Katharine?”
“I cannot wonder, because I know that Dowland is a great favourite with him; and that air, played as it was, might affect a person less easily moved than Master Cuthbert.”
“Well, Kate,” said Sir Oliver, “after all, it is but some piping stroller, perhaps, that is trudging it to Coventry fair; but, what with moonshine and fancy, you are making an Orpheus of the vagabond,—and I dare to say he would be well pleased to pipe a good fat hen out of the fowl house.”
“Really, Sir Oliver,” said Jane Lambert, “you old gentlemen are very provoking:—you have a way of knocking down all castles in the air with a crab-stick; and if we do now and then get lifted off plain ground, you bring us down again with a vengeance. Now, even I, who am not very romantic, was painting to myself some disconsolate bard of noble presence, wandering about in sad banishment from the lady of his love, and solacing his despair with the melody of this pipe, given him, I am sure, by a magician.”
“Whoever he is,” said Juxon, who with young Arthur had leaped from the window and ran to the wood, coming to the open casement a few minutes after, “he has certainly got the ring of Gyges; for there is not man or animal in that open beechery; and if any one had run forth we must have seen them in the close behind.”
“It may be, Juxon, he is perched in a tree, like your true nightingale,” said Sir Oliver.
“Nay, we looked up into the branches carefully, but could discern nothing: the birds at roost, though, had raised their heads from beneath their wings, to listen to the strange chorister. In faith, he is no common shepherd in clouted shoon, but a rare minstrel, such as poets feign Apollo. Hush! listen again.”
Again, after a playful prelude, the invisible musician performed the sweet air to which the song of Ariel in the Tempest was always sung.
“Marry, Master Juxon,” said Jane, “the precious songster mocks your pains, and gives you fair challenge to renew your hunt; but I think you might gather the night dew till cock-crow before you would find him.”
Every one seemed spell-bound till the air was done, and Jane Lambert spoke; but Juxon and Arthur now ran again to the beechery, and in a few minutes returned without better success than before.
“Well,” said Jane Lambert, “we shall soon find out who it is that this dainty spirit is come to honour; for if it be Sophy or me, we shall have him flying with us on a bat’s back all the way to the Grange; and if it be you, dear Kate, you will have more music than sleep to-night.”
Katharine was spared all reply by Sir Oliver gravely saying, “that he remembered when he was a boy that beechery was said to be haunted, and that whenever the white lady appeared it boded evil to the family at Milverton.” This old Philip had already mentioned to the servants, who stood grouped at the gate of the court-yard on the right, but none of whom had dared to venture down to the spot whence the music came, though they had seen all which passed.
Master Cuthbert ventured to observe, that the music was not like the wailing of a ghost, which came as a forerunner of grief; nor was it of such solemnity, that a spirit from heaven could take delight in it: and he doubted not that the minstrel was plain flesh and blood; that he had, probably, been arrested by the sounds of their little concert, had amused himself by responding to them with his own pleasant instrument, and had practised cleverly upon their curiosity by the nimbleness with which he had evaded their search. But Sir Oliver shook his head at this natural explanation of the mystery; and the Lamberts and Juxon, after putting their lips to a stirrup cup of spiced wine, took leave of their host, and the trampling of their horses soon died away in the distance.