To Katharine there had been no mystery: she could not doubt that the invisible minstrel was her cousin Francis, and that he was again too near for her peace or his own.
Yet such is the sweet treachery of a loving heart, that she could not be sad to know, that one so dearly, though so hopelessly, attached to her, was perhaps within sight of the very window of her apartment, and standing upon some spot where they had formerly walked together in joy. Though resolved not to grant him more than one interview, and to dissuade him from seeking any future opportunities of intercourse, she could not but admit a natural feeling of delight, that she should once more, though but for a few brief moments, look upon him, and listen to his well remembered voice. In the solitude of her chamber she found that relief and freedom of thought which her spirit needed: her wakeful night was passed in reviewing former, and in shaping out future scenes; but of this last exercise of the mind she soon grew weary, for doubt hung over all her future prospects. It was about two hours after midnight, and the house was quite still, when Katharine, in a frame of mind that ill agreed with sleep and peace, arose, and wrapped in her night robe leaned from the casement of her chamber, and gazed out upon the fields and woods, and caught the sheen of the river as it glided beneath the holy moon. The scene was calm, the air serene, and her anxious spirit was soothed by contemplation. She remained long at the window; and as she was retiring turned her eyes to the left, where, beyond the Lime Walk, she could see the black shade of her favourite cedar near the fish-pond. In the moonlight near it she discerned the figure of a man walking slowly upon the grass. Her heart beat quick in her bosom; she leaned her brow against the wall: that surely was Francis. A projection of the building threw such a shadow over her window, that her figure could not be seen, and therefore she again looked forth and cast her eyes towards the cedar. The figure near paced slowly backwards and forwards, occasionally pausing for a minute or more, as if gazing at the house. Certainly it was Francis. Forbidden all access to the mansion by the angry prejudices of Sir Oliver, he had recourse to music to tell her of his return. They had often watched the moonbeams together from the terrace below; they had often been sheltered together beneath the broad arms of that very cedar in the heats of noon, till, suddenly, as by surprise, they loved and after shunned each other, from the sad knowledge that the barriers to their union were many, were cold, and were impassable. As all these after-thoughts crossed her noble mind, she suffered herself to look upon her cousin where he kept his lonely vigil, with that deep interest which must ever be inseparable from that being in whose heart we know that our image is enshrined and cherished.
When the morning star shone brightly out the figure of Francis suddenly disappeared. Katharine now withdrew from the casement; and, exhausted by the various emotions, which had filled and troubled her anxious bosom with apprehension and with delight, she threw herself on her bed without taking off her robe, and slept so very long and profoundly, that when she awoke she found Mistress Alice seated by her side, with a look of affectionate alarm upon her kind face, and her maid frightened and in tears. It was already high noon. Katharine, however, knew nothing of the lapse of time; and imagining she might be an hour later than usual, was raising herself up with some expression about her strange fit of sleepiness, when her aunt put her hand gently upon her, and bade her lie down again. “When Master Randal has seen you, my dear,” she said, “you shall be undressed, and have your bed made, and be put to rest properly and with comfort. He is below, and has been here this half hour, but he wished that your slumber should not be broken.”
But the effort to rise had already shown Katharine the unwelcome truth—she was in a high fever:—her head ached, her lips were parched, her mouth was dry, her skin was burning.
The good doctor was instantly summoned; and having examined her case with very careful attention, directed that she should be confined to her bed, and that her chamber should be kept dark and still.
“It was a violent fever,” he said, “which would probably, in another stage, take an intermittent form;” but evidently, from the doctor’s manner, it was a case of danger, demanding great watchfulness and skilful treatment.
Promising Mistress Alice that his visits should be as frequent as possible, he returned to Warwick at speed, accompanied by a servant, who was to bring back the medicines prescribed.
The trouble of Sir Oliver almost amounted to terror. His mind was by no means superior to those fears which vulgar errors impose; and as, in addition to the strange music of the evening before, he had that very morning seen a hare cross the high road just before his horse’s feet, he augured no less a calamity than a fatal end to the sudden illness of his beloved daughter.
Cuthbert Noble, however, rose to the occasion; and though it is certain that no individual in the family felt a more tender affection and concern for Katharine Heywood than he did, yet he was enabled, by a wise sympathy, to compose the fears and animate the hopes of Sir Oliver, and indeed of an entire household; for a despondency fell upon all, which the most comfortable arguments of plain reason and sound religion did but imperfectly remove.
For three days the life of Katharine Heywood was, in truth, in very imminent danger, and the fever was of that malignant nature which defied all ordinary treatment: but as the doctor was a man of great decision and boldness in his practice, and, at the same time, one who committed all events with humility and simplicity to the will of God, he fought bravely with the disease; and after the third night of patient watching and vigorous experiments, he subdued it so far that he could announce to Sir Oliver the safety of his daughter. The crisis was passed; but her weakness was great, and her recovery very gradual. For the first three days of her attack she was almost without consciousness; but though her head became light, and her mind was confused, she uttered nothing in her wanderings which attracted the particular notice of Mistress Alice, or any of her attendants, or in the least betrayed the secret of her heart.
Meanwhile Francis Heywood, in ignorance of the sad condition of his cousin Katharine, endured all the agony of a suspicion that he was at once neglected and scorned by her who had been the vision of his lonely hours of labour in a remote plantation, and who, as the very star of his destiny, had led him back again to the land in which she dwelt, as a land of promise. Liberty was his watchword; and it is true that when letters spoke so confidently of a civil war as inevitable, he obtained his father’s permission to return to England, that he might join his patriotic countrymen in their contention for the rights of civil and religious liberty. Nor was this a mere pretext for escape from the tame drudgery of colonial life,—the cause of freedom was sacred in his sight, and was precious to his heart. He came to draw the sword, and bare his bosom in the battle. He had a life to offer on the altar of duty, and he joyously brought the willing sacrifice; but yet there lay at the bottom of his heart one bright, one good hope. He might be lifted, by the fortunes of this war, to renown, to rank, to fortune; he might survive all its chances; he might see peace and happiness restored:—the present relations between himself and his wealthy uncle might be greatly altered; the old prejudices against him might at last give way, and the crowning reward of all his honours and his fortunes might be the hand of Katharine. This was his dream by day—this was his dream by night:—like some chaste and solemn star, seen brightly shining in solitary and calm glory at the extremity of a narrow and gloomy valley, darkened by the shadows of lofty mountains, so the majestic loveliness of his cousin Katharine, irradiated by all her virtues, shone out beyond the cloudy path of blood and peril, as the blissful end and rest of all his labours.
He had not passed a night of such rapture since he last parted from his cousin as that on which he reached Milverton, and the whole of which he mused away within sight of the mansion that contained the noble object of his attachment.
Although he was fully persuaded that he should be recognised by Katharine as the wandering musician, yet he was in doubt whether she would afford him an immediate opportunity of meeting her alone; therefore he prepared an earnest appeal to her, in characters which, though enigmatical to others, would, he well knew, be readily understood by herself. The moon shone that night with so clear a brightness, that he had no sort of difficulty in executing his design. He made a slight fancy sketch, on a small piece of paper, of a setting sun; he introduced the cedar in the fore-ground, and in one corner he wrote, in a small hand, the Italian word “implora:” on the back of this paper he faintly sketched a dial-plate, the shadow touching the figure of seven in the evening. He placed this between the leaves of a copy of Spenser’s “Fairy Queen,” which he found upon the seat, and which he remembered to have been the garden companion of his fair cousin in former days. When, on the following evening, the sun had set, and the silver light of the moon touched all objects with the hues of peace, Francis repaired to the appointed spot with eager steps, and in confident hope that he should once more behold her for whom he had all that tender reverence which angelic purity could alone inspire. He seated himself beneath the well-known tree, and saw with pleasure that the book had been taken away. Katharine, then, had received his “implora,” and she would not—she could not—disappoint him, and deny his prayer. The long delay of her coming perplexed him; and, after an hour of anxious waiting, every succeeding minute was insupportably slow, and weighty with sadness. He left and resumed his seat with restless discomposure; he paced the neighbouring bank; he went into the Lime Walk, to watch for the first glimpse of her distant form; at last, as he was approaching the cedar tree, with his eyes bent on the ground, he for the first time observed a fragment of paper lying near the trunk:—he took it up—it was a part of his note; it had been torn in halves, and trodden in the dust; it was divided at the very word “implora.” The change of his feeling was, for the moment, terrible. All that he had read or heard of the pride, the caprice, and inconstancy of woman, rushed upon his memory to strengthen his black suspicions, and inflame his sudden indignation. But this rage was very soon exhausted, and was succeeded by a sorrow weak as that of infants. He did not weep,—but a few hot tears slowly gathered at long intervals, and fell heavily on the earth. And then he railed upon himself, and defended her neglect of him.
“It was that accursed music: she ever scorned such fanciful and romantic folly:—how dared I to expect that she, whose words and ways are open as the clear sunshine of noon, should come in the shadows of evening, with silent footsteps, to a secret meeting with such an outcast as me—one who may not ring the bell of his kinsman’s gate with better hope than that of rude dismissal? It is all well, Katharine, and yet I loved you loyally, and still will love you: of that privilege none can rob me. Like yon planet above me, you are a common blessing, for which the comforted pilgrim in this thorny wilderness glances his eye upward to the bounteous heavens, and thanks his God.”
Another, but a gloomier, vigil in the grounds of Milverton was thus passed by Francis; and again, when the dawn approached, he withdrew, and retired to a small hostelry in the suburbs of Warwick, where for his better concealment he had taken up his lodging. Here, however, some relief, if such it could be called, was awaiting him; for as he lay reposing on his bed, tired, yet unable to sleep, he overheard the following dialogue between his hostess and a passer by:—
“Hast thou heard the bad news from Milverton, dame?” said the latter.
“No; I have not seen my girl a week come to-morrow.”
“Eh, dear, don’t you be frighted for your Ruth, but they’ve got the fever there quite bad. Master Randal, the ’pothecary, was over there three times yesterday, and all last night.”
“Lord, goody, what shall I do? I must go: my poor dear child is so delicate for taking of fever, she will be sure to catch it. Who is it that ha got it? is it the old gentleman, or Mistress Alice?”
“No, God be merciful to her, ’t is that dear, kind, blessed young lady, Mistress Katharine; and they are all in a great take on about her; for they say that the very night before she was took bad, her poor dear mother’s ghost was seen on the terrace by moonlight, and sung beautiful, and for all every body was so frighted, yet they say it was like as if an angel had come down out of heaven; and they say, it is a sure sign that Mistress Katharine will die, and go happy.”
There is nothing more strange than the peculiar character of the selfishness of love—but it is ever the same. Francis felt a deep, a true, an anxious concern for the illness of Katharine: he was keenly afflicted with self-reproach at the thought that she might perhaps have been so disturbed by his sudden and strange announcement of his return as to have been made nervous and unwell. But this sorrow, ay, and the very apprehension of her death, (which feeling, however, he did not share,) would have been more endurable than the thought that he was forgotten, neglected, and scorned by one whom his soul held dear. However, he was, in his own judgment, persuaded that her illness, and all the circumstances attending it, were much exaggerated by those superstitious fears of the household, for which he could himself so very easily account. Descending, therefore, from his chamber, while the old gossips were continuing their talk, he took occasion, as soon as her neighbour had passed on, to urge his hostess to lose no time in going to inquire after her daughter; observing that he had often heard of the family at Milverton, and could not but feel a hope that the lady of whom they spoke would soon recover.
“Precious angel,” said the old woman: “I don’t know why we should wish it, I am sure, except it be for the sake of others; for there was never a body fitter for heaven than that dear young lady.”
It was with keen anguish that, upon the return of his poor hostess in the afternoon, he learned that the life of Katharine was really in danger. At sunset he took his cloak, and passed the night in a position near the wood, from whence he could command the curtained window of the sufferer, and watch the dim light within, and those gloomy shadows which, as nurse or attendant slowly crossed the chamber, occasionally obscured it.
His was a mind in which hope was ever anticipating enjoyment, or fear meeting and realising the dreaded misfortune. Now, therefore, with the lamp of a sick room burning faint before him, and with scenery around all silvery and spiritual, lying hushed and calm in a silence solemn as the grave, and yet sweet and peaceful as that of heaven, he resigned himself to the belief that Katharine was dying, or, rather, was departing to the abode of blessed spirits. He grew reconciled to the thought. No clouds of terror darkened it; and, as her pale image arose distinctly before his mind’s eye, he became elevated with the sentiment of her sure and celestial happiness; and there was a feeling of ecstasy in the idea that he might cherish his love for her, as a sacred thing, for ever.
Again, on the following night, he lay enfolded in his cloak, or leaned against a distant tree, or paced like a sentinel his lonely round, with his eyes fixed on the light in Katharine’s chamber, and his meditations were sweet. But how tenderly he had been rocked in the cradle of sorrow, and how willingly he had allowed the true state of his own heart to be hidden from himself by fancied consolations, was evident, when, on returning from his watch upon the third morning, he learned from his hostess that the doctor had come home very early, and said, that the dear lady was out of danger. He had just command enough over his feelings not to betray to her that he took a private and deep interest in her intelligence; but, rushing up to his room, his hopes, his fears, his grief, his joy, his gratitude, gushed forth from his pent-up bosom in a flood of silent tears. He wept upon his knees.
CHAP. XIII.
It was not till the crisis of danger was already past that the illness of Katharine became known at Bolton Grange, or at Old Beech.
Jane Lambert was no sooner apprised of it than she hastened to her friend, and insisted, with all the devotion and tenderness of a sister, on being permitted to divide with Mistress Alice the duties of her present charge.
Katharine loved Jane, and was comforted to have her seated near her, and was soothed by her affection: it was evident, however, to the latter, that something weighed heavily upon the spirits of her friend, and that the feelings of hope and the clear promise of recovery, did not impart to her all the gratitude and cheerfulness which might be naturally expected in the pleasant dawn of convalescence.
She had not been many days at Milverton when an incident occurred which discovered the cause of her anxiety.
As Jane was looking from the window in the afternoon, and remarking to Katharine on the beautiful effect of the low autumn lights, she observed the figure of a man with folded arms leaning near a tree in the beechery, and she playfully exclaimed, “That must certainly be the musical ghost, which played so sweetly, and brought us all such bad luck, and frightened every body in Milverton House but your dear self, and the grave Master Cuthbert:—how I should like to have the treacherous creature caught.”
“Dear lady,” said Katharine’s maid, “how can you talk so boldly?—why nobody can catch a spirit. It is only air.”
“I have a notion, good lass,” replied Jane, “that it is very proper flesh and blood, and if I were a man, and not a maid, would try my speed with it, and bring it to parley. I should like to hear the voice of it, or see its face, and tell it of all the mischief it has done.”
“Well-a-day! what a heart you have, lady! There is not one in the kitchen but stout Richard would venture that; and though he could not find any thing the other day when he followed it, he’s obstinate as a mule, and says it’s no ghost, but a young gallant that’s under hiding at my mother’s, in Warwick Liberties; but there is nobody thinks with him at Milverton.”
“Well, then, I am of Richard’s way of thinking, in part:—it is a tall man; but whether young, and whether under hiding, I know not.”
“Why, there is a gentleman under hiding at my mother’s, sure enough, and one that knows my lady, as she says, and was quite glad when he heard that she first began to mend.”
“Ruth,” said Katharine, raising her head from the pillow, “if you will go and make me some fresh barley water, I think I shall like it better than this fever drink.” The wish was no sooner expressed than her maid vanished to do her bidding, and Katharine and her friend Jane were left by themselves.
“Jane,” said the invalid, “come and sit by me: I have something to tell you, and I have to ask of you a very strange favour. I desired to relieve my heart of its burden, but have hitherto delayed it. You know, Jane, that I love you, and that I have confidence in your attachment to me; but if it were not for my present helplessness, which compels me to engage your service as a true friend, whose good sense and firm principles I can safely trust, the subject which I am about to speak of would never have passed my lips even to you. The gentleman of whom they speak is my cousin Francis. He it was who so perplexed and alarmed the family with his mysterious music, and who still, I fear, haunts the same spot in silence and anxiety.”
“Your cousin Francis!—why, dear Kate, I thought he was in America!”
“And I myself thought so until the night when he made his return known to me in tones which I could not mistake, and the meaning of which I but too well understood.”
“I have been long aware, Katharine, that he loved you.”
“You have, I believe, already discerned it. Alas! it is true—fatally for his own happiness and for mine;—but, Jane, have you courage for the task which I would impose upon you?”
“Yes, Kate: you can ask me nothing too hard for me, if I can only feel that I do what may comfort you.”
“Well, Jane, you must contrive to see my cousin Francis; to deliver to him a note from me with your own hands, and to urge his immediate departure from this neighbourhood. Now, love, bring me those small tablets and paper, and support me while I write the few words which I would say.”
It was a sight for pity to see that noble damsel, her back propped by pillows, and the arm of her young friend tenderly supporting her, trace in silence and with a nervous hand the few lines which were to banish from the neighbourhood of Milverton her worthy and devoted lover.
The task was soon done; and with the care as of a mother Jane Lambert again arranged the pillows for the aching head of Katharine; and the pale sufferer sunk back exhausted into the recumbent posture, and heaved a sigh so sad, that the eyes of Jane filled with thick tears. She averted her head to wipe them away, that they might not distress her friend, and putting the unsealed billet in her bosom, left the chamber with a thoughtful step, to do her very delicate and difficult office. She went to her own room, and taking a dark mantle with a hood, such as was the common church-going and street costume of women of the respectable middle classes of that period, she threw it across her arm, and walked through the Lime Walk, and by the fish ponds, to a small gate at the farther end of the grounds, by which she could gain a footpath that led across the fields to Warwick. She had no sooner passed the gate than she put on her cloak, and passing the hood over her head, that she might muffle and conceal her features, if she met any one, she proceeded towards the city. It was about four o’clock in the afternoon, and the sky was lowering and cloudy. She was anxious about her strange mission, and settling in her mind what she should do when she reached the hostelry, whither she was now bending her steps, and how she should contrive the interview with Francis, when the sound of steps very closely following suddenly startled her: the very object of her search had overtaken her, and was already at her side. At first, however, she was not aware of this, although the circumstance of this passenger being muffled, as closely as herself, awakened her suspicions of the truth, and forbade the alarm she would otherwise have felt at finding herself in a very lonely part of the pathway in such company. He did not stop when he overtook her, but went a few steps onward, as if to re-assure her before he ventured to speak. He crossed a stile and walked some paces without turning his head, till she had also crossed it; when loitering a little, till she was close to him, he stepped aside from the path, and gently put a question that very directly introduced them to each other, and gave Jane the ready opportunity of delivering her note, and fulfilling the further wishes of her dear Katharine.
“You are from Milverton House, as I think, damsel?”
“Even so, master,” replied Jane.
“Is the noble young mistress better to-day?”
“I thank God she is; but it will be long ere she be quite well again.”
“She is out of all pain, I hope?”
“Yes, she hath no bodily pain, save that which arises from weakness; and for such pain of mind as disquiets her it may be, in great part, removed by yourself, Master Francis.”
Thus saying, she threw back her hood, and Francis, who had before discovered his own features, recognised those of Jane Lambert. “I bear you a note from your cousin Katharine,” she added, as he started at her utterance of his name. She drew it forth from her bosom, and placed it in his hand. He turned from her that he might read it without observation; but Jane could see by his action that he kissed it, and pressed it to his heart. With a glance it was perused, and then again and again; and with a bent head and staggering step he moved a few paces from Jane, and spoke in tones of anguish to himself words which she could not distinguish. At last, collecting himself, he returned towards the fair messenger of his Katharine, with a manly composure, and said, “Tell my beloved cousin that I will obey; that her wish is as a law to me: how could she dream that I would suffer the words of any one to outweigh her own?—but, she tells me that you are her devoted and faithful friend, and that to you I may safely intrust the object of my return, and the news of my father. There is, indeed, one subject on which she forbids me to speak even to herself; therefore my answer may be brief enough. My father is well:—all her kinsfolk in the Plantations are well, and free, and happy. For the object of my sudden return—it is the love of my country—a love that will not accept a divided heart; and yet the other love that lay enshrined beside it, was pure, was noble, was worthy such alliance, has filled my thoughts by day, has blessed the visions of my lonely nights. Tell Katharine she hath used me hardly—no, no, do not tell her that—not hardly—say that she bids me do something I cannot do—I am not of her order—forget her I never can—she is with me wherever I go—in all things that I do I think of her—and still must, if I would have fair and noble thoughts to bear me company.”
“Such things, Master Francis, I may not carry to her ear. There is about her a reserve so maidenly and grave, she would chide her own messenger for proving so unfaithful;—but I may tell her that your father is well; that loyalty hath brought you home; and that you will quit these parts instantly—for that it is, methinks, she most earnestly requests of you.”
“Even so: on that she is most urgent—cruel Katharine.”
“Say, rather, wise, dutiful, loyal Katharine.”
“Loyal, loyal!—that is a word of many imports. I, too, am loyal, and will learn to love the word:—mind you tell her that I am loyal.”
“Can I truly tell her so?”
“Yes, truly:—but enough of this, fair girl,—go back to her who sent thee—wait, you are her friend—you nurse her—come, let me look into thine eyes—give me thy hand—on my knees I kiss it—her cheek is pale—I know it is—it must be—go touch it with thy hand, and offer there the chaste cold homage of my sorrow. You see that I am sad, lady—go—bless you—you are weeping:—how is this, girl?—be not so childish—a friend of Katharine’s should not be weak—I, you see, am calm and strong—my hand does not tremble—and these eyes are dry—methinks my heart is frozen—tell her so.”
Jane Lambert stood fixed as a statue while he thus spoke; and as she watched him walking fast away, she felt, for the first time in her life, what it must be to have a lover, and to be the supreme object of such a man’s affection. Her cheek was stained with tears—her face flushed with agitation—her whole air disordered and absent. She followed with her eyes the tall figure of Francis, till a turn in the pathway hid him from her view, and then walked slowly back to Milverton.
In the very first field she met George Juxon, and it was evident to her, from his manner, as he stopped and spoke to her, that he must have witnessed, at least, the close of her interview with Francis. There was a surprise in his look, and something of embarrassment, as he shook her by the hand, and asked if she was well; but he did not seem to expect any particular reply, nor indeed did he offer to return with her to the house, though she was but too conscious that her faintness and discomposure might have naturally invited such an attention. Observing, coldly, that he had some business at a builder’s yard in Warwick, but that he should return to sup and sleep at Milverton, he leisurely pursued his path to the city.
Jane’s heart gave way to the multitude of troublous and perplexing thoughts which now beset her; and leaning near a friendly tree, she found a momentary relief in a passionate flood of warm tears.
Her trial was strange. The feelings which had been excited were altogether new to her; and the effect of the interview with Katharine’s devoted cousin, combined with the cross and perplexing incident of her meeting with Juxon so immediately after, as to make it certain that he had seen her part from Francis Heywood, had very naturally overcome the ordinary courage and the cheerful composure of her character.
She had witnessed, in the agitated Francis, the emotions of love. The sentiment, which thus shook him, she had never yet inspired—she had never felt for any one. Such love had been to her the poet’s fable; but it would never again be so deemed of by her;—and something that made her heart throb and ache within her told truly the want of that heart, and unsealed a fountain of affection ready to overflow upon any being in whom she might be fortunate enough to find the noble qualities of a manly heart, and the gentle ways and genuine fervours of an ardent lover.
It was a cruel thought that she must now be subject to suspicions, if not of lightness, yet of a secret attachment and stolen interviews with the object of it. Nor was the oppression of this thought at all weakened by the reflection that George Juxon, the very man whose good opinion she most valued, had seen her in a situation, and under circumstances, which he could not by any possibility interpret truly, and which her duty to Katharine forbade her to explain, however deeply her own character or happiness might suffer. In one short hour she had gathered an experience that filled her with wonder, and had incurred a suspicion that subjected her to censure and threatened her with misery. The consciousness of innocence could not restore to her the respect of Juxon, nor exempt her from the severe penalties with which the levity and imprudence of the thoughtless of her own sex are ever silently visited by the other, when some painful discovery of a woman’s guile chills and revolts them.
However in her case, the judgment of Juxon had not been harsh; but, of course, when he saw a man upon his knees before her—when he considered the loneliness of their place of interview—the cloaks evidently worn for disguise—and the agitated and discomposed appearance of Jane Lambert—he, at once, decided that she was betrothed to a lover, whom for fear or for shame she dared not openly avow.
He had truly liked Jane, for her spirit, her sense, and, above all, for her devotion to Katharine Heywood; and his liking might soon have grown to a manly love,—but the flow of his admiration was now suddenly checked and frozen, and he whistled “Woman’s a Riddle” all the way to Warwick and back again.
CHAP. XIV.
As soon as the affectionate Jane had entirely recovered her self-possession, she left her chamber, and repaired to Katharine. It was the dark evening hour of autumn, and there was no light in the room of the invalid but that emitted from the glowing embers on the hearth. Jane seated herself by the bedside, and, taking the hand of Katharine, gently pressed it, and said,—
“My dear Kate, I have done all that you wished; and I have sped well.”
“You have, then, seen Francis?”
“Yes; I put your note into his own hands. He was much affected; but he promised obedience to your wishes at once.”
Katharine gave a sigh, and turned her face to the wall. There was a short pause of silence before Jane proceeded:—
“He bade me tell you that his father and your kinsfolk in America are well; and that the immediate object of his return is the love of his country.”
“Ah, Jane! I know what that means. I remember too well all the warm and bitter words that passed between my father and his on that subject. Would he had stayed in the peaceful Plantations! The ocean between us was not a wider separation than the gulf that divides party from party at home; besides, Jane, he is deluded: they will play upon his generous nature,—they will make a traitor of him. Rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft. Would he had stayed abroad!”
“I must not forget, Katharine, to tell you that he strictly charged me to say that he was loyal. ‘It is a word,’ said he, ‘of many imports:’—mind you tell her that I am loyal.’—No, dear Katharine, his is no traitor’s heart: he may be on the wrong side of the quarrel, but he is the King’s true subject at the bottom.”
“Hush! Jane; whisper not these dangerous words,—there is deceit in them. The soul’s enemy finds each of us treacherous enough in will, and crooked enough in judgment, without the weak and indulgent folly of our friends. Be true to me,—be English, Jane:—I love you passing well.”
Jane kissed her pale cheek; and there was another pause. At last Katharine said, in a very low voice,—
“How was Cousin Francis looking? Is he in health?”
“His complexion is more brown, and he has less colour than formerly; his countenance, too, is very grave—almost sad; yet there is a steady fire in his eyes; and he is as graceful and as strong as ever. But for his late care and watching, I should say he was better in health than when he left Milverton for America.”
“He was not hurt at my note, I hope,—was he, Jane? Speak truly.”
“Not hurt; but disappointed, certainly. However, he is noble and sensible, and saw that it was right.”
“You think so.”
“I am sure of it, by his manner.”
“Do you think he will go away directly?”
“Yes; perhaps he is already gone. I could see in the firm and resolute step with which he walked away from me that his decision was taken.”
“Then it was not at the hostelry that you saw him? Where did you meet him?”
Jane now detailed, in part, the circumstances of their interview, as already related; suppressing all mention of the passionate words and gestures of Francis, and any notice of her having been seen in his company by Juxon. It had been the first intention of Jane to proceed to the house of Ruth’s mother, on whose protection she could depend, and to wait there till Francis, who she doubted not was the lodger spoken of, should return thither; for, before Jane left Milverton House, Francis had already disappeared from the Beechery. It would be easy to invent some plausible excuse to Ruth’s mother for her visit to Warwick; and, having contrived her interview with Francis as if by accident, to return to Milverton, if belated till dusk, under the old woman’s escort. But this plan was rendered unnecessary by the circumstance of Francis overtaking Jane upon her way to the city.
“My dear affectionate girl,” said Katharine to her sweet friend, “how much, how very much, I thank you:—kiss me, dear, and leave me to compose myself, if I can, to sleep.”
But sleep was impossible in her frame of mind at that moment:—it was solitude she needed, that she might meditate and weep alone. However, there was a high sound principle ever at work in her bosom; so that a little solitary and prayerful reflection never failed to restore the calmness of her mind, and the strength of her resolutions.
The spirit of Jane Lambert was of another sort; and, restored to the privacy of her own chamber, she gave a free vent to the sorrow and anxiety which she had so courageously suppressed before Katharine.
When she descended to the hall to supper, and all the party were assembled, she remarked or fancied that George Juxon expressly avoided seating himself near her; and, after asking her one or two questions about the progress of Katharine’s recovery, he addressed her no more.
Her pride was a little wounded to observe that he was in high and careless spirits, and became quite the life of the table. Cuthbert, too, was, for him, unusually cheerful. Sir Oliver seemed in great good humour; and the boy Arthur was radiant with delightful and joyous anticipations of the new world, which an entrance at Oxford would open before him. Literary and characteristic anecdotes of distinguished and eccentric scholars of both universities, in times past as well as present, enlivened the social meal; and though but a very thin partition separated the subjects of university discipline from those of church polity and state government, neither were introduced that evening.
Jane thought that she had never before discerned so clearly the fine qualities of Juxon;—his sound but charitable judgment, his accurate memory, the kindliness of his nature, and the playfulness of his stories, at once charmed and depressed her. She wished to leave the table; yet still she lingered on, listening and irresolute; and the proposal to retire was first made by Mistress Alice.
An avowed contempt for the opinion of the many is not inconsistent with a very earnest and anxious regard for the judgment of the few whom we chance to admire and esteem. The dear, high-spirited girl, who thought herself above the censure of the world, and indifferent to its voice, was now, though clear from the slightest reproach of conscience, agonised with apprehensions lest she should have forfeited the respect of George Juxon. When, at a later hour, the household was assembled for the evening service, and the prayers were reverently read by Juxon, her heart beat in her bosom so quick and loud as to be audible to Cuthbert Noble, who kneeled near her. As soon as they rose, he regarded her with a look of such compassionate inquiry, that Jane, fearing he was about to question her concerning her health, and not daring to trust herself with a reply, abruptly left the apartment.
Juxon had himself observed her flushed cheek and her disturbed manners, and began to entertain very serious alarm for her. How far his duty as a friend, and, above all, as a Christian minister, authorised him to seek acquaintance with the nature and extent of those secret engagements of Jane Lambert, which he could not but fear, from her evident agitation, were at variance with plain principle and prudence, it was not easy for him to resolve. He truly liked her frank, generous, and inartificial character. He knew full well that in her brother she had neither a kind, a careful, or a wise guardian. It was surely wrong to stand upon the brink of a whirlpool, and see any one drawn down to ruin, whom it was in our power, if not to save, at least to admonish of the danger. His mind instantly reverted to the noble Katharine as the proper channel through which his manly and benevolent warnings might be safely conveyed with delicacy and effect. But many days might yet elapse ere the opportunity of a conversation with Katharine might occur; for she was confined not only to her chamber, but to her bed. Should he venture to hint his fears to herself? Yes: if she was the character he yet hoped to find her, it would be taken well; if not, it would matter very little in what light she viewed his disinterested service.
On the following morning, soon after breakfast, he saw Jane Lambert by herself in the Lime Walk, and he joined her.
She looked surprised and embarrassed; and he was not without a fear that his presence at that moment was inconvenient and irksome, and very possibly prevented her going forth to an interview with her lover in the very same fields where he had met her the evening before.
However, from the very fear he took courage; and, after the common salutations and usual words about the garden and the weather had passed, he broke the subject thus:—
“Mistress Jane, you are too little acquainted with the world for your own happiness, or rather, for your security,—may a friend say this without offending you?”
“A friend may say any thing to me, Master Juxon, that a damsel may not blush to hear.”
“I understand you—I must say no more—and yet I meant you well.”
“But good intentions do often tread upon the foot just where it is most tender.”
“Well, lady, enough: I will spare your maiden blushes; only remember, of our sex, that he doth always act most openly who is most loyal.”
“Loyal! Master Juxon, what mean you? Did you then so far forget yourself as to follow and trace out the gentleman whom you last evening stood watching as he parted from me?—I do not understand you.”
“Mistress Jane, you should have known me better;—so far from watching your interview with the strange gentleman with whom I saw you, it was to avoid intrusion that I waited in the adjoining close till you parted from him, and would have gone back again altogether, but for the great circuit and the business which I had in Warwick.”
“You saw us part, then?”
“Yes, to my wonder, and to my sorrow that my eyes had caught an action meant only for your own. Lady, forgive the word; but at lovers’ oaths forget not that Cupid laughs:—may Jane Lambert never be won by any suitor who does not openly woo her!”
“Amen to your kind wish, Master Juxon—so be it:—I know what you think, and am sorry, but I cannot help it;—however, you are not my father confessor, nor do I ever wish to have one.”
“True, lady; but though not your confessor, I am your friend, your true and bold friend, or I should never have dared to utter what I have done. I can have no object in these hints but your best and highest interest: that which I have noticed to yourself I shall never mention to any other, except, perhaps, to Katharine Heywood, from whose lips whatever falls is wise and noble.”
“O! not to her—name not this idle matter to her. Promise me, Juxon, that you will not breathe a syllable about it to her. I shall be more unhappy if you do than I am already.”
“Alas! you are then unhappy, and would shun the best help and consolation which friendship would provide for you. No, this I cannot promise; on the contrary, I am only confirmed in the propriety of my intention.”
“Well, I implore you again, and earnestly, not to speak upon this subject to Katharine. As you value my peace of mind, be silent upon it to all: there is a mystery about it I may not unfold. I know that appearances are against me: I am sorry for your hard thoughts, but I must bear them. I could wish to explain these cross circumstances to you, but am not free to do so without violating a sacred duty. Promise me that you will meet my wish.” Thus saying, she put her hand upon his arm, and looked into his face with wet and beseeching eyes. “Juxon, you have always been plain and true, and friendly to me; and though I and my perplexities ill deserve your interest or care, promise me that you will not name them to dear Katharine.”
For a moment Juxon was affected by the wild earnestness of her manner; and he thought he had never seen more heart or feeling in the expression of a human countenance than in the flushed face of Jane Lambert.
“Well, Mistress Jane, you are so urgent, that I must promise to obey your will; but it grieves me to see you thus sadly troubled. May God help you, and guide you, and guard you, and keep you from evil, that it may not grieve you! Your secret is safe with me.”
“And shall I lose your friendship?”
“No, lady, never: would only that it may have worth sufficient in your eyes to be used aright!”
“Believe me, I shall never forget it, and I will never do aught to forfeit such a treasure;“—so saying, she hurried away, with tears in her eyes, and left him absorbed in a state of feeling which cannot be described.
The more he thought of what he had witnessed the evening before, and the more he considered the conversation which had just passed, the more satisfied he was that Jane Lambert was secretly betrothed to some one whom she dared not openly acknowledge as her lover. It was also plain, that, for some powerful reason, she had not confided the secret of this attachment even to Katharine, who was her bosom friend. He had comfort in remembering that nothing could be more respectful than the action of the stranger, when he kissed her hand at parting; and combining this with her own honest looks and proud though mysterious expressions, he was satisfied that, up to the present moment, she had taken no irrevocable step. There was, moreover, a warm strength in her last words, that assured him his friendly cautions were not thrown away, and that his motives were not misinterpreted. Upon the whole, he was justified, to his own mind, in what he had done; and his thoughts rested upon the character of Jane with greater interest than it had ever before excited in him.
“How very generous and devoted would be the love of such a girl,” said he to himself: “what a proud spirit, what an affectionate heart, she has; what a fire there is in her fine eyes—I never before saw her look half so beautiful:—it is clear that they have been lighted up by love:—well, God grant that the man of her choice may be worthy of it!”
He now sauntered slowly back to the house; and entering the library, found Cuthbert Noble sitting alone, and making extracts from an old folio volume.
“You see,” said the young tutor, “I am making preparations for my departure from Milverton; but thus I may innocently suck honey from the hives of Sir Oliver, without robbing him, or those who come after him, of the smallest portion of such sweets as they contain.”
“And what may be your study?” said Juxon, as he came up to the table, and looked over him.
“A curious work,” replied Cuthbert, “containing the most remarkable pieces of John Huss, together with his life—imprinted in the last century at Augsburg.”
“Friend Cuthbert, you are too constant in these serious and solemn studies and speculations.”
“Master Juxon,” answered the pale youth, “they are every thing or they are nothing.”
“Verily, for my part I think divine truth is as clear and glorious as the sun in the firmament; and to warm ourselves, and to walk in the light of it, is better wisdom than to read so many commentaries and discourses upon it.”
“May we not sometimes lie indolently warming ourselves by a fire of our own, and fancy it as comfortable as basking in the sun? Walking in the light is no such easy matter; and in my case I find that the words, and, above all, the examples, of those who have earnestly contended for the truth, as so many outstretched and helping hands to assist me in climbing the hill.”
“What hill?”
“The high hill, Master Juxon, where the reformers and martyrs of past times have left the print of their blessed footsteps.”
“Cuthbert, I see that you are in earnest, that you are sincere; but you are on a road beset by enemies, to the full as dangerous as those on any other. Pride may be waiting to assail you,—spiritual pride, the worst of all enemies: you want to do something; you would unlock heaven’s gates by some great performance:—remember its arches are so low that none can enter them who crawl not on their knees:—the little child’s is the appointed stature for all believers.”
“That, indeed, is true—it is a solemn truth; but there are beasts to be fought with, Juxon, and the stern combat is at hand. It is upon this I think by day, on this I dream by night.”
“So much the worse: you are commanded, in many senses, to ‘take no thought for the morrow;’ and in none is it more your duty to obey the precept than in waiting the events of the coming day in quietness and in confidence: you conjure up shadows that you may fight with them.”
“Nay, but you wrong my judgment:—to you they may so seem; but my eye can see the black and dismal realities beyond, which reflect these shadows.”
“Well, Cuthbert, it is vain to talk with you on these subjects:—on all others you are so clear and reasonable, that I shall always remember our intercourse with pleasure. I hear that there is a new arrangement, and that you do not wait to accompany Arthur to Oxford; but that you leave Milverton next week, therefore, very probably, I shall not see you again till your departure. Farewell, friend: my best and warmest wishes for your happiness will always accompany you. I shall ever be happy to hear of or from you, and be delighted to meet you again.”
With these words he put out his hand to Cuthbert, who grasped it eagerly, and struggled for a reply in vain.
The parting had taken him totally by surprise:—the thought of all Juxon’s friendly and kind services, of all his frank and endearing qualities, came up, with a rush before his fancy, and choked his utterance. The strong pressure of Cuthbert’s hand, and the slowness with which he released that of Juxon, told the latter all that he would have said; and, as the door closed behind his departing friend, Cuthbert sank back into his seat, and, resting his head with hidden face upon the table, remained for several minutes silent and motionless.
CHAP. XV.
Religious contention is the devil’s harvest.
Old Proverb.
To every member of the family at Milverton House Cuthbert had said farewell, when he retired to his chamber on the night before the morning fixed for his departure. He had taken leave of Mistress Katharine, in the presence of her aunt Alice and Jane Lambert, with a grave self-command which had surprised himself; and, as he left her room, he lifted his heart to Heaven in thanksgiving for the help of that strength which he had so earnestly implored in the privacy of his closet.
But when he was alone for the last wakeful vigil in the apartment in which he had passed so many a sleepless night the image of Katharine looked in upon his solitude, and, for a time, re-asserted all its power over his heart.
He had just parted, and, probably for ever, with her who had been to him, for many months, the angel of the scene. These months, though now short as hours to look back upon, had gathered into their brief and silvery revolutions much of that soft and essential happiness of his affections which he knew could never return again. Nevertheless, it was not in the power of separation or of hopelessness to destroy the memory of that sweet season of his youth; and he was content to accept that as all the bliss of its kind which the fortunes of his life and the new aims of his being, would permit him to enjoy.
“Here, and for ever,” said Cuthbert, speaking to himself aloud, “I forswear the weaknesses of love: life has rugged paths that are better trod by single men;—such a path is now shaping for me and for many. In the labour of establishing a people’s rights I shall find a sense of peace; and when the call of duty is obeyed, contentment is the golden fruit with which conscience herself presents us.”
There is no process of the mind more common than that by which a man, while sore at heart by the thought of some desirable but unattainable good, turns away from the painful consideration of his own sorrows, and erects himself into the zealous friend of suffering humanity, and the ardent reformer of social evils.
What curious springs in the world’s clockwork are sorrow and disappointment! How many wheels are set in motion by their secret action, and what different results from those at which men aim are produced by their conduct! Here they strike for freedom, and elevate a despot—there they trample for the oppressor, and, lo! a seed of armed patriots is sown beneath their horse’s feet.
The idea of seeking the society of those among his friends whose minds were full of the stirring themes now daily suggested by political events was hailed as a relief and a consolation.
Absorbed in musings, Cuthbert watched away the night, and obtained only a short and broken slumber towards the morning.
It has been before observed, that to the language of love from the lips of Cuthbert Mistress Katharine never would have listened, and could not have responded.
Katharine Heywood had only done what thousands have done before her, and are continually doing in the intercourse of life. She had manifested her own sweet nature in a ready and gentle appreciation of those qualities in the shy and humble student, which, wherever they are found, are worthy of regard.
Indeed, during the residence of Cuthbert at Milverton, as the tutor to her cousin, she had largely shared the benefit of his instructions. He had imparted new pleasures to her mind, had purified her taste, enlarged her conceptions, and elevated her thoughts.
These services she had repaid, in the character of mistress of her father’s mansion, by studiously throwing the grace of her protection over the retiring scholar; but the smile of a queenly woman is a perilous shelter, and does oftentimes blight the happiness of those whom it was most innocently designed to cheer and to defend.
It had been arranged that Cuthbert should depart before eight in the morning. By that hour his horse was already saddled in the stable, and the boy Arthur was in the stable-yard watching minutely all the preparations for the journey. The strapping on of the vallise, and of the holsters especially moved him on the present occasion, although he had seen the very same thing done a hundred times for others without curiosity or disquiet. What from the liveliness of his fancy, and the affectionateness of his disposition, the images of lonely ways and evil robbers made him fetch his breath quicker than usual. The good tempered groom, perceiving this by the youth’s questions, began to allay his fears by saying, that “nobody would ever let or hinder a poor scholar like Master Cuthbert, and, besides that, God took care of all good persons; so there was no ill chance for such an one, but that he would go and come as safe as the King’s own majesty;” which was the simple groom’s notion of the most perfect security on earth.
Meanwhile Cuthbert himself was taking a last melancholy gaze at the gallery, the hall, the summer and winter parlour, and the various objects of interest which they contained. The pictures, the books, the organ, the virginals, the lute, were all most intimately associated in his mind with her, whom to have seen and known was of itself a blessing.
In vain the grey-haired butler, Philip, pressed him to partake of breakfast, and cautioned him against a weary way and an empty stomach. He pecked like a sick bird at the substantial venison pasty, and sipped at the warm tankard with a word the while now to the old domestic, and now to young Arthur, who had come in, and sat opposite him, in that vacant and natural sorrow which belongs to the broken moments of such a parting.
At last Cuthbert descended the hall steps, which were full of the warm-hearted servants; and, pressing the hand of his affectionate pupil, mounted his horse and rode away.
The day was cold and wet: nothing could be more gloomy or comfortless than his long and lonely ride. He met only one train of pack-horses, and a few single travellers on horseback, throughout the day. He baited his animal at a wayside alehouse, where he found nobody but a cross old woman and a deaf hostler; and it was not till the dusk of evening that he reached the town of Aylesbury, where he proposed sleeping.
Within five miles of this place he was overtaken by a gentleman on horseback, who fell into conversation with him; and who, being like himself on a journey to town, offered to join company with him that night at the inn.
Although it would have been far more agreeable to Cuthbert to have proceeded alone, yet the appearance of the stranger was so prepossessing, and his manners were so frank and courteous, that it was not possible to shake off his company without rudeness. Moreover, his speech had already shown him to be a man of gentle breeding, and that Cambridge had once reckoned him among her students,—so they rode forward together.
At the entrance of the town, hard by one of the first houses in the street, sat a cobbler working and singing in his hutch. The companion of Cuthbert here pulled his bridle; and, turning his beast’s nose almost into it, called out, in a loud jolly tone, “Ho, Crispin! canst tell me the way to the church?”
“No,” said the cobbler, throwing up an indifferent glance, and then stooping again over his last.
“Art deaf, or hast lost thy wits, old surly?” said the traveller: “you know what a church is, don’t you?”
“I know what it is not,” replied the old cobbler bluntly, without looking off his work.
“What is it not, sirrah?”
“It is not a great stone building standing alone in the middle of a town,” said the cobbler raising his head, and looking his interrogator full in the face.
“Thou hast more wit than good humour, knave,” said our Cavalier.
“And thou words than good breeding,” retorted the sturdy artisan.
“I see the stocks of this place are little used, or you should try how they fitted. You have not much fear, methinks, of the wooden collar. Didst ever see a pillory?”
“I have, and a godly man in it; and I shall not soon forget the sight. Are you answered, my court bird?”
“You are a prick-eared knave; and, if I were not tired and hungry, you should smart for your saucy answers.”
By this time a neighbour or two stood forth from the adjoining houses; and the horseman, turning to the nearest, said, “Prithee, friend, canst thou tell me the way to the Boar’s Head, which is next to the church, as I think?”
“It is so, true enough,” answered the man, “and well placed, to my thought; for thou wilt be sure to find the parson on the bench of it, or it may be in the skittle yard wrangling with cheating Bob, and staggering at his own cast:—ride straight on—you can’t miss it.”
“A pretty nest of godly rogues I have got into,” said the traveller: “there will be an iron gag for your foul mouths soon.” With this he struck spurs into his steed: the beast broke into a smart canter,—that of Cuthbert started in like manner; and they were instantly carried beyond the jeers and the loud laughter of the humorous old cobbler and his neighbours. Of this little scene Cuthbert had been the silent spectator; indeed the dialogue was so short, and so rapidly spoken, that there was no room for any question or remark of his;—and his companion having observed a silver crest upon the holsters of Cuthbert, did not doubt that he was a church and king man,—especially as there had not dropped from him a single expression which savoured of the Puritan.
Mine host of the Boar’s Head, a big and portly personage with bloated cheeks, received our weary guests with a cheerful welcome; and led the way to a large travellers’ parlour, where, in an ample fire-place, huge logs were blazing on the hearth. The seats on either side were already occupied by guests, before whom, on small three-legged tables, their repasts were smoking.
At one of these sat two persons, whose appearance was that of military men:—the younger of the two was very handsome, and of a commanding figure. No sooner did the gentleman in Cuthbert’s company approach the fire than this martial youth rose, and addressing him by the name of Fleming, shook him cordially by the hand. The ear of Cuthbert did not catch the name by which, promptly responding to the recognition, Fleming replied, nor did he learn it throughout the evening. However, another small table was immediately drawn near, and covered. Eggs, sausages, and broiled bones were served up hastily; and, after Cuthbert and his companion had satisfied the keen appetites which they had gotten by a long journey in cold rain and on miry roads, a large jug of burnt claret was placed before them; and the following conversation between the two acquaintances was listened to by Cuthbert in silent astonishment:—
“Well, Frank, you have not forgotten old times, I hope. I trust that we shall teach the volunteer gentry how to handle a sword after the fashion of the old Swedish troopers before long:—they made sorry work of it in the north last year; and for my part I was half ashamed to ride among such a rabble!”
“What made you go at all then?” said the youthful soldier.
“Why, to say truth, Frank, I found my life in the country very dull, and my old father’s hunting companions as heavy as lead; and I heartily wished myself back in Germany, where I might hear a trumpet once more:—so when I heard that the King was going against the Scots away I posted to court, and waited upon his Majesty, and got a commission.”
“I hope, Fleming, you made yourself master of the quarrel before you offered your services.”
“Look you, Frank, I remember you was always as grave as a judge about war, and examined sides, and would know the rights of all that was done. That was never my way. I left Cambridge at nineteen, and went to the camp of Gustavus, as eager and as blind as a young colt; and so again now:—wherever the King’s standard flies all must be right; besides, I hate these pricked-eared Puritans, and yon Scotch psalm singers that wo’n’t use the Prayer Book.”
“It seems, however, that they can use the broad sword, and with good effect, if accounts speak true.”
“There you have me,” rejoined the cheerful and light-hearted campaigner,—“there you have me. I never felt shame as a soldier till this Scotch campaign. Our tall fellows always turned their backs first, and retreated true runaway fashion:—you could never make them fire their pistols, and wheel off orderly; and it was well for them that they had raw Scots troopers at their tails instead of Pappenheim’s cuirassiers.”
“It is clear enough that you must have run too,” said the young soldier, laughing, “or you would not be here to tell the story.”
“To be sure I did,—but not without leaving the mark of my sword in the cheek of a stout Scotsman that pressed me a little too close and unmannerly. However, live and learn is a wise saying. When the King fairly raises a proper army, instead of a set of footmen and servants, commanded by courtiers and parsons, there will be warmer sport than we had in the north.”
“It will be sorry and grave sport, methinks, comrade, when Englishmen stand up against Englishmen, and little pleasure to see an old fellow-soldier in the ranks opposite.”
“Odd’s life, I shall never see you enact rebel.”
“Rebel is a rough word:—suppose we change the subject.”
The conversation was now continued on various indifferent matters till the hour for rest. Cuthbert himself made but few observations, and was strangely exercised in his mind by contemplating the characters before him. In addition to those already named, there was one other traveller at a table by himself, who had partaken of no better fare than a bowl of oatmeal porridge, and who sat intent over a small closely printed book, without once opening his lips, and seldom even raising his eyes. The companion of Cuthbert often looked contemptuously askance at him, and indulged in many a fling against the Puritans; but the silent stranger either did not or would not hear these rude jests, and, as they met with no encouragement from any one present, they fell flat and powerless. At length the time of going to bed came; and the host appeared to conduct his guests to their chambers. Our host, having a quick eye to the quality of the parties, placed the Cavalier captain in his best chamber; the two military-looking men in the next; and the pale stranger in a small cold garret with Cuthbert.
As soon as the door was closed behind them, and the foot of the landlord was heard descending the stairs, the stranger approached Cuthbert and invited him to join in prayer.
“To me,” said the stranger, with a face of the most earnest gravity, “to me is committed that rare and precious gift, the discerning of spirits: I see thou art a God-fearing youth:—as soon as thou didst enter the parlour I smelled the perfume of the angelic nature; even as also the sulphur and the brimstone of Tophet in the three sons of Belial, who are gone to lie down under the power of Beelzebub, and to sleep with evil spirits for company.”