The Draytons and the Davenants

In our Puritan household we were brought up with great faith in the virtues of solitude. A very solemn part of our ritual was, "Thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and shut thy door, and pray to thy Father which is in secret." "The one minute and unmistakable rubric," my Father called it, "in the New Testament." For he used to say, "not only is the solitary place the place for the Redeemer's agonies and the apostle's bitter weeping; it is the place of the largest assemblies. For therein passing the barriers of the congregation, we enter into the assembly and Church of the first-born, and into the temple not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. Any religion," said he, "whose secret springs do not exceed its surface waters, will evaporate in the burden and heat of the day."

We went to church as usual, and slowly and silently we were coming away, avoiding as much as possible the usual greetings with neighbours, and I feeling especially anxious to escape Placidia's sympathy.

But that was impossible. However, as she joined us she looked really anxious; too anxious even to find an appropriate text. She took my hand kindly, and said—

"We must hope for the best, Olive."

And there was something in the "we," and the briefness of her words, which brought tears into my eyes, and made me think I might still have been keeping a hard place in my heart which would have to be melted.

But we had only just left the church-yard, and gone a few steps beyond the gate on the field-path to Netherby (I walking behind the rest), when a soft hand was laid on my shoulder, and my face was drawn down to Lettice Davenant's kisses, as in a low voice she said—

"Oh, Olive, I am sure Sir Launcelot will get well. My Mother has been saying prayers all night. And Roger is so good. Indeed, it was not nearly half Roger's fault. Sir Launcelot did say terribly provoking things about the Precisians, and hypocrisy, and your Father."

"What did he say, Lettice?" I asked, passionately.

"My Mother says we ought to forget bitter words," she said; "and I think we ought—at all events, until he gets better."

"Oh, Lettice," I implored, "tell me, only me! That I may know, if he should not get better. Roger told my Father it was all his fault; but I know—I always knew—it was not. I shall know this if you will not tell me another word, and perhaps think even worse things than were said."

"It was not so much the words—they were ordinary enough—it was the tone," said she. "And, besides, it is so difficult to repeat any conversation truly; and it was all in such a moment, I can scarcely tell. It began about Lord Strafford, and about Mr. Hampden and Mr. Pym being canting hypocrites, and Mr. Cromwell being a beggarly brewer; and then Sir Launcelot muttered something in a whining tone about wondering that Roger's Father permitted him to indulge in such ungodly amusements as bonfires; and Roger said it was not fair to attack when he knew there could be no retort (meaning because I was there); and Sir Launcelot said he believed the Precisians never thought it fair to be attacked except behind some good city walls. And then followed a fire of words about cowardice, and hypocrisy, and treason; and then something about your father having taken care to leave the German wars in good time for his own safety. Then I saw Roger's hand up, thrusting Sir Launcelot away, rather than striking him, I thought. But the next instant Sir Launcelot lay on the ground, with his head against a jagged log, the other end of which was in the bonfire, and Roger was pulling him back, and Sir Launcelot swearing something about a "Puritan dog" and being "murdered." And then I saw the blood flowing from a wound in his head. I gave Roger my veil to staunch it with. But it would not stop. Sir Launcelot fainted; and Roger told me to run to my Mother. In five minutes all the people were on the spot, and Roger was on horseback riding of for the physician. There! I have told you all I know," she said, "whether I ought or not. But don't tell Roger. For I tried to comfort him by saying how he had been provoked. But it did not comfort him in the least. He looked quite fierce at rue—at me!" said little Lettice, the tears overflowing, "when he was always so kind! And he said there was no excuse for murder. He was wild with trouble," she continued, sobbing, "not a bit like himself, Olive; and since that I cannot tell what to say to him. Your ways and ours are not exactly the same, you know. So I have been with my Mother in her oratory. It is so hard to understand anybody. But I hope God understands us all. I do hope He does. My Mother could not find one of the church prayers that quite fitted. But she joined two or three together, in the Collects, and the Visitation of the Sick, and the Litany, which seemed to say all she wanted wonderfully. I never knew how much they meant before. And it does seem as if God must hear; and Roger always so good. He may say what he likes, always so good, to me and to every one!"

Lettice's tears opened the sluices of mine, and were a great comfort; and it was a comfort, too, to think of those dear kind voices joining in Lady Lucy's oratory.

When we reached home, the great table was spread in the hall, and the serving-men and maidens were standing round it.

My Father moved to the head and asked the blessing on the meal, then he said,—

"Friends, the hand of God is heavy on me to-day, and you will not look that I should eat bread while a life is in peril through deed of one who is to me as my own soul. I might brave it out, and put on a cheerful countenance. But I would have you know I am humbled. The blows of an enemy we may face as men. Beneath the rod of the Lord we must bow like smitten children. And I would have you know I do. Yet I cannot refrain from telling you also that it was for bitter words against good men that the blow was struck. So much I must say for the boy, though God forbid I should hide the sin."

He left the hall, and every eye was moist as it followed him.

The general judgment was anything but harsh against Roger, as was easy to see from the few low broken words which interrupted the silence of that sorrowful meal, and from the response of Tib, to whom I secretly ventured to tell how sorely Roger had been provoked.

"No need to tell me, Mistress Olive!" said she. "That Sir Launcelot is enough to rouse a saint, his groom told my Margery's Dickon. And they may say what they like, but I wouldn't give a farthing for any saint that can't be roused."

It was not the public verdict Roger had to fear. Aunt Dorothy took my Father's place at the head of the table, her face white and rigid, carving the meat, but eating not a morsel, nor uttering a word. Aunt Gretel moved about on one pretence and another, holding half-whispered discourse with the elder servants of the house, from the broken snatches of which I gathered that she fell into great historical difficulties in her double anxiety to say nothing harsh of the wounded gentleman, and at the same time to prove that Roger had meant no harm. And I, meantime, could scarce have sat through that terrible meal at all, but for Roger's stag-hound Lion, who nestled in close to me, pressing his great head under my hand, and calling my attention by a soft moan, and from time to time secretly relieving me of the food I could not touch, bolting it in a surreptitious manner, regardless of consequences, which said as plainly as possible, "Thou and I understand each other. Our hearts are in the same place. I eat, not because I care a straw about it, but to please thee and help him." Only once, when my tears fell fast on his nose, as I stooped over him to hide them, his feelings betrayed him, and his great paws appeared for a moment on the clean Sabbath cloth, as with an inquiring whine he started up and tried to lick my face, which I supposed was his way of figuratively wiping away my tears. But at the gentlest touch on his paws he subsided, casting one anxious glance at Aunt Dorothy, who, however, neither saw him nor the brown foot-prints on the tablecloth. Always afterwards he maintained his gentlemanlike reserve, limiting all further expression of his feelings to spasmodic movements of his tail, and to his great soft wistful eyes, which he never took off from me, For dogs always know when anything is the matter. Their misfortune is they can never make out what it is. Roger's ancient foe, the old gray cat, meantime made secretly off with a piece of meat which Lion had dropped. And I caught sight of her slowly luxuriating over it in a corner, entirely regardless of the family circumstances.

Every most trivial incident in that day glows as vividly and distinctly in my memory, in the fire of the passion that burned through it all, as every detail of the carving of Davenant Hall in the flames of the twelve bonfires.

The meal passed in a silence so deep that every whisper of Aunt Gretel's and every moan of Lion's were clearly heard. But afterwards the men slunk hastily away to the farm-yard and stables, and Tib with bones and fragments to her hens and pigs, and the maidens began to clear away the wooden trenchers and our pewter dishes, the clatter and rattle sounding singularly noisy without the cheerful talk which generally accompanied it.

Aunt Dorothy, Aunt Gretel, and I, went, at his summons, into my Father's justice-room. "Where two or three are gathered together," said he; and without further preamble we all knelt down while he prayed, in a few words and quiet (to the ear). For he seemed to feel the great, loving, omnipotent Presence; not far off, where cries only could reach, but near, close, overshadowing, indwelling, too near almost for speech. And we felt the same.

When he ceased, it was some minutes before we rose. And the silence fell on me like an answer like an "Amen," like one of those "Verilys" which shine through so many of the Gospel words, and illumine them so that they may read in the dark; in the dark when we most need them.

Before we left, I told him of Lady Lucy and Lettice praying the Collects for Roger in her oratory.

My Father turned away with trembling lips to the window. Aunt Gretel sobbed, Aunt Dorothy said, with a faint voice,—

"God forgive me if I said anything of Lady Lucy I should not have said."

We had not left the room when Lettice's white palfry flashed past the door, and in another moment she had met us in the porch.

"Sir Launcelot will live!" she said. "The physician says there is every hope; and he sleeps. If he wakes better, all will be right; and Roger waits to see, because he still fears. But I am sure all will be well. And I could not bear you should wait; so my mother let me come."

In his thankfulness my Father forgot the stately courtesy with which he usually treated Lettice, and stooping down, took her in his arms, as if she had been me, and kissed and blessed her, and called her "God's sweet messenger and dove of hope!" and prayed she might be so all her life. And Aunt Gretel disappeared to tell every one. But Aunt Dorothy stood still where she was, and covered her face with her hands and wept unrestrainedly in a way most uncommon with her.

Lettice, with her own sweet instinct when to come and when to go, was on the steps by the door in a moment (anticipating her groom's ready hand), on her white pony, waving her hand to us as we watched her in the porch, and away out of sight, escaping our thanks, and leaving us to our hope.

Slowly the dispersed household, who had all been invisibly bound to the centre they nevertheless would not approach, gathered in the hall from stall, and shed, and field.

And then my Father said,—

"Friends, God has given us hope. Therefore let us pray." And for a few minutes we all knelt together while he prayed, in brief trustful words, ending with the Lord's Prayer, in which all the voices joined, at least all that could, for there were many tears.

Then my Father read Luther's Psalm, "God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in time of trouble."

And we felt it was true. And so the service ended. And once more the household scattered. For Roger had yet to return, and we all felt a family-gathering would be a welcome he could ill bear. So Aunt Dorothy went to her chamber, and Aunt Gretel to her German hymn-book by the fireside, and I to my place at her feet, and then to watch from the porch. For my Father went out to meet Roger.

And of that meeting neither of them ever spoke.

They came back together, my Father's hand on Roger's shoulder, half as on a child's for tenderness, half as an old man's on a son's for support.

"Sir Launcelot is out of danger!" said my Father, when he came into the hall.

Roger kissed me and Aunt Gretel as he passed, and took my hand and tried to say something; but said nothing, only let me sob a minute on his shoulder, and then went up to his chamber.

We were used rather to repress than to give utterance to feeling in our Puritan households. And Lion was the only person who made much show of what he felt, twisting and whining and fondling round Roger in a way very unsuited to his giant bulk. We heard him pacing after Roger to the foot of the great staircase. Upstairs no dog under Aunt Dorothy's rule would venture, under the strongest excitement; so after lying expectant at its foot for some time, Lion returned to express his satisfaction in a more composed manner to me.

At family-prayer that night, my Father made one brief allusion of fervent thankfulness to the mercy of the day. More neither he nor Roger could have borne.

And so that Sabbath of unrest ended. To us, but not to Roger; although I only learned this long afterwards. For no lamp marked the watch of agony he kept that night. And on his haggard countenance, when he came down the next morning, no one dared question nor comment.

For while others rejoiced in the deliverance, he writhed in agony under the burden and in the coils of his sin. The accident of the log being at hand, that might have made it murder, and the other accident, that the wound had not been an inch nearer the temple or a barley-corn deeper, made absolutely no difference in the burden that weighed on him. If Sir Launcelot had died, the punishment would have been heavier; but not the remorse. And although his living was the deepest cause of thankfulness, yet it was no lightening of the sin. For it was the fountain of the sin within that was Roger's misery; the fountain deep in the heart.

Now he began to feel the meaning of the words, "Out of the heart." Now the old difficulties he and I had discussed in the apple-tree and in the herb-chamber rushed back on him. Now he began to feel that it was no mere entertaining question in metaphysical dynamics whether he was a free agent or not, but a question of moral and eternal life or death.

Could he have resisted the temptation to strike Sir Launcelot? Or could he not? His hand had stirred to deal that blow, at the bidding of the bitter anger in his heart, as instinctively and almost as unconsciously as the indignant blood had rushed to the cheek. What had stirred the sudden movement of anger in his heart? Far bitterer words from the lips of a stranger had not moved him as those mocking tones of Sir Launcelot's. The strength of that fatal impulse was but the accumulated force of the irritation of countless petty provocations, not retaliated outwardly, but suffered to ferment in the heart. Nor was that last sin altogether rooted in sin. Roger's search into his own heart was made with too intense a desire of being true to himself and to God for him to fall into that blind passion of self-accusing. It had been more than half-rooted in justice, just anger against injustice, generous indignation against ungenerous slander, truth revolting against falsehood. And so gradual (and in part so just) had been the growth of deep-rooted detestation of Sir Launcelot's character, that the last act—which might have been crime in the eyes of man, which was crime in the eyes of God, whose judgment is not measured by consequences—had become almost as irresistible and instinctive as the movement of the eyelid to sweep a grain of dust from the eye.

When, then, could he have begun to resist? When would it have been possible to stem the little stream which had swollen into a torrent that had all but swept his life into ruin? Where was the point where sin and virtue, hatred which leads to murder, and justice which is the foundation of all virtue, began to intertwine until they were ravelled inextricably beyond his power to sever or distinguish? Had there ever been such a point? Must not all, he being as he was by nature, and things being as they were, and Sir Launcelot being as he was, have necessarily gone on as it had, and led to the result it led to?

But here came in the low inextinguishable voice of conscience.

"This anguish is no fruit of inevitable necessity. It was sin—it was sin. I have sinned." And then—

"I have sinned, because there is sin in me. Sin in me; no mere detached faults, no isolated wrong acts, but a fountain of evil within me, from which every evil thing proceeds. Out of the heart—out of the heart; not from without, not something merely in me. It is I myself that am sinful, that have sinned. This one evil thing, which, unlike all other seemingly evil things, storms or frosts, or corruption and death itself, never produces good fruit, but only evil fruit, is springing is an inexhaustible flow from the depths of my innocent being."

"Free? I am not free! I am in bondage. I am a slave. I am tied and bound. Yet this bondage is no excuse; it is the very essence of my sin. I cannot explain it; but I feel it. I feel it in this anguish which I cannot escape any more than we can escape from anguish in the bones by writhing. For this is not the anguish of blows or of wounds, but of disease within, growing from my inmost heart, preying on my inmost life. O God, I have sinned, I am a sinful man. In me is no help. Is there none in the universe, none in Thee?"

Then from the depth of the anguish came the relief. The thought flashed through him—

"Unless one worse than the worst conception man ever formed of the devil is the Maker of man and the Omnipotent Ruler of the world, it is impossible that we should be so powerless in ourselves to overcome sin, and so agonized in remorse for it, and yet that there should be no deliverance."

That thought made a lull in his anguish for a time, a silence; that thought, and the mere exhaustion of the conflict. For his thoughts had whirled him round until thought, with the mere rapidity of motion, became imperceptible. In the centre of the whirlwind there was stillness, and therein he lay prostrate, dumb, and exhausted.

But not alone.

On his mind, wearied out with vain thinking, on his heart, numb with suffering, fell in the pause of the storm old sweet, familiar words, still small voices, soft echoes of sacred hymns learned in childhood; those old familiar, simple words, wherewith the Spirit, moving like a dove on the face of the waters, knows how to win entrance into souls tempest-tossed, when new words, though wise and deep as an archangel's, would only sweep past its closed doors undistinguished from the wail of the winds, or the raging of the seas on which it tosses.

Old familiar words,—

"Go in peace, thy sins are forgiven thee."

Words of healing to so many!

Forgiveness; not as a far-off result of a life of expiation, but free, complete, present. Peace; not after years of doubtful conflict, but now, to strengthen for the conflict. Yet these were not the words he most wanted then. It was not so much that guilt pressed on him as a burden, as that sin bound him like a chain. Not peace he most wanted, but power; freedom to fight, power to overcome. It seemed to him as if what he longed for was not so much "Go in peace," as "Come! and I will chasten thee, smite thee low, humble thee in the dust; but make thee whole."

Not soft words of comfort, but strong words of hope and promise, were what he needed, and they did not seem to come.

He crept out of the house before dawn to obtain tidings at the Hall of Sir Launcelot, and to quiet the restlessness of his heart by outward movement.

On his way he passed the forge where Job Forster, the blacksmith, lived alone with his wife at the edge of the village opposite to ours, on the way to the Hall.

There was a light in Job's window; a strange sight in his orderly and childless home. The red glare it cast across the road was struggling with the growing dawn. As Roger approached, it was put out; and just when he reached the door it was opened, and Job's tall figure issued forth.

Job strode forward and grasped Roger's hand.

"Thee had best not be roaming about the country by theeself in the dark like a ghost," said he. "It's wisht!"

"Is anything the matter?" asked Roger, diverting the conversation from himself.

"There's nought the matter with us," said Job.

"There was a light in your window, so I thought Rachel might be ill," said Roger.

"There's nought ailing with us," repeated Job; and after some hesitation he added, "We were but thinking of thee."

"You used not to need a lamp to think by," said Roger, touched more than he liked to show.

"No, nor to pray by," said Job. "But we wanted a promise, she and I." (Job seldom called his wife anything but she.) "We wanted a promise, Master, for thee. For she thought the devil would be sure to be busy with thee just now, and so did I."

"Did you find one?" asked Roger.

"They are as plenty as the stars," said Job, "but we couldn't light on the one that would fit. And it's bad work hammering them promises to fit if they don't go right at first."

"As many as the stars, and not one that fits me!" said Roger, unintentionally betraying the struggles of the night. "Peace, and pardon, and everything every one wants, but not what I want. You found none, Job! Then, of course, there was nothing more to be done. You and Rachel wouldn't give in easily."

"Well, Master Roger," said Job, "we didn't. But we came to a stand, and for a while gave up looking altogether. And I sat down on one edge of the bed and she on the other, and we said nothing. But she wept nigh as bitter as Esau, for she ever had a tender heart for thee, having none of her own, and thee no mother. When all at once she flashed up through her tears, and said, 'Why, Job, we've gone a-hunting for a promise, and we've got them all to our hand. All in Him! Yea and amen, in Him! We've forgotten the blessed Lord!' Then it struck me all of a heap what fools we were; and I could have laughed for gladness, but that she might have thought I'd gone mazed. So I only said, 'Why, child, here we've been chattering like cranes, as if we'd been all in the twilight, like poor old Hezekiah. We've been hunting for the promises, and we've got the Gift! We've been groping for words, and we've got the Word.' So we knelt down again, and begged hard of the Lord to mind how He was tempted and forsaken, and to mind thee, Master Roger, and help thee any way He could. And we rose up wonderful lightened, she and I. And then the promises came falling about us as thick as hail; and uppermost of them all, 'If the Son shall make you free, you shall be free indeed;' 'Reconciled to God by His death; saved by His life;' and, 'I am come that they might have life.'"

"Job," said Roger, "I think that will do; I think that will fit me."

"Maybe, Master Roger," said Job. "They're mighty words. But, please God, thee and she and I never forget what we learnt to-night. Words are not so strong always the thousandth time as the first. But His voice goes deeper every time we hearken to it. And every sore needs a fresh salve. But His touch is a salve for all sores. Never you be such a fool as we were, Master Roger. Never you go creeping back into the dark hunting for a promise and forget that they are all, yea and amen, in the Lord. No more if's or maybe's, or peradventure's, but yea and amen in Him for us all for ever."

Roger grasped Job's hand in silence, and went on to hear tidings of Sir Launcelot.

The night had been quiet; the fever had subsided, and the danger was over. And Roger came back to his chamber at Netherby to give thanks to God. For danger averted from others, for a curse averted from himself, but above all, for the glorious promise of freedom now and for ever—freedom to overcome sin, freedom to serve God. Freedom in the liberating Saviour, life in the Life, sonship in the Son, now and for ever.

The various streams of the various lives which had been flooded into one by the common anxiety about Roger and Sir Launcelot soon shrank back into their various separate channels.

Ah! if we could all keep at the point, "I will arise," or better still, at the place where the Father meets us, how good, and lowly, and tender-hearted we should be! No, "thou never gavest me a kid;" no, "this thy son, which hath devoured thy substance!" Strange that the memory of such moments (and what Christian life can be without such?) should not keep the heart ever broken and open. The best way towards this, no doubt, is to have such an arising and such an embracing every day we live. I am sure we need it. However, we did not exactly do this at that time at Netherby.

Aunt Dorothy, on thinking matters over with her "sober judgment," thought it a duty to warn us against the "spirit of bondage," which, with all her sweetness, had restrained poor Lady Lucy's prayers to the limits of the Prayer-Look. Cousin Placidia, the immediate anxiety having subsided, could not but feel that Roger's vehemence had added another step to the distance which already separated them. Once on that Pharisaic height, to which, alas! we so easily rise without any trouble of climbing, being puffed up thither by windy substances within and without, other people's falls necessarily increase our comparative elevation above them; and whether this is caused by their descent or by our ascent is difficult to determine; just as in the case of one boat passing another, it is difficult by the mere sense of sight to ascertain which is moving. Not that Placidia asserted this conscious superiority by reproaches. Did she need to descend to speech? Was not her life a reproach? That placid life, unbroken by any movement deeper than the soft ripples of an approving conscience; or a calm disapproval of any one attempting an encroachment on her rights,—which of course she never permitted. Had she not heard of Archbishop Laud's cruelties to the three gentlemen in the pillory with no further emotion than a gentle regret that the three gentlemen could not have held their tongues? Had she not, on the other hand, heard the tidings of Lord Stratford's arrest, and the destruction of the Star-Chamber Court, with no more vehement feeling than a remark on the vanity of human greatness, and a gentle hope that it might lead to the abolition of the very inconvenient monopolies on pepper and soap?

Had she not always warned Roger and me against severity on Sir Launcelot? Had she not even gone the length of pronouncing him a very fine gentleman? And what could be more striking than the subsequent justification of her warnings by the revengeful act to which Roger had been betrayed?

Under all these circumstances, Placidia's forbearance must have seemed to herself remarkable. She uttered no rebuke, she pointed no moral, by reminding us of her prophetical sayings. She merely towered above us on her serene heights, a little higher, a little more serene—a very little—than before. And she called me "Olive, my dear," and Roger "poor Roger." But that was partly, no doubt, on account of her being married.

Roger bore her superiority most meekly. Indeed, I believe he felt it as much as she did. For Roger did remain at that point of penitence and pardon where the heart keeps sweet, and lowly, and tender. Which, most certainly, I very often did not. For Placidia's condescension, especially to Roger, chafed me often past endurance.

Only once I remember his being roused.

She had been saying (I forget in what connection) that she hoped Roger would not be too much cast down. "It was never too late to turn over a new leaf; and then there was the consoling example of the Apostle Peter. There was reason to believe that the Apostle Peter was a wiser and better man all his life from his terrible fall. And we know that 'all things work for good,'" said she, "'to them that are called.'"

Then Roger, sitting at the other end of the hall cleaning his gun, as we believed out of hearing, suddenly rose, and coming to where we were sitting, stood before Placidia with compressed lips and arms folded tightly on his breast,—

"Cousin Placidia," he said, "never, never say that again. St. Peter was not wiser and better, or even humbler for denying Christ. No doubt he was wiser, and better, and tenderer for that look, for ever and ever; and better for the bitter weeping; but not for the denial, not for the sin."

Said my Father, who came in behind Roger as he spoke, laying his hand on Roger's shoulder,—

"True, Roger, true; but though sin can never work for good, the memory of sin may; and at any point in the lowest depths where we turn our back on the husks and our face to the Father's house, God will meet us, and from that moment make the consequences, bitter as they may be, begin to work for good to us."

"To us! Father, to us," said Roger, "but to others—how to others? To those our misdoing may have misled or confirmed in evil? We may stop a rock hurled down a precipice. But who can stop all it has set in motion, or undo the ruin it has wrought in its way?"

"Nothing works for good," said my Father mournfully, "to those whose faces are turned from God. But He can help us, and will, if we set our whole hearts to it, to counter-work the evil we have wrought. Counter-work, I say, not undo; for to undo a deed done is impossible even to Omnipotence. And that makes sin the one terrible and unalterably evil and sorrowful thing in the world, and the only one."

The words fell heavily on my heart. Was this the gospel? I thought. Evil never, never to be undone, sin never to be the same as if it had not been? Placidia said no more until Roger and my Father went out on the farm together, and we were left alone with Aunt Gretel, and then she observed in her deliberate way, with a slow shake of her head,—

"I hope Cousin Roger is not still in the dark. I trust he understands the gospel—"

"What do you mean by the gospel, Placidia?" said I, half roused on Roger's account and half troubled on my own.

Placidia, always ready (at that time) with a theological definition, neatly folded and packed, entered into a disquisition of some length as to what she understood by "the gospel." In a deliberate and business-like manner she undertook to explain the purposes of the Almighty from the beginning, as if she had, in some inexplicable way, been in the confidence of Heaven before the beginning, and comprehended not only all the purposes of the Eternal, but the reasons on which these purposes were founded. The effect produced on my mind was as if the whole life-giving stream of redeeming love flowing from the glorious unity of the living God, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, had been frozen into a rigid contract between certain high sovereign powers for the purchase of a certain inheritance for their own use, in which the utmost care was taken on all sides that the quantity paid and the quantity received should be precisely equivalent. It was as if the whole living, breathing world, with its infinite blue heavens, its abounding rivers, its waving corn-fields, its heaving seas, and all that is therein, had been shrivelled into a map of estates, in which nothing was of importance but the dividing lines. These "dividing lines" of her system might, for aught I knew, be correct enough, might be those of the Bible itself; but the awful Omnipresence, the real holy indignation against wrong, the love, the life, the yearning, pitying, repenting, immutably just, yet tenderly forgiving heart which beats in every page of the Bible, had vanished altogether. All the while she spoke, as it were in spite of myself, the words kept running through my head, "They that make them are like unto them."

At the close she said, turning to Aunt Gretel,—

"I think I have stated the gospel clearly. I only hope Cousin Roger understands it."

"I am sure I do not know, my dear," said Aunt Gretel (for Aunt Gretel, being always afraid of in some way compromising Dr. Luther by any confusion in her theological statements, seldom ventured out of the text of Scripture). "I am sure, my dear, I do not know. I am no theologian. And it is a blessing that the Holy Scriptures provide what Dr. Luther calls a gospel in miniature for those who are no theologians: 'God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have ever-lasting life.' That is my gospel, my dear. It is shorter, you see, than yours, and I think rather better news; especially for the wandering sheep and prodigal sons, and all the people outside, and for those who, like me, trust they have come back, but still feel, as I do, very apt to go wrong again."

"Mr. Nicholls always says I have rather a remarkably clear head for theology," said Placidia. "But gifts differ, and we have none of us anything to be proud of."

"No doubt, my dear," said Aunt Gretel. "At least I am sure I have not. But I cannot say I think the punishment, or at least the sad consequences of sin are all exactly taken away for us, at least in this life. For instance, there is Gammer Grindle's grandchild, poor Cicely, as pretty a girl as ever danced around the May-pole, that people say Sir Launcelot Trevor tempted away to London, and left to no one knows what misery there. (If it was not Sir Launcelot, may I be forgiven for joining in an unjust accusation; but he was seen speaking to her the evening before she left.) Now if Sir Launcelot were to repent, as I pray he may, that would not bring back the lost innocence to little Cicely; nor do I see how the thought of her could ever bring anything but a bitter agony of remorse to him."

("Ah," interposed Aunt Dorothy, who had joined us, "I did speak my mind, I am thankful to say, about those May-poles.")

"What is forgiveness, then?" resumed Placidia. "And what is the good of being religious, if we are to be punished just the same as if we were not forgiven?"

"The blessing of forgiveness," said Aunt Dorothy, "is being forgiven; and the good of being godly is, I should think, being godly."

"Forgiveness, my dear," added Aunt Gretel, "What is forgiveness? It is welcome back to the Father's heart. It is the curse borne for us and taken from us out of everything, out of death itself. It is God with us against all our sins, God for us against all our real foes. It is the broken link reknit between us and God. It is the link broken between us and sin. What would you have better? What could you have more? Once on the Father's heart, can we not well leave it to Him to decide what pain we can be spared, and what we can not be spared, without so much the more sin, which is so infinitely worse than any pain."

"My theology," Aunt Dorothy continued, "is the doctrine Nathan taught when he said to David, 'The Lord hath put away thy sin, but the child shall die,'—and to the Apostle Paul when he wrote, 'God is not mocked; whatsoever a man soweth that shall he also reap:' the theology our fathers taught us; no gospel of tolerating sin, but of forgiving and destroying it. 'Christ has redeemed us from the curse of the law, being made a curse for us.' He has brought us under the rod of the covenant, having Himself 'learned obedience through the things which He suffered.' There is as much mercy and as much justice in one as in the other. I hope, my dear," she concluded, "you and Mr. Nicholls do indeed understand the gospel. But, I confess, people who get into the Covenant so very easily do puzzle me. They say the anguish all but cost Dr. Luther his life, and Mr. Cromwell his reason."

Placidia, from her double height of spiritual serenity and semi-clerical dignity, looked mildly down on Aunt Dorothy's suggestions.

"Aunt Dorothy," said she, "I have often thought, you scarcely comprehend Mr. Nicholls and me. But it is written, 'Woe unto you when all men speak well of you.' And as to Cousin Roger's Gospel, I should call it simply the Law."

Soon after Placidia rose to leave. But as she was putting on her mufflers, she remarked, as if the thought had just occurred to her,—

"Aunt Dorothy, those three beautiful cows Uncle Drayton gave me, I am a little anxious about them: the glebe farm is on high ground, and the grass is not so rich as they have been used to, and I was saying to Mr. Nicholls yesterday morning that I was sure Uncle Drayton would be quite distressed if he saw how much less yellow and rich the butter was than it used to be. And Mr. Nicholls said he quite felt with me. And Uncle Drayton is always so kind. So I said I thought I had better be quite frank with Uncle Drayton. You know I always am frank, and speak out what I think. It is no merit in me. It is my nature, and I cannot help it. And Mr. Nicholls said he thought I had. And yesterday evening it happened that we were passing the meadow by the Mere, and there were no cattle on it. And I said to Mr. Nicholls at once, what a pity that beautiful grass should run to seed, and our butter be such a poor colour. And Mr. Nicholls saw it at once. And he advised me—or I suggested and he approved of it, I cannot be certain which (and I am always so anxious to report everything exactly as it happened)—at once to go to Uncle Drayton and ask him if he would allow our three cows just to stand for a little while in that meadow, while there are no other cattle to put in it, just to prevent the pasture running to waste, which I know would be quite a trouble to Uncle Drayton if he thought of it, only no one can be in every place at once, and no doubt he had forgotten it."

"Very few people's eyes can be in every place at once, certainly, Placidia," said Aunt Dorothy, with point. "But it so happens that your uncle had not forgotten that meadow. And this morning Bob drove all our cows there."

"Oh," said Placidia, "that is quite enough. I only felt naturally anxious that nothing should be wasted, especially when we happened to be wanting it. But, of course, a poor parson's wife cannot expect such butter as you have at Netherby; only I always remember the 'twelve baskets,' and how important it is 'nothing should be lost,' and the virtuous woman at the end of the Proverbs. I shall always have reason to be grateful to you, Aunt Dorothy, for making me learn so much Scripture."

"Thank you, my dear," said Aunt Dorothy, "you always had an excellent memory. But it is very important with the Holy Scriptures, at least the English version, not to read them from right to left."

So Cousin Placidia departed, leaving Aunt Dorothy with a comfortable sense of having defeated a plot.

But half an hour afterwards my Father came in.

"Poor Placidia," said he, "I met her on her way home, and I really was quite touched by her gratitude for those few cows I gave her, and also by the feeling she expressed about Roger. It seems the glebe pasture does not agree with the beasts as well as ours, and she had been rather troubled about the butter, but had not liked to speak of it, especially when we were in such anxiety about Roger. It really shows more delicacy of feeling than I thought Placidia possessed, poor child. And it shows how careful we ought to be not to form uncharitable judgments. So I ordered Bob to put those three cows with ours in the Mere meadow for a little while."

"Did Placidia mention the Mere meadow?" said Aunt Dorothy.

"Well, I cannot be sure, but I think she did; and I think it was a very sensible notion."

"What did Bob say?" said Aunt Dorothy, grimly.

"Bob spoke rather sharply," said my Father; "he is apt to be very free-spoken at times; he said he had like to look well to our pastures if we were to give change of air to all Mistress Nicholl's cattle. It was not likely, Bob thought, they would be in any hurry to change back again."

"Well, there are men," murmured Aunt Dorothy, "who are as harmless as doves, and there are women who are as wise as serpents. And the less the two meet the better. I don't care a rush who feeds Placidia's cows; but it is almost more than I can bear that she thinks no one sees through her schemes."

But Placidia had triumphed. And the parsonage cows never needed any further change of residence.

It irks me somewhat to intertwine these rough dark threads with the story of those so dear to me, but the whole would drop into unmeaningness without them. Placidia and Mr. Nicholls made many a calumny of the enemy's comprehensible to me. For in later days it became the fashion to assert that characters of that stamp formed the staple of our Commonwealth men and women. Characters of this stamp win Naseby and Worcester! save the persecuted Vaudois! make England the reverence of the world! conceive the "Pilgrim's Progress," the "Areopagitica," and the "Living Temple!" sacrifice two thousand livings for conscience sake!

No! Pharisees, doubtless, there were among us, as, alas, doubtless there is the root of Pharisaism within us. But they were of the make of Saul the disciple of Gamaliel, not of those who tithed the "mint, anise, and cummin."

At first it seemed to me that Placidia's "Gospel" was more likely to be fulfilled in Roger's case than his own forebodings.

Good seemed to come out of that hasty act of his rather than evil. The feeling he, usually so self-repressing, had shown about Sir Launcelot, revealed him in a new light to Lady Lucy.

"I thought him rather stony, I must confess," she said; "but now I see it was only a little of your Puritan ice, if I may say so without offence; and that there is an ocean of feeling below. My dear, now all has ended well, he really must not take it so much to heart. He has grown too grave. We cannot have precisely the same standard for young men, with all their temptations and strong passions, as for sweet innocent girls sheltered tenderly in homes, with our softer natures. I should always wish to be severe to myself. But young men; ah, my child, the king is a good man, but if you had seen a little even of our Court, you would think Roger an angel."

Compared with Sir Launcelot, I most sincerely believed he was. But this double standard was unknown in our Puritan home. One law of righteousness, and purity, and goodness we knew, and only one, for man and woman. And in this I learned to think Aunt Dorothy's grimmest sternness more pitiful than Lady Lucy's pity. I do not wish to set down what seemed to me Lady Lucy's mistakes to any sect or any doctrine. In theory all Christian sects are agreed as to the moral standard. But I believe in my heart it was the high moral standard set up, in those days, chiefly (never only) in our Puritan homes, which will be the salvation of England, if ever that pest-house, called the Court, is to be cleansed, and if England ever is to be saved.

Lady Lucy's religion was one of tender, devotional emotions, minute ceremonial, and gorgeous ritual. When braced up by Christian principle, it was beautiful and attractive. The Puritan religion was one of principle and doctrine. When inspired by Divine love, it was gloriously deep and strong.

Meantime, with Sir Walter and his boys, Roger had manifestly risen many degrees by his "spirited conduct." Sir Launcelot's jests, they admitted, could bite, and it was just as well he should have a lesson, though rather a severe one.

Sir Launcelot himself, moreover, took a far different demeanour towards Roger. "Saints with that amount of fire in their temper," he observed, "might be dangerous, but were certainly not despicable."

And as to Lettice, whose moral code was chivalrous rather than Scriptural, and to whom generosity was a far more admirable virtue than justice, and honour a more glorious thing than duty, she said candidly she was delighted Roger had lost his temper for once, just to show every one how much heart and spirit he had.

"You and I knew what he was, Olive," said she; "but I wanted the rest to feel it too."

And yet there was something lost. Slowly I grew to see and feel it.

Firstly, in the relative position of Roger and Sir Launcelot. Deeds of violence inevitably place the one who does them morally below the one who suffers. There had been a real honour to Roger in Sir Launcelot's previous mockery; there was a real dishonour in the assumption he now made that Roger stood on his own level. Moreover, Roger's own generous self-reproach deprived him of the power of retort.

And secondly (but chiefly), in Lettice's altered feeling about Sir Launcelot. Roger never spoke of him; but now that he had recovered, I felt that I could not forget how, by Lettice's own account, he had provoked the blow; nor could I see that the fact of his having received a blow which he had provoked in any way made his character different from what it had been. Many debates we had on the subject, for we met often during those weeks—those weeks of winter and early spring, when the whole nation was in suspense about Lord Strafford's trial, watching during the ploughing and sowing of the year the solemn reaping of the harvest he had sown. One of these debates in particular I remember, because of the way in which it closed.

It was on Thursday, the 13th of May (1641). We had met in the wood by the Lady Well. There seemed a marvellous melody that day in the music of the little spring, as it bubbled up into its stone trough, and echoed back from the stone roof of the little sacred cell the monks had lovingly made for it seven hundred years ago. The inscription could still be read on the front:—

"Ut jucundas cervus undas
Æstuans desiderat,
Sic ad rivum Dei vivum
Mens fidelis properat."

Lettice and I knelt and listened to it.

"It is as if all the bells in fairy-land were ringing," said she at length, softly; "only hear how the soft peals rise and fall, and go and come, and how one sound drops into another, and blends with it, and flows away and comes back, and meets the next, until there is no following them."

"Then," said I, "there must have been choirs and church-bells in fairy-land, for there is surely something sad and sacred in the sound. It sounds to me like those bells the legends tell us of, buried beneath the sea, tolling up to us from far beneath the dark waters of the past."

Then Lettice fastened back her long hair, and stooped down and drank of the crystal water, bathing her face as she drank.

"Those Israelitish soldiers understood how to enjoy water," said she, rising from her draught. "That is delicious."

For we were tired and thirsty with gathering lapfuls of the blue-bells, of which the woods were full.

As she stood, her moist parted lips, the rich glow on her cheeks, her eyes dancing with life, her arms full of flowers, she said,—

"It never seems enough to look at the beautiful world, Olive. I seem to want another sense for it. I want to drink of it like this spring; to take it to my heart, as I do these flowers. And I suppose that is why I delight to gather them, just as when I was a little child. Do you understand?"

I did; but I thought of the inscription on the Lady Well.

"I suppose we do want to get nearer, Lettice," I said; "we want to drink of the Fountain. We want to rest on the Heart."

"Do you think that is what this strange unsatisfied longing means," said she, "which all great joys and all very beautiful things give me?"

For a few moments she was silent. Then she said,—

"What life there is everywhere! Everything seems filled too full of joy, and brimming over—the birds into songs, the fields into flowers, and the trees into leaves, the oldest and gayest of them. And I feel just like them all, Olive. On such a morning one must love every one and everything, altogether regardless of their being lovable, just for the sake of loving. Olive," she added, with one of her sudden turns of thought, "to-day you must forgive Sir Launcelot from the very bottom of your heart, once for all."

"Oh, Lettice," said I, "I do forgive him, I really think I did, long since; at least for everything but his forgiving Roger in that gracious way, as if Roger had nothing to forgive him. I have forgiven him, but I cannot think him good."

"Ungenerous!" said she, half in jest and half in earnest; "you ought to think every one good on such a morning as this. Besides, Sir Launcelot always speaks so kindly and generously of you: he says you are goodness itself."

"I cannot think what is not true, just because the sun shines and the birds sing," said I, "and I certainly cannot think any one good because they call me good, or goodness itself. How can I, Lettice? How can I believe a thing because I wish to believe it?"

"Truth, truth!" said she, a little petulantly "truth and duty, and right and wrong, I wish those cold words were not so often on your lips. There are others so much warmer and more beautiful—nobleness and generosity, and loyalty and devotion, those are the things I love. Yours is a world of daylight, Olive. I like sunshine, glowing morning and evening like rubies and opals, veiling the distance at noon with its own glorious haze. I hate always to see everything exactly as it is, even beautiful things; and ugly things I never will see, if I can help it."

"I love to see everything exactly as it is," said I; "I want, and I pray, to see everything as it is. And in the end I am sure that is the way to see the real beauty of everything in the world. For God has made it, and not the devil. And therefore we need never be afraid to look into things. And I shall always think truth and duty the most beautiful words in the world."

"Very pretty!" said she perversely, "and under all those beautiful words you bury the fact that you will never forgive poor Sir Launcelot."

"I have long forgiven him," said I; "but I cannot think him good, if I tried for ever, until he is. I cannot help thinking of poor little Cicely, Gammer Grindle's grandchild, wandering lost in London."

"Hush, Olive, hush," said she passionately, "that is ungenerous and unkind. I will not listen to village gossip. My Mother says we must not be harsh in judging those whose temptations we cannot estimate. But she means to do all she can in London to help poor Cicely."

"Oh, Lettice," said I, "it is not a question of more or less pity, but of who needs our pity most."

"You are all alike," she rejoined; "yet I love you all, and I love you, Olive, dearly. Without your Puritan training, Olive, you and Roger would have been the best people and the pleasantest in the world; but as my Mother says, all these severe doctrines about law, and justice, and conscience, do make people harsh in judging others, and bitter in resenting wrong."

I could say no more. She had taken refuge under the shadow of Roger's hasty act, and the argument was closed.

When we reached Davenant Hall an unusual crowd was gathered at the front door—a silent eager throng—around a horseman whose horse was covered with foam, from the speed with which he had come. It was Harry Davenant. And the tidings he brought were that on yesterday morning Lord Strafford had been beheaded on Tower Hill, a hundred thousand people gathered there to see; but through all the silent multitude neither sighs of sympathy nor sounds of triumph.

The servants silently dispersed. Harry's horse was led to the stables, and we went in with Lady Lucy, Sir Walter, and Sir Launcelot, into the hall.

"That is what they were doing in London while we were gathering blue-bells!" said Lettice. And she threw her flowers on the stone floor. "I will never gather any more."

She buried her face in her hands and burst into tears—"Cruel, cruel," she said, "of the king, of the queen, to let him die."

"It was the Parliament which hunted him to death," said Harry, bitterly. "And the king did try to save him."

"The Parliament is wicked, and hated him, and I don't care what they did," said Lettice, looking up with a flushed face; "but the king, oh, Mother, you said the king would never let Lord Strafford die. What is the use of being a king if kings can only try to do things like other people. I thought kings could do the things they thought right. He was faithful to the king, was he not, Mother?"

"A devoted servant to the king Lord Strafford surely was," said Lady Lucy, "whether a good counsellor or no. I did not think the king would have given him up. Did no one plead for him?" she asked.

"He pleaded with a wonderful eloquence for himself," said Harry Davenant, "that might well-nigh have turned the heads of his bitterest enemies, and did win the hearts of every one who heard him."

"But the king did try to save him?" said Lady Lucy, clinging to this.

"The king called his privy council together," said Harry Davenant, "last Sunday, when the bill of attainder had passed through the Lords and Commons, and said he had doubts and scruples about assenting to it, and asked their advice. Dr. Juxon, Bishop of London, counselled him never to consent to the shedding of what he believed innocent blood. But the rest of the council advised him to yield.— And the king yielded."

"Some people," he continued, "think the king was justified by a letter the earl wrote him on the Tuesday before, wherein he offered his life in this world to the king with all cheerfulness; nay, even counselled the sacrifice to reconcile him to his people, saying, 'To a willing man there is no injury done.'"

"Oh, Harry," said Lettice, "the king could give him up after that?"

"It is said the earl scarcely believed it when he heard it, and that he laid his hand on his heart and exclaimed, 'Put not your trust in princes.'"

"And well he might!" exclaimed Lettice, her tears dried by the fire of her indignation.

"Hush, child, hush!" said Lady Lucy.

"The king made another effort to save him," Harry continued; "he wrote to the Lords recommending imprisonment instead of death; and at the end of the letter he added a postscript: 'If he must die, it were charity to relieve him till Saturday.'"

"A miserable, cold request!" exclaimed Lettice, vehemently; "more cruel than the sentence."

"I would have expected this from his father," murmured Sir Walter, "but not from the king." Then turning from a painful subject, he added, "The earl died bravely, no doubt."

"As he passed the windows of the chamber where Archbishop Laud was, he bowed to receive his blessing, and he said, 'Farewell, my lord, God protect your innocence.' He marched to the Tower Hill more with the bearing of a general leading his army, than a sentenced man moving to the scaffold. At the Tower Gate the lieutenant desired him to take coach, fearing the violence of the people, but the earl refused: 'I dare look death in the face,' said he, 'and I hope the people do. Have you a care I do not escape, and I care not how I die, whether by the hand of the executioner or by the madness of the people. If that give them better content, it is all one to me.' And so, after protesting his innocence, saying he forgave all the world, and sending a few affectionate words to his wife and four children, he laid his head on the block. There was no base triumphing in the crowd, I will say that for them; they behaved like Englishmen. The earl fell in silence. But in the evening the brutish populace cried out in exultation, 'His head is off! his head is off!' and the city was blazing with bonfires. The people feel they have gained the first step in a victory. The Court thinks it has made the furthermost step in concession, and that thenceforward all must be peace. Would to heaven the king and the Court might be right; but it is hard to say."

It was dusk before all this converse was ended and I left the Hall. Harry Davenant persisted in guarding me across the fields to Netherby, until we came to the high road close to the house. There he took leave.

"My Father would like to see you," I said.

"Mr. Drayton would be courteous to his mortal enemy," said he.

"We are not enemies," I said, a little pained.

"Heaven forbid," he replied; "but I had better not come, not to-day. The fall of the earl scarcely means the same thing in your home as in ours."

"There will be no mean triumphing over Lord Strafford's death at Netherby," I said, with some indignation.

"There will be no low, or ungenerous, or mean thing said by one of the Draytons!" he said, warmly. "But I had better not see Mr. Drayton this evening."

And waving his plumed hat, he vaulted over the stile; and I felt he was right. Looking back at the turn leading to the house, I saw he was watching me from the field. But as I turned the corner and came in sight of the gables of the Manor, a foreboding came on me, as of siftings and severings to come—of a few pebbles, or a few rushes, gently giving the slightest turn to the course of the two little trickling springs, and their waters flowing, ever after, by different banks, and falling at last into the oceans which wash the shores of opposite worlds. But not Lettice, never Lettice; the whole world, I thought, should be no barrier to sever us from Lettice! Nor should all the political or ecclesiastical differences in the world ever check or chill the current of our love and reverence to all the true, and brave, and just, and good, and godly. For politics, even ecclesiastical politics, are of time; but truth, and courage, and justice, and goodness, and godliness, are of God, and are eternal.