“What thing is love, which nought can countervail?
Nought save itself, e’en such a thing is love.
All worldly wealth in worth as far doth fail,
As lowest earth doth yield to heaven above.
Divine is love, and scorneth worldly pelf,
And can be bought with nothing, but with self.”
—From “England’s Helicon,” 1600.
As they passed the farm in which he had hoped to leave the Major, he saw the master of the house standing at the gate, and, though they could not speak, an understanding glance passed between them, and Gabriel saw the eyes that had looked so hard and stern on the previous night soften in a marvellous fashion. He understood the strong bracing sympathy of the rugged old farmer, and went on his way with renewed courage.
The heat of the July day soon grew intense, and several times the cavalcade was forced to halt and rest. The Major could only just keep in the saddle, and Gabriel watched him anxiously, dreading every minute that he would succumb.
Once when they rested for a short time at West Kennet, Captain Tarverfield approached him, looking with not unkindly curiosity at the young lieutenant—his face burnt ruddy-brown by the sun, and great drops of perspiration falling on his forehead from his rough brown hair. His hazel eyes were extraordinarily clear and bright, and something in his straight, fearless glance attracted the Royalist Captain.
“You have had a hot march,” he said.
“I have a good pair of legs, sir,” said Gabriel; “but my arm is cramped and numb.”
The Captain then noticed that to save his wounded friend he had all these hours had his wrist roped up above his head in a posture that must have long since become torturing.
With a muttered imprecation, the Royalist proceeded to unloose the rope.
“Give me your parole not to escape, and for this hour, at any rate, you can go free,” he said.
Gabriel readily gave the promise, thanking the Captain warmly, and between them they then helped the Major from his horse and laid him on the grass by the roadside. The soldiers had contented themselves with stripping the younger prisoner, and had let the wounded man retain his helmet. Gabriel unfastened it now, and carried it down to the bank of the stream close by; then, returning with the water the Major was eagerly longing for, found Captain Tarverfield still in conversation with him.
“Had I known that Colonel Norton had a grudge against you both, I would have let you pass this morning,” he said. “For Norton is the very devil when once he has a quarrel with any man. ’Tis of no use to ask him for a surgeon’s aid, it would only make him the more brutal. We shall lie this night at Marlborough, however, and I will do what I can for you when Lord Wilmot and my Lord Falkland arrive with the next detachment.”
“Did Lord Falkland come with the Oxford contingent?” asked Gabriel, sudden interest lighting up his face. “I owe my life to his kindly help at Edgehill.”
And he told the young officer what had passed.
“He is greatly changed since then,” said Captain Tarverfield. “They say His Majesty fears and dislikes him, while he is like a fish out of water among the courtiers and fine ladies at Oxford, who spitefully invent evil tales as to his friendship with Mistress Moray. He should never have meddled with statecraft, his conscience is over-tender for the work he is expected to do.”
With that he went off to dine at the village inn, and the Major, reviving a little, began to think of the future.
“We may not again have such a chance as this,” he said, “and there is a matter I would fain broach with you. I know that I have got my deathblow and am sorely troubled as to Helena. I am leaving her well-nigh alone in the world, and have arranged no marriage for her.”
“But Madam Harford will have her in safe keeping, and when once she is in London you may surely rest content,” said Gabriel, suddenly becoming conscious of his friend’s desire.
“I would fain have had you as Lord of the Manor and husband to my child,” said the Major. “The estate hath like enough suffered from Prince Maurice’s troops, no details have yet reached me, but Helena’s dowry is large, and I would gladly see her wedded to you and safe from Squire Norton.”
“Sir,” said Gabriel, looking troubled, “I will do all that I can to shield and help your daughter. But I am not free to wed her; for though ’tis true my betrothal was ended by the war, yet my love remains where it was first given.”
The Major, accustomed to regard marriage chiefly as a matter of business, scarcely understood such an argument, and having found the very man he could trust—one, moreover, who shared most of his views—was very loth to relinquish hope.
“You will see what time brings forth,” he said. “I should rest better in my grave could I think that Nell would be your wife.”
But Gabriel, though moved by his friend’s eagerness, could not be false to himself.
“I will promise, sir, to be her friend and protector,” he said, “when I am out of prison. But to promise more than that would be no true kindness to her.”
“The bugle sounds,” said the Major. “Come, help me to mount for the last time. Most truly did the Psalmist sing, ‘A horse is a vain thing to save a man.’ We owe our capture to poor Harkaway’s friendly greeting of the enemy’s steeds.” Gabriel tried to smile at the jest.
“We must take the fortune of war,” he replied, cheerfully. But as the weary journey continued in the hot afternoon sun, the Major’s strength waned perceptibly, and when at last they reached Marlborough, and were halted in its wide street, he seemed scarcely conscious, though he still kept in the saddle.
A kindly-looking woman came out from one of the houses with a large earthenware mug of home-brewed ale, which she offered to him. He revived a little, thanked her courteously, and made one of his usual little jokes, but with so piteous an effort that Gabriel felt a choking sensation in his throat. He was glad that they were at that moment ordered to march to St. Peter’s Church, in which the prisoners were to be sheltered for the night.
The soldiers untied Major Locke and carried him into the building, putting him down on the chancel floor that he might be a little removed from the noise and confusion in the nave, into which the soldiers were driving the weary prisoners roped together in pairs.
Gabriel, relieved to find his right arm available again, dragged down an old moth-eaten cushion from the pulpit and placed it under the Major’s head, removed his helmet and chafed his cold, clammy hands. But the lack of all comforts baffled his efforts, and he knew that after the long, hot ride the mere chill of the flagstones was the very worst thing for one in his state. He raised him a little, propping up the grey head on his own shoulder.
“You will send the news to Nell,” said the dying man, faintly.
“Yes; but good news I hope,” said Gabriel. “Captain Tarverfield will, I think, remember his promise of help, and a surgeon may do much for you. I hear steps drawing near, maybe he hath already sent. No, ’tis but the sentry.”
The soldier approached them and looked down silently at the wounded man. He was a tall, powerful Irishman who had come over to England as one of Strafford’s grooms, and the Major would have shrunk from him in horror had he known his nationality or guessed him to be a devout Roman Catholic. His face bore an expression which gave Gabriel hope.
“Can you not fetch a surgeon?” he asked. “Surely you may do that much for a prisoner.”
“I would do it, sir,” replied the man, “but I am on sentry duty, and bound not to leave the church. But sure, then, before dark one of the officers will go the rounds, and it will be him you can be asking.”
He moved on, but returned presently with a garment which he had found in the vestry.
“Wrap it about the feet of him, sir,” he said. “That’s the best chance for him, for sure this place be as cold as any vault.”
Gabriel thanked him.
“Was popish vestment ever before of such use?” said the Major, smiling faintly. “Yet, beshrew me! there’s something that tickles my fancy not a little in the thought of quitting this world wrapped in a cope!”
“Talk not yet of quitting the world, sir,” said Gabriel. “I have seen worse wounded men recover.” But he argued against his own fears.
The church was now very quiet, the prisoners, hungry and depressed, were trying to forget their wretchedness in sleep, and only the steps of the sentry could be heard echoing at the west end of the building, until, in response to a peremptory summons, he opened the door and admitted Colonel Norton and Lord Harry Dalblane.
Gabriel at once recognised Norton’s voice, and his heart sank.
“Where have you borne the wounded prisoner?” said the Colonel.
“He lies yonder, sir, in the chancel,” said the sentry, “and is in sore need of a surgeon.”
“Mind your own business,” said the Colonel, sharply. “I shall provide him with all that he merits.”
“And where is our fiery friend, the lieutenant?” said Lord Harry, staggering a little as he followed Norton up the middle aisle, for he had been drinking heavily. “Where is the little preacher?”
“He is here,” said Norton, with his short scoffing laugh; “sitting like an angel on a monument supporting the effigy of a dead saint.”
“Sir,” said Gabriel, “I beg of you to let a surgeon wait upon Major Locke. If the ball were but removed from his wound I think he would recover.”
“Am I to be dictated to first by my own sentry and then by my prisoner?” said Norton, haughtily. “Get up, you vile rebel, or it shall be the worse for you. I see you are not even bound—you need a reminder that you are no free man. Get up, I tell you!”
Gabriel reluctantly obeyed, and laid the Major down as gently as he could on the moth-eaten cushion.
Then he stood silently awaiting his captor’s orders, taking meanwhile a rapid, comprehensive glance at the two officers, Norton with his short fawn and red cloak flung carelessly back over one shoulder, his wide hat and long drooping red feather cocked jauntily to the right side, his handsome, but malicious-looking, face lighted by the sunset glow which streamed through the windows; and Lord Harry laughing, foolishly, in semidrunken light-heartedness, at the thought of the amusement he had planned.
“Come, Colonel,” he said, “when is the sport to begin? But our preacher is scarce in parson’s habit, his knee-breeches and riding-boots are white with dust, and his shirt is like an end of Lent surplice—none of the whitest. I’ll e’en go and plunder the vestry for him.”
“Don’t be a fool, Harry,” said Norton, irritably. “Come, lieutenant, I promised you this morning you should have such a chance of preaching a sermon as had never fallen to your lot before. But I see the pulpit will scarce serve my purpose, you shall come here.”
And gripping him by the shoulder he dragged him to the first pillar in the south aisle.
“Now for your cords, Harry,” he said, with a chuckle. “For this gentleman is of an independent turn, and must be reminded that traitors and prisoners do not roam at large. I must trouble you, Mr. Harford, to stand with your back to the pillar, and to stretch your arms back as far as they will go; hold him steady in that hollowed-out moulding, Harry, while I make these knots fast.”
With fiendish delight in giving pain he tied the cords so tightly that they cut into the victim’s wrists, then he fastened the ends at the farther side of the pillar, and taking a rope tied it with the same vicious tightness a little above his knees; lastly, to make movement impossible he girdled both the prisoner and the pillar with a leathern bridle.
So far Gabriel had borne all in silence, for his mind was still taken up with the thought of his friend, and of the brutal way in which the Major was being left to die. But he was naturally sensitive to all sarcasm and ridicule, and the gibes and jeers of the half-tipsy Lord Harry, and the more biting cruelties of the tongue to which Norton subjected him, were sharper than swords.
Norton, disappointed at his failure to rouse him, turned presently with a laugh to his companion:
“They say, you know, Harry, that these Puritans will neither swear nor game nor drink. But here you see one who is giving us rare sport, and who would pledge all that he has for a drink—even of water—after the march, and who longs to swear. No, no, my fine fellow, there you stand till to-morrow—we’ll have no sentiment over dying traitors. Your friend will soon be safe in hell.”
This allusion to the Major at last broke down Gabriel’s control.
“’Tis you that are already there!” he exclaimed, the blood boiling in his veins. “Only one led by the devil could thus treat a dying man.”
“Preach away, my friend, preach away!” said Norton, with a sneer. “Your fellow prisoners are asleep, and you can’t harm anyone. Come! ’tis not every day you can discourse in a church!”
Just then, in an evil moment, Lord Harry noticed that Norton, in dragging his victim from the chancel, had pulled off the top button of his shirt, which had fallen open, giving to view two or three links of a gold chain and the corner of a shagreen case.
He stumbled forward.
“Hullo!” he exclaimed, snatching at the chain and dragging up the miniature attached to it. “Ha, ha! Here’s sport! See what the Puritan dog has got hanging from his collar?”
Gabriel, half maddened by feeling the sot’s fingers on Hilary’s picture, writhed in a frantic effort to free himself. To be forced to stand there helplessly, unable to stir hand or foot, was a torture he had never before felt.
“Oh, fie, Ecclesiastes! we named you well,” said Norton, with his scoffing laugh. “You deal, like Solomon, in numbers. Shame on you! the portrait of a fair lady of Hereford on your person all the time you were philandering with pretty Helena!”
“You lie in your throat,” said Gabriel, vehemently. “I did but rescue her from your fiendish trap.”
“What!” cried Lord Harry, thickly. “Do you give the Colonel the lie direct, you Puritan dog? Take that!”
And he dealt Gabriel a blow on the head which for a minute half stunned him.
Norton drew his friend back.
“Hold your peace, Harry,” he said. “You spoil sport. I understand how to bait this traitor.”
And going close to the prisoner he lifted the miniature and scrutinised it intently, then began to pour out a flood of ribald comment.
Beside himself with rage and disgust, Gabriel in vain struggled to get free, but he could neither silence his tormentors nor shut his own ears to the foul words which sought to pollute all that he held most sacred.
With cruel delight, Norton, as he held the miniature, could feel the throbbing of his victim’s heart, but he was startled when at length Gabriel’s voice was heard. It was low and faint, yet there was a vibration in it which rang through the church, and a note of appeal in its tone which arrested the Colonel against his will.
“God!” cried the tortured man, “deliver us from evil.”
Lord Harry burst into a roar of semi-drunken laughter. “Ay, preach and pray, my canting Puritan!” he cried.
But Norton let the miniature fall once more on Gabriel’s heaving breast, and with an expression of bewildered surprise moved back a pace or two, still, however, keenly watching his victim’s face. The fellow had such an extraordinary air of expecting to be delivered; and it suddenly occurred to Norton that it was not deliverance from pain that he looked for, but from something he deemed infinitely worse. For the first time he understood that this man hated evil, that he asked for deliverance from the vile imaginings, the foul suggestions that had been forced upon him. For a minute the sense of shame which had come to the Colonel as he read the letter to Hilary Unett gave him a second twinge of pain; for he recollected that the strange cry for help had not been “Deliver me,” but “Deliver us.”
It was with a start of superstitious fear that he saw a flickering light moving along through the fast darkening church. Gabriel noticed nothing, for his eyes had closed, his head had dropped forward.
As it drew nearer Norton saw with relief that the light came from the lantern which the Irish sentry had just kindled.
“Did you call me, sir?” said the man, approaching as if in response to a summons.
“No, I did not,” said Norton, irritably.
The man saluted and was about to retire, when he caught sight of Gabriel bound to the pillar, his head drooped on his breast, his frame hanging lifeless, supported only by the cords.
The Irishman’s eyes widened, he crossed himself rapidly. “The prisoner!” he stammered. “Why—yer honour—sure then he’s a dead man!”
“Hold the light nearer!” said Norton sharply, and with an uneasiness he could not have explained he put his ear to the heart that was now strangely still, though but a few minutes ago he had felt it throbbing with passionate indignation.
Faith can raise earth to heaven, or draw down
Heaven to earth, make both extremes to meet,
Felicity and misery, can crown
Reproach with honour, season sour with sweet.
Nothing’s impossible to Faith: a man
May do all things that he believes he can.
—Christopher Harvey.
He hath but swooned,” said the Colonel, after a brief pause “Come, Harry, the game is up and we’ll e’en be off to bed. Lord! but this Hereford maid hath thrice the beauty of Nell. I’ve a mind to woo her myself!”
With a last glance at the miniature he turned haughtily to the sentry. “Bolt the church door after us and then dash some water over this prisoner; he will soon come round. And look that you leave him bound, as he is; none of your cursed Irish sentiment. If you loose him I’ll have you flogged within an inch of your life.”
He walked rapidly down the aisle, Lord Harry blundering after him and protesting that it had been rare sport, but that he was heavy with sleep and would like to snore the clock round.
When Gabriel came to himself all was very still. The night had closed in, but, by the light of a lantern in the angle of a high pew hard by, he saw the little side chapel and the outline of the windows. His head ached miserably, and the sharp pain caused by the cords which bound him reminded him of all that had passed. Glancing round he gave a sigh of relief on finding his tormentors gone. There was no one but the sentry, and he stood as though watching gravely a rare and unusual spectacle. In his hand he held a chalice full of water, and he now lifted this to the prisoner’s lips.
“God save you kindly,” he said, with a friendly look in his Irish blue eyes. “I’d be glad to unloose you, sir, if the Colonel hadn’t forbidden it.”
Gabriel drank thirstily, and thanked his friendly guard.
“Are you a Scot?” he asked, puzzled by the man’s accent.
“No, sir. Praised be St. Patrick! I am Irish,” said the soldier, with a good-natured smile.
“Irish!” exclaimed Gabriel in amazement. For to his fancy all the Irish were wild, bloodthirsty Papists, whose chief amusement was the wholesale massacre of Protestants. The incident did more to widen his mind than the study even of such a broad-minded book as Lord Brooke’s “Treatise on Toleration.”
“How is Major Locke?” he asked, anxiously.
“I have given him water, sir,” said the man; “but there’s death in his face—he’ll not last long.”
And with that he went on his round, leaving the prisoner to reflect over the events of the day, and to endure as best he could the increasing torture of his position.
Slowly the hours crept on, and when at length the sentry opened the great door and admitted Captain Tarverfield and two others that accompanied him, Gabriel was too much exhausted to take any notice of the sounds which echoed distinctly enough through the quiet church.
“Take the surgeon to Major Locke,” said Captain Tarverfield. “Is he still living?”
“Yes, sir,” said the Irishman, “he lies in the chancel. And perhaps, sir, you’ll do something for Lieutenant Harford up yonder—as for me, yer honour, the Colonel vowed he’d half murther me if I unloosed him.”
“If ’tis the Colonel’s doing I must ask your help, my Lord,” said the Captain, turning to his worn and weary-looking companion.
“Lieutenant Harford is the gentleman you mentioned to me anon?” said Lord Falkland. “He told you I saved his life at Edgehill? Well, let us see what the sentry means.”
While the Irishman lighted the surgeon up the middle aisle to the chancel, Tarverfield, carrying his own lantern, led the way up the south aisle, wondering what trick Norton’s malice had devised. A sudden ejaculation from Falkland made him pause.
“Look!” said the Secretary of State, his pale, melancholy face transfigured by a glow of wrathful indignation, as he pointed to the pillar and to the slight form of the lieutenant. The Captain, familiar as he was with the horrors of the battle-field, could hardly understand why the sight of this piece of wanton cruelty should anger them both so strangely. Perhaps it was the boyish face of the victim, or some subtle contrast between the nobility and strength of his expression and the cruel helplessness of his attitude.
As they drew nearer, the prisoner, whose head had drooped on his breast, looked up with a gleam of hope in his wide, weary eyes.
“Have you brought help for Major Locke?” he asked, eagerly.
“The surgeon is now with him,” said Tarverfield. “What devil’s trick have the Colonel and Lord Harry been up to? Have you been bound all these hours?”
Gabriel assented, but his eyes were fixed on Falkland’s face; the indignation in it had changed to a look of rare delight, the delight of one who has at last found congenial work.
“Hold the lantern nearer, Captain,” cried the Secretary of State, drawing his sword; and going to the farther side of the pillar he severed the cords and the rope, then stepped swiftly back.
“Have a care,” he said, as Gabriel, in the first agony of moving his stiffened muscles, gave an involuntary exclamation, and then hastily apologised.
“The rope was pressing all the time on that old wound got at Edgehill the day you rescued me, my lord,” he said, colouring. “You have twice made me your debtor.”
“’Tis I that would thank you, sir,” said Falkland, “for twice giving me an opportunity of doing work in this distracted time without scruple or misgiving. Here comes the surgeon. ’Twere well he should see to your wrists.”
“Major Locke?” asked Gabriel, looking anxiously at the surgeon’s face.
“’Twas too late,” he replied, gravely. “The Major drew his last breath just as we approached.”
Gabriel made a step or two forward in the direction of the chancel, then suddenly reeled and would have fallen to the ground had not the surgeon caught him.
“He hath swooned,” said Tarverfield; “and no wonder, after the way in which his muscles have been cramped all these hours.”
“With your leave he had best be carried to the vestry,” said the surgeon, and, lighted by the Irishman, they carried the lieutenant out of the church.
Falkland, with a sigh, picked up the lantern and walked slowly on, glancing now and then into the high pews where lay the wretched prisoners, roped in couples, and most of them sleeping from sheer fatigue, in spite of hunger and discomfort. Reaching the chancel, he paused for some minutes beside the body of the Major. The dead face, with its majestic calm and its strange smile, contrasted curiously with the faces of the sleeping prisoners.
“Happy man!” murmured Falkland. “He is free, and has died for what he deemed his country’s good, like my old friend John Hampden.” Then, with a deep sigh that was almost a groan, he passed on, breathing the cry that was ever now in his heart, and often on his lips, “Peace! peace!”
When he entered the vestry he found that the leech had dressed the wounds on Gabriel’s wrists, but had not yet succeeded in reviving the prisoner.
“’Tis food the poor fellow stands in need of,” said Tarver-field. “I can testify that he has had nothing since sunrise yesterday, and doubtless little enough since early the day before, for Waller was too busy preparing to attack Devizes.”
“With your permission, my lord, I will fetch him food from my own house,” said the surgeon, who, like most of the inhabitants of Marlborough, sympathised with the Parliament. Indeed, since many of the houses had been burnt and plundered in December by the Royalists, and the town had been constantly harassed on market days by bodies of plundering Cavaliers from Oxford, it was natural enough that the feeling was all in favour of the prisoners and against Prince Maurice’s men.
“I will wait here,” said Falkland, as the Captain prepared to follow the surgeon, “I wish to speak to the prisoner when he comes to himself.”
The Irishman, whose guard had just been relieved, was about to follow Captain Tarverfield, when Falkland detained him, putting a few brief questions as to what he had heard while Lord Harry Dalblane and Captain Norton were with the prisoner. From the replies of the sentry he gathered enough to enable him to judge pretty accurately what had really passed, and when the man had gone he stood beside the unconscious prisoner, watching him intently and with compassion, for he was able to guess at much of his story. Presently he took a small gold pin from his lace cravat, and stooping over the prisoner restored the miniature to its place and pinned together the shirt collar.
Gabriel, opening his eyes, looked in bewilderment at the pale, sad-eyed face bending over him; then recognising it as he regained his faculties, sat up and looked round the dimly-lighted vestry in a dazed way. Some one had laid him down on a long wooden chest, the same which the Irishman had rifled for the cope. On the opposite wall hung an old board on which were painted the ten commandments, and the light from the lantern shone specially upon the words, “Thou shalt do no murder.”
He shivered, for that night he had for the first time felt the deadly hatred that is akin to murder, and he knew that he had longed for the chance of taking Norton’s life.
“You are cold,” said Falkland. “Take this,” and he put a short brown cloak he was wearing about the prisoner’s shoulders. “Nay,” as Gabriel thanked him, but hesitated to accept the loan, “I have no need of it, and it will be of service to you in Oxford Castle, where I fear your quarters will be comfortless enough.”
“My lord,” said Gabriel, “you have shown me such kindness that I will make bold to ask your help in letting Mistress Helena Locke know of her father’s death.”
“Where doth the lady live?” asked Falkland.
“She is at Gloucester, at the house of Alderman Pury.”
“I will see that the news is sent to her, and I will do what I can, Mr. Harford, to obtain your release, for they have treated you very scurvily, and I shall see that his Majesty hears all the details. Here comes the friendly surgeon with food for you.”
“You are fatigued, my lord,” said Tarverfield, looking at Falkland’s haggard face. “Will you not sleep before the day dawns?”
“Sleep, sir, hath long forsaken me,” said Falkland, wearily. “I shall sleep when peace is declared in this unhappy country. Leave me to see Mr. Harford discuss his supper; and do you retire, for doubtless you will be early on the march.”
The kindly captain, who was a good soldier, but one who rarely troubled to think of the right or wrong of the cause he defended, gladly enough returned to his quarters at the nearest inn; and the surgeon, having promised to make arrangements for the Major’s burial, for which Gabriel advanced the money, walked back to his house, his mind haunted by Falkland’s weary, sleepless eyes.
“’Tis not for me to ‘minister to a mind diseased,’” he reflected. “As the poet hath it—
‘Therein the patient
Nust minister to himself,’
But I fear ’tis over late; the sorrows of this war have broken his heart—he is far gone in melancholy.”
His reflections were only too true, yet for a brief time something of the old geniality and charm insensibly returned to the Secretary of State as he watched the hungry young lieutenant forgetting his troubles in the relief of a good meal. In the rare delight of such sympathy as Falkland knew well how to bestow, Gabriel’s reserve was broken down, and before the supper was ended he had revealed to his companion the story of his gradual awakening in London, had spoken of Bishop Coke’s kindness to him, of one connected with the Bishop to whom he had been betrothed, and of the havoc the war had wrought in his happiness.
Instinctively his hand went to Hilary’s miniature as he recalled with a shudder what had passed about it a few hours before; and then finding the way in which his shirt had been fastened, his eyes sought Falkland’s with a gratitude that touched the State Secretary. With the incomparable gentleness characteristic of him, he said a few words to the boy, which by their reverent sympathy seemed to blot out the memory of the moral torture he had undergone.
Then, promising to do what he could for the prisoner in the future, he left him to sleep, and slowly paced down the street to his quarters. He had merely joined Lord Wilmot’s expedition for the relief of Devizes as a volunteer, and now in his restless mood grudged the delay at Marlborough, and by break of day was riding with a couple of his servants to Oxford, leaving the two troops of cavalry and the long train of prisoners to follow later.
“One of the greatest clauses in Magna Carta is that which asserts in legal form the legal rights of Englishmen to withstand oppression. If the King broke his promises, he was to be resisted in arms in the name of the powers which Englishmen held to be greater than the King—in the name of God, the law and the great Council.”
—History of the English Parliament, Barnett Smith.
On the afternoon of the 15th July, a crowd of courtiers, lounging and chatting in Tom Quad, paused for a moment to glance at the figure of the State Secretary as he passed swiftly through the merry throng on his way to the King’s apartments.
Oxford was looking its brightest. On the 14th the Queen had returned, and on the same day despatches announcing the great victory at Roundway Down and the relief of Devizes had been received. The church bells had pealed, and it seemed to most of the Royalists that the King’s cause was now certain to triumph throughout the land, and that the Parliamentarians would be utterly crushed. Never had there been more confident boasting, more light-hearted laughter than on that summer afternoon, and the sudden apparition of Falkland, with his pale sorrow-laden face, seemed curiously ill-timed.
“What the plague does my Lord Falkland mean by wearing such dismal looks on this gala day?” said a boisterous young Cavalier, who was about as capable of appreciating the philosopher of Great Tew as of recognising the beauty of a Raphael.
“He volunteered in my Lord Wilmot’s troop t’other day,” replied his companion. “They say, you know, that he is always thrusting himself into dangers which there is no call on him to face, because he is stung by the report that his efforts for peace spring from cowardice.”
“Ha! ha!” laughed the first speaker. “He’s found that in this world peacemakers have devilish hard times, and always win the hatred of both sides. I’ll warrant you he will have but a chilly reception from His Majesty, who, they tell me, is downright afraid of him, and can’t endure his plain speaking, and that inconvenient custom he hath of scrupulous truthfulness.”
“He will be ill-pleased that a Council was held last night in his absence, and the siege of Bristol determined on,” said the other.
A third courtier strolled up. “Did you see my Lord Falkland’s face?” he said, with a sneer. “Is he grieving over the slaughter at Roundway Down, think you? or is it, perchance, that he finds his beloved Mistress Moray is undoubtedly in the last stage of consumption?”
There was a general laugh as the ill-natured gossips made merry over the State Secretary’s friendship with this good and high minded lady, and, according to their own foul and depraved nature, judged one of the most spiritual and helpful influences that can be had in an evil world.
Falkland, perfectly well aware of the way in which his private affairs were discussed, and conscious of the hostile atmosphere which surrounded him at the Court, passed gravely on to the King’s apartments, to be received by Charles much as the courtiers had prophesied, with very little warmth and no comprehension.
The King in prosperity was never at his best. His arrogance and narrowness were apt then to become apparent, whereas in adversity his courage and a very noble patience were noteworthy. The prospect of speedy triumph, and the unhappy influence always exerted over him by the presence and counsel of the Queen, made him now more than ever antagonistic to his Secretary of State.
He was seated in an elbow chair beside the open window, and on the oaken table beside him was spread a map of the Southern counties, which he had been studying. On the window seat lay a remarkably fine white poodle which Falkland noticed with a feeling of annoyance, knowing that the dog belonged to Prince Rupert, and betokened his near neighbourhood.
“We received yesterday the good news of the victory,” said the King. “I trust you bring no worse report of Sir Ralph Hopton, my lord?”
“He remains at Devizes, sire,” said Falkland, “and is steadily recovering from his injuries.”
The King put several questions as to the doings at Roundway Down, and Falkland having replied to them, was debating how he could suggest that the victory made this a fitting time for the opening of negotiations with Parliament, when the King asked what was being done with the prisoners.
“Some were left at Devizes, sire,” replied Falkland, “but a great number are being marched hither, and I am anxious that your Majesty should be in possession of the truth respecting one of Prince Maurice’s officers—Colonel Norton—who hath been guilty of very gross cruelty to two of the prisoners, Major Locke, who died last night for lack of a surgeon, and Lieutenant Harford.”
“Let me have the particulars,” said the King, coldly. “People are over-fond of bringing accusations against my nephew’s officers. Scarce a day passes but I have some idle tale of Prince Rupert’s men, and he hath but this morning assured me that the men are the best soldiers in our army, and hath told me of his clemency towards the lady of Caldecot Manor.”
Falkland’s face was a study. Prince Rupert was not without a certain generosity, but in the main he knew only too well that the troops commanded by the two German princes had done much by their burnings and plunderings and wanton devastation of the crops to exasperate the English. The people were not likely soon to forget the cruel burning of the eighty-seven houses in Birmingham which Prince Rupert had ordered in the spring.
“I will tell you, sire, precisely what I saw last night in St. Peter’s Church at Marlborough,” he said. And, graphically, but without any comment, he described to the King what had taken place.
“Bound to one of the church pillars, you say!” said the King, with a shudder, “and the guard had actually brought him water in the chalice! Horrible profanation! I cannot endure the misuse of the churches in this war, yet they assure me they must at times use them for troops and for prisoners.”
Falkland, with something like despair in his heart, marvelled at the extraordinary way in which the King missed the point he had wished to urge, and, in thinking of the church fabric and the communion-plate, failed to realise what cruelty to man really means.
“For my part,” he replied, “I am bound to own, your Majesty, that the kindly thought of the guard in fetching the cup of water seemed the one redeeming touch in the whole miserable business. That and the way in which he had wrapped a cope about the feet of the dying Major in the chancel.”
“He had actually used a cope for such a purpose?” said the King. “Well, my lord, I regret to hear that any cruelty was shown to the prisoners, but it seems to me you do not the least understand the sin of sacrilege. ’Tis as I ever told you, you care nothing for the Church.”
His brow grew dark as he remembered that, little more than two years before, Falkland had made a speech in Parliament in which, report said, he had accused the Bishops of having “brought in superstition and scandal under the titles of reverence and decency, and of labouring to introduce an English, though not a Roman, Popery; not only the outside and dress of it, but, equally absolute, a blind dependence of the people upon the clergy.”
The King’s reproach had been made before, and Court etiquette forbade Falkland to justify himself to his Sovereign; moreover, he had long ceased to expect his position to be understood. The Laudian practices were hateful to him, but in the narrow dogmatism of the Presbyterians he saw grave danger to intellectual liberty. He stood aloof from both systems, but cherished beneath an outer mask of philosophic calm a passionate yearning for that Church of the future which should be wide enough to embrace all sincere men who took Christ as their ideal, and spiritual enough to dispense with those elaborate outer shows which had so often proved stumbling-blocks.
Stifling a sigh, he caught at the one phrase in the King’s remarks of which he might avail himself.
“I well know,” he replied, “that any sort of cruelty is repugnant to your Majesty, and therefore make bold to plead the cause of this young prisoner who hath been put to physical and moral torture, and hath claims on your Majesty’s clemency, for he was not taken during the battle, but on the following day while endeavouring to save the life of his wounded friend, Major Locke.”
Falkland had used no false flattery, but had appealed to the best side of the King’s character. Though very limited in his sympathies, and without any genial love for his people, Charles was far from being cruel or merciless; the enormous amount of suffering for which he was responsible sprang partly from his duplicity, partly from his habit of allowing himself to be ruled by unworthy favourites, and drawn into rash courses by his wife. He might often from absorption in other matters fall into cruelty as so many of us do, fatally hurting others because not actively kind to them; but cruelty such as Norton’s was abhorrent to him, and he would probably have yielded to the suggestion of his Secretary of State, had not the white poodle suddenly sprung down from the window-seat and, with whines of delight, bounded towards the door.
Falkland knew too well what would follow, and there was bitterness in his heart as he bowed to the handsome young Prince who entered the room.
It was impossible to conceive a greater contrast than that between the fiery Rupert, with his soldierly instincts, his rough, over-bearing manner, his full-blooded, dashing impetuosity, and the grave, far-seeing statesman ten years his senior. Falkland greeted the Prince with the quiet courtesy which was one of his characteristics, but with a disapproval which revealed itself by an indefinable air of strength and resistance not usually apparent in the singularly gentle face.
“So, my lord,” said Rupert, gaily, “you have returned from the slaughter of the redoubtable ‘Lobsters,’ and have made William the Conqueror hide his diminished head! His Majesty will now be able to make short work of Bristol, and when Bristol hath fallen London will soon follow—eh, Boye?” stooping to fondle the poodle’s long ears.
The dog licked his master’s hand and whined with delight.
“Boye is more eager to crush the Roundheads than is my Lord Falkland,” said the Prince, glancing with a smile at his uncle.
“He doth take after his master,” said the King, looking with fond admiration at Rupert’s soldierly bearing. “You have doubtless heard, my lord, that a Council was held last night and that we have determined that Prince Rupert shall join forces with the victors of Roundway Down and lay siege to Bristol.”
“I had heard that it was so determined, sire,” said Falkland. “Had I been present at the Council, I would earnestly have begged your Majesty, after having annihilated Sir William Waller’s army, to offer to treat with the Parliament. Bloodshed might thus be avoided, and the end of hostilities might well be hoped for.”
“My lord, you are no soldier,” broke in Rupert, impetuously. “These rebels must be crushed and altogether subjugated before His Majesty can be King indeed.”
“You will never crush the national love of liberty, your Highness,” said Falkland. “The British nature demands freedom as a right, and the only hope of adjusting our unhappy differences is in recognising those rights which are in accordance with the law.”
“Law!” interrupted Rupert, who could never endure remarks contrary to his own views, especially when they came from the Counsellors of civil affairs. “Tush! we will have no law in England henceforward but of the sword!”
“My lord,” said Charles, “we are aware that you ever speak on behalf of peace, but those at Westminster do not desire it.”
“I do not forget that your Majesty’s secret message to Parliament ere hostilities began proved, unhappily, fruitless of good results,” said Falkland; “but you will recollect, sire, that since then Parliament hath made many overtures of peace, and that every overture hath been rejected by your Majesty. Might it not be the part of true wisdom to take advantage now of this happy tide in affairs? Surely, sire, this great victory, and the return of Her Majesty after fifteen months’ absence, make the present a very fitting time for a gracious offer of terms which the Parliament could accept.”
“My lord, our determination is already made,” said the King, coldly. “Your suggestions do not seem to us practical, and we are confident that our cause is better served by Prince Rupert.”
Falkland bowed gravely. No man could equal him in humility, yet it cost him a pang to be thus set at naught, and to see how the King was dominated by the young German Prince of four-and-twenty, who knew absolutely nothing of the English or of Constitutional law.
Boye, the white poodle, broke the uncomfortable silence which followed, by bounding to the door and barking furiously at the sound of approaching steps. A young courtier entered.
“May it please your Majesty, the two troops in charge of the prisoners from Roundway Down are approaching the city,” he announced.
“They will expect you to see the entrance, sire,” said Rupert, “as you did when we returned with the prisoners from Cirencester.”
“We will not disappoint our brave men,” said the King, rising. “And you, my lord, will accompany us,” he added, turning graciously to Falkland, as though to make up for the snub he had just given him.
Falkland, sick at heart, followed the King and the Prince, and before long was riding in the royal train to see what he well knew would prove a painful spectacle.
Hundreds of the citizens were flocking out of Oxford to see the return of the victors and Waller’s vanquished soldiers. The day was insufferably hot, and the Court party did not care to ride far on the road, but drew rein under a clump of trees by the wayside. As they waited the approach of the troops, the King discussed with Prince Rupert some of the details of the battle which Falkland had mentioned to him, and spoke also of Colonel Norton’s conduct at Marlborough.
“I have met the Colonel,” said Rupert. “He hath a merry wit and a sharp tongue, and is the very man to enjoy a rough jest at the expense of one who had crossed his path. He is an excellent soldier though. My lord,” he said, turning to Falkland, “you must show us this young Lieutenant Harford as the prisoners go past. The fellow must be worth his salt if he has dared to withstand a hectoring officer like Colonel Norton.”
By this time the troops were in sight, and loud cheers rose from the spectators as they rode by.
Then in striking contrast came the weary prisoners on foot, escorted by a second troop of cavalry. As the line passed by, tied together in pairs, many of them wounded, and all of them suffering acutely from thirst, they might have inspired pity in the hardest heart. Falkland noted, however, that the courtiers around him looked on, either with utter indifference, or with derisive smiles, as their fellow-countrymen were beaten and driven along the road like dogs.
“Yonder comes the young lieutenant you bade me point out to your Highness,” he said to Prince Rupert. “The nearest to us behind the gun, and tied to a man with a bandaged head.”
Both the King and the Prince glanced at the prisoner.
“In good sooth the fellow is sunburnt till he is the colour of an Italian!” exclaimed Rupert. “He hath an undaunted air and looks like a man of mettle though.”
“Copper metal, your Highness,” interjected a shallow-brained fop behind him with a laugh.
The laugh reached Gabriel; he glanced to the left, and catching sight of Falkland saluted him, a look of reverence and gratitude lighting up his tired eyes. His pace had involuntarily slackened a little, and the wounded man tied to his right arm, had throughout the march been a heavy drag upon him; a smart blow across his shoulders from the swynfeather, or spiked pole, of the nearest soldier made his eyes flash, and added a touch of dignity to his bearing. But his salute to the King, though courteous, was merely formal, while the rapid, searching glance that accompanied it had none of that deep reverence with which he had returned Falkland’s gaze.
He saw for a moment the well-known handsome features, the cold impassive expression, and remembered how, when he had last looked upon the King, it had been on that memorable January day, at the entrance to Westminster Hall, when Charles had been on his way to arrest the five Members. Now Hampden, the patriot, had been slain; thousands of Englishmen had fought, and bled, and died, and he himself was a prisoner, just when the cause he held at heart most needed service.
Something approaching despair seized him as he marched on, with that vision stamped on his brain—the King in his purple riding suit and white-plumed hat, his attention divided between the remarks of Prince Rupert, and the orange stuffed with cloves, which he smelt as a remedy against infection, as the troops and the long line of weary prisoners made the dust rise. Was the country again to be at the mercy of a ruler who so little understood or loved his people?
“Poor beggar!” said Rupert, following the young lieutenant with his eyes. “I know too well what military captivity will mean to one of his years. Curse me! if I ever pardon the Emperor who kept me mewed up so long! I can see, too, that yonder rebel is a good officer wasted, and with your permission, sire, would fain have the fellow in my troop.”
“He shall be pardoned, and set free on consenting to serve under you,” said the King. “We depute you, my lord Falkland, to see to the matter.”
Falkland bowed low.
“I will convey your Majesty’s pleasure to Mr. Harford, but I doubt his acceptance of a post under the Prince, for he is not one of those who entered into this struggle without grave thought,” said the Secretary of State, convinced in his own mind that Gabriel would decline pardon bought at the cost of his convictions.
“Then he must pay the penalty of his disloyal obstinacy,” said the King, annoyed even by the suggestion that some of his opponents had conscientiously thought out their position before taking arms against him. “He hath brought this misery on himself.”
“Look you, my lord,” said Rupert, good-naturedly, “make not the offer of release till to-morrow. ’Tis but fair the fellow should know what he chooses if he elects to stay in the clutches of Provost-Marshal Smith. They don’t pamper Roundheads at the Castle, I hear.”
The talk was interrupted by the huzzas of the spectators as the last contingent of cavalry rode by. Falkland heard one of the courtiers mention the name of Norton, and gave that officer a keen, penetrating glance, perceiving at once that there was a force of character in the Colonel’s face which would make him a dangerous enemy, and one likely to pursue the young lieutenant with untiring animosity.