The morning star glittered brightly above the fine old tower of Cheddar church, and the low parsonage lay still and asleep amid the flowers and the dewy grass plots of its pleasant garden, as advancing, from beneath the ancient yew in the churchyard, to the wicket opposite the good vicar’s porch, a party of hale young rustics with coloured ribands in their hats and on their loose white sleeves, planted, on either side the entrance, a fine branch of white thorn in full blossom, and struck up, with full and cheerful voices, the very ancient medley from which the stanzas at the head of our present chapter are taken. They had not sung two verses before the door of the parsonage was opened by a merry looking old serving man—two lasses’ heads were thrust from a window over the kitchen—the mistress’s good humoured eyes were seen over a white chamber blind—and the parson himself, with a face as expressive of joy as a child’s, though marked with the furrows of seven-and-sixty years, came forth to the wicket in a loose morning gown, with a black scull-cap on his silvery hairs, and listened, with a motion of the lips, that showed his voice, though not audible, and his kind heart were attuned to theirs, and to the coming holyday. When their song was done, he dismissed them with his blessing, with the customary gift of silver, and with a caution to keep their festival with gladness and innocence, and with the love of brothers; letting the poor and aged fare the better for it.
“And let us have no brawls on the ale bench,” said the old parson—“let our May-pole be the rod of peace; so that none may rail at our sports and dances, but rather take note of us as merry folk and honest neighbours.”
With loud thanks, and lively promises, and rude invocations of Heaven’s best gifts on him, and his lady, and his absent sons, the party now faced about, and with the accompaniment of pipe and tabor, and a couple of fiddles, moved off at a dancing pace to pay the like honours at the door of the chief franklin, and to deck the village street as they passed along.
Parson Noble now passed round to his favourite terrace walk, that overlooked a rich and extensive level, and taking up his lute, which lay in a little alcove at one end of it, he breathed out his morning hymn of thanksgiving, as was his wont, and thus composed, went into his study, and secluded himself for an hour from all interruption. At the close he again came into his garden, where he commonly laboured both for pleasure and health, every day of his life, in company with the attached old servant, who, for his quaint words and ways, had been long known to the village by the name of plain Peter—an epithet, which, as it gave him credit for blunt honesty, as well as for a cast in his eye, he readily pardoned—nay, some said he was proud of it;—for what manner of man is it that hath not a pride in something?
“Master,” said Peter, putting down his rake as the parson came up the walk, “I have won a silver groat on your words this day.”
“How so? what dost thou mean, Peter?”
“Why, last market day, when I was in the kitchen at the old Pack Horse at Axbridge, that vinegar-faced old hypocrite, Master Pynche, the staymaker, comes in, and asks me to bring out Betsy Blount’s new stays.
“Says I, ‘That I’ll do for Betsy’s sake—a lass that hasn’t her better for a good heart, or a pretty face, in all Somersetshire.’
“ ‘Verily, Master Peter, I think,’ said he, ‘thy speech might have more respect to me, and more decency to the damsel, but thou savourest not of the things that be from above:—thou art of the earth, earthy.’
“ ‘Why, for the matter of things above,’ said I, ‘Master Pynche, I don’t pretend to any skill in moonshine; and as to being of the earth, that I don’t deny, and thirsty earth too; with that I put to my lips the cup of ale that I had in hand, and drank it down.’
“ ‘Is it not written,’ he replied in a snuffling tone, ‘that favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain?—but thou art a servant of Beelzebub, and thou speakest the words of thy master, and his works wilt thou do.’
“ ‘In the name of plain Peter,’ I added, ‘herewith I proclaim you Prince of Fools, and I will send you a coloured coat, and a hood and bells, and thou shalt have a bauble, and a bladder of pease, and a licence to preach next April.’
“With that he lifted up his eyes and hands, and muttering something about pearls and swine, glided off like a ghost at cock crow.”
“Peter,” interrupted Noble, “thou shouldst not have said such things.”
“Marry, did he not call me a servant of Beelzebub? the peevish old puritan!—Well, but to go on with my story. The folk in Dame Wattle’s kitchen fell a discoursing after Pynche was gone; and some spake up after a fashion that made my hair stand up. Says a sturdy pedlar in the corner—‘Ay, they’ll soon be uppermost, and the sooner the better; rot ’em, I don’t like ’em, the godly rogues; but they are better than parsons, any way.’
“So with that I felt my blood come up, and I was going to speak, when old Hardy, the cobbler, took up his words, and says he, ‘That’s true of some, and it’s true of our old Tosspot; but there’s Peter’s master, of Cheddar—you may search the country far and near before you will find his like. I remember when my niece Sally lay dying, night and day, fair weather and foul, he would trudge through mire or snow to give her medicine for body as well as soul, and that’s what I call a good parson.’ ”
“ ‘A good puritan,’ said Dame Wattle. ‘I have heard of his sayings and doings, and trust me, he’ll go with your parliament men, your down-church men: you’ll never have any more May-games and Christmas gambols at Cheddar.’
“ ‘There you’re out, Dame,’ said I, ‘and don’t know any more about Master Noble than a child unborn.’
“ ‘A silver crown to a silver groat he’ll give a long preachment against the May-pole next May-morning.’
“ ‘Done with you, Dame,’ said I.
“ ‘You may lay a golden angel to a penny there will be no May-poles at all, if you make it May twelvemonth,’ said the pedlar, ‘without, indeed, there be such as have pikes at the end of them;’ and with that he pulled out a printed paper, that he brought from London, and read out a long matter about the king and the bishops, and about church organs, and tithes, and play actors, and ship money, and Master Hampden; and made out, as plain as a pike staff, that there would be many a good buff coat and iron head piece taken down from the wall before long. ‘We shall have a civil war soon, and God defend the right,’ said he, as he folded up the paper and took up his pack.
“Civil,” thought I, “that’s a queer word. I have heard talk of civil people and civil speeches, but a civil blow from a battle-axe is a new thing. I’ll tell master all about it when I get home, and axe what it means;—but as I was on the path in Nine Acres, whom should I meet but Master Blount, the young one, and he made me promise not to say a word to you before May-day was come, for fear the old sports might be hindered; and he told me that civil war meant war at home; for which I didn’t think him much of a conjuror, as my guess had reached that far: and now, Master, prithee tell me what civil means.”
“Peter, thou art an honest fellow, and as good a citizen as if thou knewest what it was called in Latin, and that a civil war was a war of citizens, but of a truth this is no matter for smiles; however, ‘sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.’ This is no morning for a cloudy face.”
“Well, then, here comes one, and the worst that darkens our doors. For my part, I can’t bide the sight of it, ’t would turn all the milk in the dairy.”
The vicar looked over his hedge, and saw the curate of a parish with whom he was but slightly acquainted, walking across the last close, which led by a footway into his orchard. The apple-trees concealed Noble from his approaching visiter, who, just as he reached the gate of the orchard, overtook a little boy, about nine years of age, carrying in his hand a cluster of cowslips half as big as himself, and having a thick crown of field flowers round his straw hat.
With a severe scowl, he snatched the cowslips from the frightened child, and threw them away, and then made a gripe at his little hat; but, the boy drawing back with a blubbering cry, the zealous and tall curate, who had a little over-reached himself, slipped and fell prone upon the grass. This, however, was the lightest part of his misfortune; for it so chanced that his face came in full contact with a new-made rain-puddle, and he arose with his eyes half blinded, and his face covered and besmeared with mud. With the tears yet rolling down his red cheeks, the little fellow, as he saw himself avenged in a measure so contenting, and a manner so ridiculous, ran out of his reach, literally shrieking with laughter; and a hearty roar from old Peter at once completed his mortification, and determined his retreat. This soon became a maddened flight: for a sleeping dog roused by the noise of the laughter pursued him with angry barkings, from which, as he had no staff, and the grassy close could furnish no stone, there was no escape till the wearied animal paused and turned.
The whole of this scene was so very swiftly enacted, that Noble had no opportunity to say or do any thing in the matter; and charity itself could not suppress a smile at a punishment so well suited to the morosity which had led to it. Neither was he at all sorry to be relieved upon this festal day from the intrusive visit of a sour, ill-instructed fanatic, whose opinions he could not value, and for whose character he felt no respect. He looked, therefore, with unmixed satisfaction at the laughing urchin, as he gathered up his scattered wealth, and departed.
Now merrily rang out the lively bells of Cheddar Tower; and already was every street a green alley, freshened by thick boughs, and made fragrant by small branches of white thorn neatly interwoven.
The house of the chief franklin, Mr. Blount, was more especially honoured. Before his door was planted the largest and fairest branch of May that could be found in a circuit of five good miles, and his hospitable porch was made a rich bower of shrubs and flowers. Beneath the tall trees in front of it was a little crowd of youths and maidens, in holyday trim, wearing garlands, with green rushes and strewing herbs in their arms, or aprons: full they were of smiles and glee; and, out on the road, all the village was assembled, save the infirm old and the cradled young; though, of these last, not a few were borne in their mothers’ arms, or lifted up with honest pride in those of their brown fathers, whose burning toils a field were, for this joyous day, forgotten.
From the words passing in these expectant groups, a stranger might soon have gathered that something more than the common sport of May-day was engaging the honest and buzzing mob of men, women, and children, that blocked the street opposite this goodly mansion, and what that something was. “Better day better luck.”—“A bonny bride is soon dressed.”—“Honest men marry soon,” said a black-eyed, nut-brown wife, with a lively babe in her arms, and two curly-headed little ones holding her apron—and “Wise men not at all,” added a gruff old blacksmith, with a seamed visage.—“Ah, it’s no good kicking in fetters, Roger,” rejoined the laughing wife, at the same time giving her infant into the horny hands of a stout young woodman, with a green doublet and a clean white collar, who held it up, kicking and shrieking with delight, as though it would spring out of his arms, and chimed in with “Ah, Master Roger, it’s an ill house where the hen crows loudest.”—“Ah, thou’lt find that some day, Stephen;” for this he got a heavy slap on his shoulder from the young wife, whose coming words were checked by the sound of fiddles, as the bridal procession came forth. “Dear heart,” said she, “how pretty Bessy does look in that lilac gown with brave red guardings and the golden cawl on her fair hair, and what a beautiful lace rochet she has.”—“Ah, fine feathers make fine birds,” said a spinster standing near.—“He’s a proper man is young Hargood, and should have known better than choose a wife by the eye.”—“She had rather kiss than spin, I’ll warrant.”—“Better be half hanged than ill wed.”—“You may know a fool by her finery.”—“A precious stone should be well set,” said the young wife, sharply, “and Bessy’s blue eyes and her blushing cheeks are small matters to her ways and words.” But envy and ill will were low-voiced, and confined to few, for old Blount and all his house were well loved by the people; and with many a word of cheerful greeting they made way for the party, and the most of them followed it to the church.
The procession was led by a few youths and maidens, with whom were all the musicians of the village; while others, walking immediately before the bride and her two bride maidens, strewed the ground, as they went, with rushes and herbs. The bridegroom, in a suit of violet-coloured cloth, guarded with velvet of the deepest crimson, and with a falling collar of worked linen, followed, supported by his bridesmen, in fit bravery of apparel; next came a group of relations, male and female, led by the old franklin himself, with his grave and comely wife, and the men and maids of his household brought up the rear of the procession. It was met at the churchyard gate by Parson Noble and his wife—she joining old Mrs. Blount, and the good vicar, in his snowy surplice, taking place at the head of it, immediately between the herb-strewers and the bridal party; and now a gravity and silence succeeded, and in decency and order all entered the church, and proceeded with quiet steps to the altar. There, the sweet and solemn service, which binds together for “better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do part,” was reverently and impressively performed by Noble, his own deep and mellow tones being only interrupted by the manly voice of the bridegroom, and the faltering accents of the shy and trembling bride, as they gave utterance to their heart’s true and hallowed responses. No sooner was the ceremony ended than the bells, which had, for a while, been silent, struck out with the wedding peal; and as the new married couple came forth into the churchyard the air was rent with the joyous acclamations of the crowd without; and the procession returned in nearly the same order as it had left the house of the worthy franklin, only, according to the good custom of the time, the parson made one of the wedding party, and partook of the marriage feast.
Such of the old as could not walk abroad, stood leaning on staves, or sat dim-eyed on the stones before their doors, to see or hear the bridal train pass down; for each of these Parson Noble and the franklin had a kind word as they went by, returned by the benison and good wishes for the bride, who had herself no voice for any one, and, supported on her husband’s arm, scarce saw her path through eyes that were filling from a happy bosom’s overflow.
We shall not detain our reader by describing the dinner at Master Blount’s; right plentiful was the cheer. Parson Noble said a grace in rhyme, out of old Tom Tusser’s book of Husbandry, to the great contentment of his hospitable host, that being the one book by which, after his Bible, Blount squared his honest life.
This being the franklin’s rule—while his guests were feasted in the old oak parlour, at the back of the house; in the pleasant orchard, all his labourers were regaled with a hearty meal of meat and plum-porridge; and huge jacks of ale were emptied and replenished, to the health of bride and bridegroom and good master.
After due carvings of veal and bacon, unlacing of fat capons, and untrussing of great pies of fruit and other dainties, in the parlour, and after some mantling cups of wine drank to the happy pair, the old people yielded to the impatience of the young, and all adjourned to Robin’s Meadow, not, however, before they had sung, as the grace after meat, a short psalm of praise.
The meadow, in which from generations before the May-pole was raised, had a fine level sward, which Blount kept smooth as a bowling-ground for the dancers, while a part of it rose in swelling banks, shaded by trees. These, though, as yet, but in early leaf, were gaily green, and contrasted well with the many-coloured and blushing wreaths of field-flowers that wound about the May-pole, at the top of which glittered a small crown, newly gilded in honour of the wedding, and further adorned with a few of the rarest plants which the gardens of Cheddar could produce.
A pleasure it was, as they passed into the meadow, to see the happy children rolling and tumbling and racing down the steep bank, from which they now scrambled away, to make room for the franklin’s party, and for the elders of the village, who, from this grassy knoll, were wont to preside over the pastimes of this holyday. We give not this scene in detail:—the dances of the young, as, with light and elastic steps, they bounded to lively measures round the May-pole, and the nodding heads of the musicians keeping time with the dancers, and the races and gambols of the ruddy children, each reader may figure forth to his own fancy. Neither tell we of the pretty ceremonies with which the milk maids brought their cows, with horns all garlanded, into the adjoining close, and prepared and offered the delicious syllabub: our aim is only to give an outline of a village May-day of the times of which we write, and to show the good parson of the best school of that period mingling in mirth among his people. Leaving, therefore, the happy villagers to continue their sports till set of sun, we shall confine ourselves to the steps of the pastor, and complete the journal of his day.
As the chimes struck six o’clock, he quietly withdrew, and passed from the scenes of pleasure and feasting to those of sickness and of mourning. If he had regarded the former with complacent joy, he was not the less willing, nor the less prepared, to cheer the latter with those high contemplations and those tender sympathies to which, by faith, as a Christian, he could point, and which, in charity, as a man, he truly felt. Of the old, who were confined to their own thresholds, he found two or three cross and short, but most of them garrulous, and in good humour. They had got pleasant portions from the franklin, and they could tell of old May-days, and heard, with thankful nods and ready “ayes,” and strong fetchings of the breath, that were not sighs of grief, the grave good words with which he taught them how only they could die in peace.
Of his flock only one lay at the point of death, and her he visited last.
She was the miller’s daughter, and had been the May-queen of the bygone year. Sacred be such visit, in its most solemn communings! but we may paint the scene of it, and the trifles which belong to those sympathies of our humanity, that often survive the resigned hope of life.
In a tall chair, against the back of which she leaned her head, sate a pale maiden, warmly wrapped in a robe of white woollen, close to the small window of an upper chamber, on which the evening sun shone warm: curling honey-suckles did make a frame to it; and one rose, with an opening bud, peeped from the trained bush beneath. Upon a little table near her stood a fragrant branch of May in a cup of water. There were faint flushes in her transparent cheeks, and there was an unearthly brightness in her eyes—not fitful—but a calm, steady, serene ray, that, as the declining sun poured over the damsel its yellow glories, presented her to the thoughtful gazer such as she might be when treading the celestial courts above.
“And have you any other wish, my child?” said Noble, as he rose to go.
“Yes, if it be not too foolish.”
“Tell it, my dear.”
“I would like some flowers from the May-pole strewn on my winding-sheet, and a bit of rosemary from your own garden put in my hands.”
“And you shall have them,” said Noble, pressing her wan hand in his, and turning quick away.
The table in Milverton Hall was already surrounded by the hungry guests; and a substantial old English breakfast, well suited to the appetites and the digestion of active and manly hunters, was spread before them. They were so busied over the cold joints and the venison pasties, or with the amber ale that foamed in silver tankards, as scarcely to notice the entrance of a latecomer, and therefore Cuthbert slipped into a vacant place at the bottom of the table, without other greeting than the good-humoured nod of a ruddy-looking young parson seated opposite, as he raised a tankard to his lips. There was little talk, save a few words about the sport, until having fairly finished their meal, the chairs were backed a little from the huge oaken table; the serving men lifted off the large dishes, still weighty with good fare, removed the trenchers, and having carried round the basin and ewer, large silver cups, filled with canary wine, prepared, after the fashion of the time, with sugar and with certain herbs, so as to make a delicious beverage in warm weather, were placed upon the table. The short grace “Benedicto benedicatur” having been uttered by George Juxon, the youthful rector alluded to, Sir Oliver took the massive cup which stood before himself, and intimating to Juxon to follow his example with the other, he rose, and giving for a toast, “His most gracious Majesty King Charles,” took a small draught of it, and passed the cup to the noble looking gentleman who had been sitting on his right hand, and was then standing by his side. The toast passed round with an audible “God bless him!” from every guest, after the example of the loyal host.
“Ah, Sir Philip,” observed the worthy knight to the noble stranger near him, “we have fallen upon evil times; and it is grievous to think that there should be one house in all England where the health of his most sacred Majesty may no longer be duly drunk, as is becoming in all good and true subjects.”
“Yet, I fear,” replied Sir Philip Arundel, “there are many in which the King’s health is no longer a standing toast: unquestionably republican feelings and principles have made great progress among the burgher classes generally, and have infected not a few above them.”
“It is those sour-faced, canting rogues, the prick-eared, psalm-singing Puritans, that are doing all the mischief,” said Sir Charles Lambert: “we want their ears, after the Turkish fashion, cropped by sacksful.”
“But it is not calling them names, or cutting off their ears,” said George Juxon, “that will put them down; neither will all the water in your horse-ponds quench the fire in any of their bosoms.”
“Very likely; but there is nothing like trying what will stop them; and as sure as ever I catch any of the hypocritical rogues praying and singing near our parish they shall have a bellyful of muddy water, and a back-load of smart blows with whip or cudgel.”
There was an expression of most irrepressible disgust on the countenance of Cuthbert Noble as Sir Charles uttered this brutal speech; which Sir Charles observing, he turned quickly to Sir Oliver, and added, “These are times in which we should look well to all our housemates, for fear we should be fostering some of these godly knaves, who cover their false hearts with closed lips and demure faces, and may corrupt our children and our servants.”
“You mean me,” said Cuthbert, starting on his feet with an energy which startled every one at table, and took Sir Charles so totally by surprise that he turned pale and livid, and seemed at a loss for words.
“Sir Oliver,” pursued the youthful tutor in a glow of indignation that overspread his cheeks, and made his eyes glance fire, “I have long and often endured the contemptuous and studied insults of your haughty kinsman on his visits here; and while they were only directed against me as a poor scholar and a dependant, it was well:—happy in your favour, and in the attachment and respect of the gentle young master, who is my pupil, I could afford to look down upon the dwarfish stature of so mean a mind; but when he would thus——”
Before it was possible to arrest him, Sir Charles, who sat upon the same side of the table, had run behind him, and, ere he could turn, inflicted a deep wound in his back with a large hunting-knife. The young student fell, bathed in his blood, upon the floor; and all the household, already brought near to the door by the loudness of the voices, rushed into the hall. Nothing was more affecting than to see the terrified agony and loud sobs of the noble boy Arthur, who stood over his fainting tutor with tears, and would neither be comforted nor removed.
George Juxon had instantly seized Sir Charles with an iron grasp. Sir Oliver was troubled, and scarce knew how to act; while Sir Philip Arundel, the most self-possessed of the party, desired the attendants to send swiftly to Warwick for a surgeon, and suggested to Sir Oliver that the aggressor should be committed to his charge, and that he would take him to his own home, and be responsible for his appearance to answer for the crime which he had just committed, when the charge should be preferred against him in due order. But George Juxon required that he should remain in custody at Milverton until it was ascertained whether the stab inflicted on Cuthbert might not prove fatal.
The ladies of Milverton, who were absent, walking in the grounds, were happily spared this painful scene. To the exclamations of wonder, regret, and even condolence, with which Sir Charles was addressed by some others of the party, he answered nothing, but stood with lips closely compressed in sullen scorn and in a dogged silence.
Juxon unhanded him, after Sir Philip promised that he should for the present be kept close guarded, and gave all his attention to Cuthbert, who was borne slowly and carefully up into his chamber, and his wound there bound up with a temporary dressing by Juxon himself, till proper assistance should arrive. This done, he left him for a while in the care of the servants, while he went down to aid in composing Sir Oliver and the ladies of the family.
This young clergyman, who was a distant connection of the good bishop of the same name, the treasurer at that time of the King, was a good specimen of a particular class of richly beneficed clergy, not uncommon in his day. He was a ripe scholar, a kind, orthodox churchman, and a manly country gentleman. His habits were those of his time: they grew out of the circumstances of that period and the state of society in all country places; and he had seen his own pious and dignified relative hunt his own pack of beagles, without a thought that he was doing any thing more than taking a vigorous exercise, beneficial alike to the health of his body and his mind.
Juxon was among, but above, sportsmen. He had a wealthy rectory, and lived hospitably with his equals, and charitably towards the poor. In the discharge of his parochial duties, he was sensible and serious: he valued books, and he had a due appreciation of genius.
He had been of the hunting party this morning, and was thus a guest at Milverton, where he had long occasionally visited, and where, upon a former day, he had chanced to have rather a long and free conversation with Cuthbert, and, albeit widely different in their habits, had found common ground of interest in the subjects on which they talked, and they had parted well pleased with each other. Had they touched on politics, indeed, they would have differed; for Juxon was a most stanch supporter of the court party: through evil report and good report he stuck close to the crown; he wrote for it, spoke for it, and was ready to lay down his life in the defence of it; but he was of too large a mind to wonder at the opinions of those opposed to the government of the King; nor was he blind either to those abuses of the prerogative which had first awakened a spirit of resistance in men of undoubted worth and patriotism, nor to the grievous folly of those deplorable counsels, whereby the King had been induced or encouraged to force upon the proud and resolute Scots the discipline of a church to which they disclaimed allegiance.
Again, he was of a generous spirit, detested persecution in any thing, especially in religion and matters of conscience, and had felt, with the Lord Falkland, in all the earlier stages of the present quarrel. Nevertheless, a decided and sincere attachment to the monarchy, an unshaken respect for the personal qualities of the King, and a devotion to the forms and to the spirit of that church in which he was baptized, suckled, and educated—a devotion quite distinct from, and independent of, any feeling of self-interest, as an incumbent—caused him to resolve upon his own course in the coming troubles with a cheerful firmness.
These sentiments, if the conversation in the hall had not been so suddenly put an end to, would there have been elicited. He had not approved the outbreak and burst of indignation with which the sensitive and excited Cuthbert had so energetically appropriated the indirect, but mischievous, speech with which Sir Charles Lambert had sought to sow a suspicion of his tutor’s integrity in the bosom of Sir Oliver; but he with his whole soul detested and abhorred the cowardly and bloody ferocity with which the haughty and maddened barbarian had resented the contemptuous expression of Cuthbert. There sprung up in his heart at that moment a warmth of interest for the youth, which never afterwards, in fortunes the most dark and divided, entirely died away. But to return to the actual present. He saw the ladies, who had but just returned from a walk to the vineyard, in company with Sir Oliver, in a remote corner of the garden, and immediately joined them.
They were, as might be expected, very greatly troubled at the cruel occurrence, and pale with natural anxiety. Indeed there was an expression of concern upon the countenance of Mistress Katharine, so very deep, so profoundly sad, that even amid the sorrowful perplexities of the moment it glanced across the mind of Juxon, that, in one or other of the parties in this business, her own heart was most closely interested, and he thought that he had never before seen human beauty with such a divine aspect. At the readily adopted suggestion of Katharine, her aunt Alice would have proceeded instantly to the chamber of the sufferer, to render him any service in her power; but Juxon requested of her not to do so, and recommended that the ladies should keep themselves quiet and apart until the surgeon arrived, and the gentlemen now in the mansion should have departed. Observing, too, the extreme perplexity of Sir Oliver, who had been and still was exceedingly agitated by this strange event, he entreated him to remain with them, and to keep himself calm and quiet for the present; assuring him that every thing which he could suppose him to wish in the present distress should be properly done, and that he would certainly not leave Milverton himself while he could hope to render the slightest service to Sir Oliver in this difficulty. There was an earnestness of manner about Juxon, and at the same time such a quiet tone of internal confidence in the resources of his own judgment, that they all submitted to his guidance; and Sir Oliver was greatly comforted and strengthened by the thought that so wise and judicious a friend was near him in his necessity.
The boy Arthur was watching and walking forwards on the Warwick road, as if his doing so could hasten the coming of assistance, and was in all that confusion of the troubled spirits which keeps the young heart throbbing with fear.
In the library Sir Charles Lambert sat with folded arms and a lowering brow, while Sir Philip Arundel stood, looking from the window with a countenance simply expressive of cold annoyance.
Of the half dozen gentlemen, who were still grouped in the hall, one, after observing, that “All’s well that ends well—and, perhaps, after all, the young man’s hurt might not prove dangerous, and that he always hoped for the best,”—stole his hand across quietly to the wine cup, and took a very copious draught; another remarked, that he must say “the young man was very irritating;” a third wanted to know what was the use of their remaining there, and said he wanted to go home; while a fourth said, “One was a brute, and the other a fool: that he cared nothing for one, and knew nothing of the other.”
But two gentlemen of a more thoughtful cast walked the hall in low and serious discourse, apprehensive by their words that the injury would prove fatal to Cuthbert; and resolving that so fierce an action as that of Sir Charles should not pass unpunished. These were friends and neighbours of George Juxon; and expressed themselves well pleased that, for the sake of Sir Oliver and his family, so useful and kind a person chanced to be at Milverton under the present circumstances.
At last the long expected surgeon arrived with the messenger who had been sent for him, both having used all diligent expedition. He was introduced into the chamber of the patient by Juxon, and immediately proceeded to examine the wound. At the first sight he shook his head, and said to himself, in a very quick, low tone of voice, “The wonder is, that he is yet alive;” but on questioning Cuthbert as to his feelings, and finding some of the expected symptoms absent, and on very carefully applying the probe, he cheerfully exclaimed, “There is good hope of you, young master: there is no man living could pass a sword where this blade has passed without injuring a vital part, if he were to try; but a good angel hath had the guiding of this one. If it please God to bless my skill, you shall do well; but it will be a slow case, and a tedious time before you will be fairly on your legs again.”
“God’s will be done,” said Cuthbert, “for life or for death.”
“If that is your mind,” rejoined the surgeon, “my care will be well helped, and your cure the easier.”
After cleaning and dressing the wound, and giving particular directions as to diet broths, and writing a prescription for the necessary medicines to produce composure and sleep, he took his departure, promising an early visit on the morrow.
The favourable opinion thus given of Cuthbert’s wound was quickly made known throughout the mansion, and received as welcome by all; operating upon each according to their personal characters, and to the interest which they had felt in the issue of the violent deed which had stained the hospitable hall of Milverton. Sir Charles Lambert, indeed, but for the inconvenience and danger to himself, would have preferred the more tragical event. As it was, when Sir Philip Arundel returned from the gallery to the library, to announce to him that Cuthbert was considered in no present danger, he uttered no word beyond his wish instantly to return home.
“You are surely thankful,” said Sir Philip, “that this unpleasant affair has ended so much better than was feared. If you will not go and say so to the bleeding youth, which perhaps might just now too much disturb him, you will at least offer some words of atonement to your elderly relative, Sir Oliver, for the outrage done under his roof, and to a youth under his protection; a deed to be only excused by pleading that your anger transported you into a paroxysm of madness.”
“I shall go home,” said Sir Charles: “are you ready?”
“I will never, sir, again cross your threshold: you are no English knight—you are not even a man. I shall send orders to my grooms to follow me on my road home.”
These words were swallowed by the same man who would have taken a life that same morning for a look of contempt; and with a white cheek, on which passion literally trembled, Sir Charles hurried to the court-yard, called for his horse, mounted, and dashing spurs into his sides, rode violently away—hatred in his own heart, and contempt pursuing him. In succession all the guests took their departure, except George Juxon, whom Sir Oliver requested to continue with him till the morrow; and who, more for the sake of the patient than of the family, assented. He was not sorry that Sir Charles had departed in the manner and in the temper described, nor did he care now to have his person secured; for his offence, though grave as it yet stood, was not of a nature that in those days subjected to imprisonment any one who could find bail for his future appearance: and in the present case it was clear that Cuthbert would never prosecute a relation (albeit base and unworthy), yet a relation of Sir Oliver Heywood.
The good knight, though a kind man, a fond father, and an easy master, having walked through life upon a path of velvet as smooth as his own lawn, was sadly discomposed by this visitation of care; and the very trouble and irregularity that was caused by it was felt by the old gentleman in many ways that he dared not confess to others, and was ashamed to acknowledge to himself. A great weight, indeed, was taken from his mind by the assurance of Cuthbert’s safety; for he was humane, and he liked the youth: but he had private reasons for a deep regret at the conduct of Sir Charles Lambert, and the interruption to their intercourse which would of necessity ensue, and almost wished that he had parted with his young tutor immediately after that discovery of his political leanings which he had himself not many days ago so frankly made.
However, what had now befallen Cuthbert beneath Sir Oliver’s own roof, and by the hand of his own relative, gave him new and increased claims upon the knight’s protection and kindness, and there could be no further thought of their separating now till a distant period. The day wore rapidly away, and by the hour of supper some appearance of order was again restored to a mansion, in which every thing usually proceeded with the regularity of clockwork.
An intermitted dinner was an occurrence of which there was no previous memory or record in the recollection of the oldest servant on the establishment. Among the minor circumstances, and not the least affecting to the manly mind of Juxon, was a little dialogue which he overheard between the little girl Lily and the boy Arthur, the child being unable to comprehend the fact of one man cutting another man with a knife on purpose to hurt him. The true nature of the atrocious action of course no one cared to explain to the little innocent: but she had learned from the servants that Master Cuthbert was run through with a knife by Sir Charles Lambert; and she had come to cousin Arthur, in a grave and pretty wonder, to know what they could mean.
The next day, being the birthday of Sir Oliver, was that on which the masque in preparation was to have been represented before a party of the neighbouring gentry, who had been specially invited to celebrate that annual feast in the good old hall of Milverton. Of so pleasant a holyday there could now be no further thought; and the May-day festival which was to follow the day after, though of course the villagers would have their dance according to the immemorial custom, would lose half its gaiety and spirit by the absence of the family from the manor house, and especially of the gentle and sweet Mistress Katharine, whose words and ways had won for her all the hearts in Milverton, and for miles round.
It was an evening memorable in the life of Juxon, that in which he first sat down at table with the small family circle of the Heywoods;—in which he looked upon the majestic forehead of Katharine—marked the gentle fire of her dark eyes, and the expression of all that is sweet and engaging in humanity about a mouth where her noble qualities were most fairly written.
After the grave and laudable custom of those good old times, the evening service from the Book of Common Prayer was invariably read to the assembled households of the country gentlemen. The office of reading prayers was usually in the absence of a clergyman performed by Sir Oliver himself as the priest of his own family, or at times he deputed Cuthbert to supply his place. The duty this evening was performed by Juxon in a solemn, feeling, impressive manner; and when it was concluded, and the family retired, he hastened to the chamber of Cuthbert, and finding that the composing draught had taken kind effect, and that he was dropping off into a comforting sleep, withdrew again with as soft a step as he had entered, and, exhausted with the fatigues and the painful excitements of the day’s adventures, he repaired to his own room, and thankfully lay down to rest. As he was extinguishing the lamp, his eye read the posy on the wall; and he could not but feel a sweet pleasure to be reposing in such a mansion, and with such a family:—
When, at the proposal of Mistress Katharine, the ladies left the hall, they proceeded to the Lime Walk: here they separated, Aunt Alice taking Sophia Lambert aside to show her a late addition to her aviary, and Katharine leading forward Jane towards the fish-pond, where, upon a low bench, placed under the broad arm of a noble cedar, they sat down quietly in the shade.
Under all the disadvantages of a most neglected education, and a rusticity of manner very near to rudeness, Jane Lambert had some rare and valuable qualities, which greatly endeared her to those who took the pains to discover them. This Katharine had done. As for the last three years she had been thrown much into the society of the Lamberts, owing to their residence at Bolton Grange, and the frequent, but yet unavoidable, visits of Sir Charles, she had studied all their characters thoroughly; and the result of her observation satisfied her, that in Jane there was at the bottom a fund of sterling worth, high courage, and genuine affection. Her attainments were few and very imperfect; but she had a vigorous and a healthy intellect, which digested well the best and most generous sentiments of the few books which she was careful to read. Not a tenant or cotter upon the estate of her brother but had a look of honest love for Mistress Jane; and the falconers and foresters were proud of a bright lady who knew their craft so well, and had so true an eye for the slot of a deer or for the dim-seen quarry. If any poor man had a favour to ask of Sir Charles, it was through her, as the ready advocate of all who needed help or implored mercy, that the petition was preferred. Her admiration and love for Katharine Heywood were unbounded: she looked up to her as a model of exalted excellence, and with that affection which partakes of reverence; not that this was of a nature to check or chill the natural display of fondness in their ordinary intercourse; but at times the power of the loftier sentiment over her was so great, that her exuberant and unguarded levity would be in a moment abashed and driven away by one look from Katharine. Thus it had been to-day at table; and now, as they sat, she pressed her hand upon the shoulder of Katharine, and leaned her cheek upon it, and said feelingly—
“Dearest cousin Kate, why did you look so very sad and so very grave to-day? I was only joking; do not be angry with me, my sweet coz: I shall fret if I think you have been really angry.” Katherine bent her face and kissed the presented cheek.
“Was I ever angry with you, Jane?” she asked. “You know that I never was; but it is true that you often make me very anxious for you, and sometimes quite sad, by your ill-timed and thoughtless gaiety. Consider a little more the consequences of idle words, and their effect on strangers.”
“Well, my dear, I will: but there is no harm done, for I do not look upon Juxon as a stranger; and he is so sensible, and so good-tempered, that he will never take any speech by the wrong handle, and so honest and straightforward, that he will never look under it for a hidden meaning.”
“But yet, Jane, even Juxon will think it odd, that while the victim of your brother’s passionate frenzy still lies on a couch helpless with his wound, and while your brother, who has narrowly escaped committing the heaviest of crimes, has absented himself for very shame, his sister should sport, as if nothing had happened, and be as playful in her words as a girl without care.”
“Do you think so? I should be sorry for that: but you know that I do not love my brother; and Cuthbert is safe from all danger, and out of all pain; and you are well, cousin, and not the sadder for this accident, if I know your heart as well as I love your happiness; and why then should I not appear cheerful, when, in truth, I am so. I should be vexed, indeed, if Juxon thought the worse of me; for he is one whose good opinion is worth having; but as for that of the world, I care not a jot about it.”
“There you are wrong, dear Jane: the opinion of the world may, and must be, in some things, despised, but the rule of its established proprieties and gentle observances can never be transgressed, without bringing some heavy penalty on the offender.”
“I do not love the world so well, dear Katharine, as to care for either its frowns or its favours; and I looked not for an advocate of its cold maxims and its deceitful forms in you—let it see me as I am.”
“There is your error, Jane: it cannot, it will not, it cares not to take the trouble to see you as you are; it looks only at your seeming; and though to be is better than to seem, and many seem fine gold that are but base metal, yet no one can despise the judgment of the world without rashness and without danger. They who place themselves above the opinion of the world, and the best rules of society, cast off a useful and an appointed restraint in the discipline of life.”
“Sweet coz, I love to hear you lecture, but you will never make me wise: I was born under a common star, and reared with foresters:—look as I like, and speak as I think.”
“Ah, dear Jane, you will some day learn to govern your bright looks, and to keep your sweetest thoughts locked closely in your heart. Wisdom herself, and, perhaps, though God forbid, sorrow will be your teacher.”
The serene eyes of the majestic Katharine were clouded, for a passing moment, with such a sadness as a compassionate angel might have worn; and she pressed Jane tenderly to her breast.
“Promise me,” she said, “dearest cousin, promise me faithfully that you never again hint even to any human being, the idle fancy that hung this morning on your lips, or the name you would have connected with it.”
“The promise has been already made in my own mind: your look was enough to make me wish the light word unspoken, and the tongue that uttered it blistered for a month to come. You are the only one at table who could have understood my allusion. I am certain that the most distant thought of my meaning could not enter the mind of your father or your aunt.”