A DAISY.
As briefly as may be, we must give some account of the venture of
Monmouth, which ended in such complete disaster.
Charles, natural son of Charles II. by Lucy Walters, born in 1649,
created Duke of Monmouth in 1663 by his father, was, as Pepys writes, "a
most pretty spark;" "very handsome, extremely well made, and had an air
of greatness answerable to his birth," says the Countess D'Aulnay; was
his father's favourite son, and for some time it was supposed that King
Charles II. would proclaim his legitimacy and constitute him heir to the
Throne. He was vastly popular with the nation, which looked up to him as
the protector of the Protestant religion against the Duke of York, whose
accession to the Throne was generally dreaded on account of his known
attachment to the Roman Church. James therefore always regarded him with
jealousy and suspicion--a jealousy and suspicion greatly heightened and
intensified by a memorable progress he had made in 1680, in the West,
when incredible numbers flocked to see him. He first visited Wiltshire,
and honoured Squire Thynne, of Longleate House, with his company for
some days. Thence he journeyed into Somersetshire, where he found the
roads lined with enthusiastic peasants, who saluted him with loud
acclamations as the champion of the Protestant religion. In some towns
and villages the streets and highways were strewn with herbs and
flowers. When the Duke came within a few miles of White Ladington, the
seat of George Speke, Esq., near Ilminster, he was met by two thousand
riders, whose numbers rapidly increased to twenty thousand. His personal
beauty, the charm of his manners, won the hearts of every one, and thus
the way was paved for the enthusiastic reception he was to receive later
when he landed at Lyme, in Dorsetshire, as a defender of religion and a
claimant for the Throne.
On June 14th, 1680, that landing took place. It had been arranged
between him and the Duke of Argyle that each should head an expedition
with the same end, and that a landing should be effected simultaneously,
one in Scotland, under Argyle, the other in England, under Monmouth.
Money and nearly everything else was wanting, and Monmouth was dilatory
and diffident of success. But finally, two handfuls of men were got
together, some arms were purchased, and some ships freighted. Argyle
sailed first, and landed before the Duke of Monmouth, loth to tear
himself from the arms of a beautiful mistress in Brussels, could summon
resolution to sail. Argyle was speedily defeated and lodged in Edinburgh
Castle on June 20th. Six days before his capture, Monmouth landed in
Dorsetshire. He had with him about eighty officers and a hundred and
fifty followers of various kinds, Scotch and English. Lord Stair, who
had fled from the tyranny of James when Duke of York and Commissioner in
Scotland, did not join the expedition; but Lord Grey did, an infamous
man, who was one main cause of its miscarriage. The ablest head among
the party was that of Fletcher of Saltoun, who in vain endeavoured to
dissuade the Duke from an enterprise which he saw was premature and
desperate, but from which he was too brave and generous to withdraw.
On landing at Lyme, Monmouth set up his standard, and issued a
proclamation that he had come to secure the Protestant religion, and to
extirpate Popery, and deliver the people of England from "the usurpation
and tyranny of James, Duke of York." This was dispersed throughout the
country, was passed from hand to hand, and with extraordinary rapidity
was carried to the very Land's End, raising the excitement of the
people, who chafed at the despotism of King James II., and were full of
suspicion as to his purposes. In the Declaration, promises were made of
free exercise of their religion to all kinds of Protestants of whatever
sect; that the Parliament should be annually chosen; that sheriffs
should also be annually elected; that the grievous Militia Act should be
repealed; and that to the Corporations of the towns should be restored
their ancient liberties and charters.
Allured by these promises, the yeomanry and peasantry flocked to
Monmouth's standard, and had the Duke entrusted the volunteers to the
direction of a man of talent and integrity, it is not impossible that he
would have met with success.
But the infamous Lord Grey was made commander, and when, shortly after
landing, the Earl of Feversham, a French favourite of King James, threw
a detachment of regular troops into Bridport, some six miles from Lyme,
and Monmouth detached three hundred men to storm the town, Lord Grey,
who was entrusted with the command, deserted his men at the first brush,
and galloping back into Lyme, carried the tidings of defeat, when
actually the volunteers, with marvellous heroism, had accomplished their
task, and had obtained a victory.
Monmouth inquired of Captain Matthews, what was to be done with Lord
Grey.
Matthews answered as a soldier, "You are the only General in Europe who
would ask such a question."
The Duke, however, dared not punish Lord Grey, and actually entrusted to
him the command of the cavalry, the most important arm he had. Having
thus given a position of trust to the worst man he could, he lost the
ablest man in his party, Fletcher, who had quarrelled with a
Somersetshire gentleman about his horse, which led to a duel, in which
the Somersetshire man was shot, and Fletcher had to be dismissed.
On June 15th, four days after landing, the Duke marched from Lyme with a
force that swelled to three thousand men. He passed through Axminster,
and on the 16th was at Chard; thence he marched to Taunton, his numbers
increasing as he advanced. At Taunton his reception was most flattering;
he was welcomed as a deliverer sent from heaven; the poor rent the air
with their joyful acclamations, the rich threw open their houses to him
and his followers, his way was strewn with flowers, and twenty-six young
girls of the best families in the town appeared before Monmouth, and
presented him with a Bible. Monmouth kissed the sacred book, and swore
to defend the truth it contained with his life's blood.
Here it was that he was met by the detachment from Tavistock and its
neighbourhood. The men came in singly or in pairs, and somewhat later
Mr. Crymes appeared in his coach. Anthony was immediately presented to
the Duke, who, taken by his manly appearance, at once appointed him to
be captain of the contingent from Tavistock.
On June 20th Monmouth claimed the title of King. It was a rash and fatal
mistake, for it at once alarmed his followers, and deterred many from
joining him. Many of those who followed him, or were secretly in his
favour, still respected the hereditary rights of kingship; and others
had a lingering affection for Republican institutions. These two
opposite classes were dissatisfied by this assumption. Moreover, the
partisans of the Prince of Orange, already pretty numerous, considered
this claim as infringing the rights of James's eldest daughter, Mary,
Princess of Orange, who, by birth and by religion, stood next in order
of succession.
On June 22d Monmouth advanced to Bridgewater, where he was again
proclaimed King; and here he divided his forces into six regiments, and
formed two troops out of about a thousand horse that followed him.
We need not follow his extraordinary course after this, marked by
timidity and irresolution.
Few of the gentlemen of the counties of the West joined him, and the
influx of volunteers began to fail. Discouragement took possession of
the Duke's spirits; and, when St. Swithin's rains set in before their
proper time, not only was his ardour, but also that of his followers,
considerably damped.
At length, on July 5th, it was resolved to attack the Royal army,
encamped on Sedgmoor, near Bridgewater, where the negligent disposition
made by Lord Feversham invited attack. Here the decisive battle was
fought. The men following Monmouth's standard showed in the action an
amount of native courage and adherence to the principles of duty which
deserved better leaders. They threw the veteran forces into disorder,
drove them from their ground, continued the fight till their ammunition
failed them, and would at last have obtained a victory, had not the
misconduct of Monmouth and the cowardice or treachery of Grey prevented
it.
In the height of the action, when the fortune of the day was wavering,
Lord Grey told Monmouth that all was lost--that it was more than time to
think of shifting for himself. Accordingly, he and Monmouth, and a few
other officers, rode off the field, leaving the poor enthusiasts,
without order or instructions, to be massacred by a pitiless army. The
battle lasted about three hours, and ended in a rout. The rebels lost
about fifteen hundred men in the battle and pursuit; but the Royal
forces had suffered severely.
Urith sat in the parlour at Willsworthy. She had reverted to the stolid,
dark mood that had become habitual with her. Her hands were in her lap.
She was plucking at the ring affixed to the broken token, through which
passed the suspending ribbon. But for this movement of the fingers of
the right hand she might have been taken to be a figure cut out of
stone, so still was her face, so motionless her figure; not a change of
colour, not a movement of muscle, not a flicker of the eyelid betrayed
that she was alive and sentient; no tears filling the eye, no sigh
escaping her lips.
The heat of her brow showed that she was labouring under an oppressive
sorrow.
She spoke and acted mechanically when roused into action and to speech,
and then instantly fell back into her customary torpor. Only when so
roused did the stunned spirit flutter to her eyes, and bring a slight
suffusion of colour into her face. Next moment she was stone as before.
She had been given, by Mrs. Penwarne, some flowers to arrange for the
table.
"For his grave?" asked Urith, "and for my baby."
She took them eagerly, began to weave them, then they fell from her
fingers into her lap, and she remained unconscious, holding the stalks.
The old lady came to her again, and scolded her.
"There! there! this is too bad. Take your token, and give me the
flowers. I must do everything."
She put the broken medal again into Urith's hand; and left her, carrying
the flowers away.
Urith was at once back again under her overwhelming cloud--the
ever-present conviction that Anthony was dead, and that she had killed
him.
She saw him at every moment of the day, except when roused from her
dream, lying across the hearthstone with his heart pierced. She had seen
a little start of blood from the wound, when it was dealt, and this she
saw day and night welling up inexhaustibly in tiny wavelets, flowing
over his side, and falling in a long trickle sometimes connected,
sometimes a mere drip upon the hearthstone, and then running upon the
pavement in a dark line.
This little rill never dried up, never became full; it pushed its way
along slowly, always about the breadth of the little finger, and
standing up like a surcharged vein, hemmed in by grains of dust and
particles of flue. Urith was ever watching the progress of this rivulet
of blood, as it stole forward, now turning a little to this side from
some knot in the floor, then running into a crevice and staying its
onward progress till it had filled the chink, and converted it into a
puddle. She watched it rise to the edge of a slate slab, swell above it,
tied back, as it were, by each jagged in the slate edge, then overleap
it, and run further. The rill was ever advancing towards the main
entrance to the hall, yet never reaching it, making its way steadily,
yet making no actual progress.
On more than one occasion Urith stooped to remove a dead wasp that stood
in the way of its advance, or to sop up with her kerchief some plash of
water which would have diluted its richness.
Now, on the floor, lay a daisy head that had fallen from the flower
bunch Mistress Penwarne had brought to her and then had taken away.
Urith's eyes were on the daisy, and it seemed to her that the red rill
was touching it. It was nothing to Urith that she was in the parlour,
and that Anthony had fallen in the hall. Wherever she went, into
whatsoever room, into the garden, out on the moor--it was ever the hall
she was in, and the floor everywhere, whether of oak boards or of soft
turf, or of granite spar, was in her eyes the pavement of the hall, and
ever over that pavement travelled the little thread of blood, groping
its way, like an earthworm, as endowed with a half consciousness that
gave it direction without organs of sense.
And now on the floor lay the garden daisy-head, and towards it the
purple-red streamlet was pushing on; was the daisy already touched, and
the edges of the fringe of petals just tinctured? Or was its redness due
to the reflection on the pure white of the advancing blood? The dye or
glow was setting inward, whatever it was, and would soon stain the
petals crimson, and then sop the golden heart and turn it black.
How long this process would require Urith did not ask, for time was
nothing to her. But she looked and waited, she fancied that she saw the
clotting together of the rays, and their gradual discoloration as the
red liquid rose up through the yellow stamens.
And now the flower-head began to stir and slide over the floor, and the
blood-streak to crawl after it.
Urith slowly rose to her feet, and, with bent head, observing the
flower, step by step followed it. There was a draught blowing along the
floor from a back-door that was open, and this stirred and carried
forward the light blossom. Urith never inquired what moved the daisy; it
was natural, it was reasonable, that it should recoil from the scent and
touch of blood.
As the daisy-head slid forward--now with easy motion, now with a leap
and a skip--so did, in Urith's diseased fancy, the rill of blood advance
in pursuit, always just touching it, but never entirely enveloping it.
Urith stepped forward slowly towards the hall-door and opened it, to let
the flower-head escape. Had she not done so, in a moment the daisy would
have been caught, and have sopped up the blood like a sponge, lost all
its whiteness, and become but a shapeless clot in the stream.
The draught, increased by the opening of the door, carried the little
delicate blossom forward rapidly, into the hall and along its floor, and
after it shot the head of the rivulet, pointed, like that of a snake
darting on its prey. Then the daisy was arrested suddenly; it had struck
against an obstruction--a man's foot.
Urith rose from her stooping position, and saw before her the man whose
foot had stopped the daisy--it was Anthony, standing on the hearthstone.
To her dazed sense it was nothing that the blood-stream should run in
the course opposed to that it might have been supposed to run, from the
parlour to the hall, from the door to the hearth. To her mind the ideal
hall and the actual hall only coincided when they overlapped.
And now, standing on the actual hearthstone, with the fancied
blood-stream running up to, and dancing about his foot, was Anthony.
"Urith!"
The voice was that of Anthony.
He had seen Luke, he knew in what condition he might expect to find her;
and he had come to the house to see her, to let her light unsuspecting
on him, in the hopes that the surprise might rouse her, and change the
tenor of her thoughts.
He looked at her with love and pity in his heart, in his eyes, and with
a choking in the throat.
Urith remained standing where she had risen from her bowed position, and
for a long time kept her eyes steadily fixed on him; but there was
neither surprise nor pleasure in them.
Presently she said slowly, with a wave of her hand, "No! I am not
deceived. Anthony is dead. I killed him."
Then she averted her face, and at once fell into her usual trance-like
condition.