HUMPHREY.
Presently my father came in, the Bible in his hand. By his
countenance it was plain that he had been already engaged in
meditation, and that his mind was charged as with a message.
Alas! to think of the many great discourses that he pronounced
(being as a dog who must be muzzled should he leave the farm-yard)
to us women alone. If they were written down the world would lift
up its hands with wonder, and ask if a prophet indeed had been
vouchsafed to this unhappy country. The Roman Church will have
that the time of Saints did not end with the last of the Apostles;
that may be, and yet a Saint has no more power after death than
remains in his written words and in the memory of his life. Shall we
not, however, grant that there may still be Prophets, who see and
apprehend the meaning of words and of things more fully than others
even as spiritually minded as themselves? Now, I say, considering
what was immediately to befall us, the passage which my father read
and expounded that morning was in a manner truly prophetic. It was
the vision of the Basket of Summer Fruit which was vouchsafed to the
Prophet Amos. He read to us that terrible chapter--everybody knows
it, though it hath but fourteen verses.
'I will turn your feasts into mourning and all your songs into
lamentation.... I will send a famine in the land; not a famine of
bread nor a thirst for water, but of hearing the words of the Lord.'
He then applied the chapter to these times, saying that the
Scriptures and the prophecies apply not only to the Israel of the
time when Amos or any other prophet lived, but to the people of God
in all ages, yet so that sometimes one prophet seems to deliver
the message that befits the time and sometimes another. All these
things prophesied by Amos had come to pass in this country of Great
Britain; so that there was, and had now been for twenty-five years,
a grievous famine and a sore thirst for the words of the Lord. He
continued to explain and to enlarge upon this topic for nearly an
hour, when he concluded with a fervent prayer that the famine would
pass away and the sealed springs be open again for the children of
grace to drink and be refreshed.
This done, he took his breakfast in silence, as was his wont,
loving not to be disturbed by any earthly matters when his mind
was full of his morning discourse. When he had eaten the bread and
meat and taken the cup of cider, he arose and went back to his own
room, and shut the door. We should have no more speech of him until
dinner-time.
'I will speak with him, my dear,' said my mother. 'But not yet. Let
us wait till we hear from Sir Christopher.'
'I would that my father had read us a passage of encouragement and
promise on this morning of all mornings,' I said.
My mother turned over the leaves of the Bible. 'I will read you a
verse of encouragement,' she said. 'It is the word of God as much as
the Book of the Prophet Amos.' So she found and read for my comfort
words which had a new meaning to me:--
'My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one,
and come away. For, lo! the winter is past, the rain is over and
gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of
birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land. The
fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with the tender
grape give a good smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.'
And again, these that follow:--
'Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for
love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave: the coals
thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame. Many
waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it. If a man
would give all the substance of his house for love it would utterly
be contemned.'
In these gracious, nay, these enraptured words, doth the Bible speak
of love; and though I am not so ignorant as not to know that it is
the love of the Church for Christ, yet I am persuaded by my own
spiritual experience--whatever Doctors of Divinity may argue--that
the earthly love of husband and wife may be spoken of in these very
words as being the type of that other and higher love. And in this
matter I know that my mother would also confirm my judgment.
It might have been between nine and ten that Humphrey came. Surely
he was changed more than Robin: for the great white periwig which he
wore (being now a physician) falling upon his shoulders did partly
hide the deformity of his wry shape, and the black velvet coat did
also become him mightily. As for his face, that was not changed at
all. It had been grave and serious in youth; it was now more grave
and more serious in manhood. He stood in the doorway, not seeing
me--I was making a pudding for dinner, with my sleeves rolled up and
my arms white with flour.
'Mistress Eykin,' he said, 'are old friends passed out of mind?'
'Why,' my mother left her wheel and gave him her hand, ''tis
Humphrey! I knew that we should see thee this morning, Humphrey. Is
thy health good, my son, and is all well with thee?'
'All is well, madam, and my health is good. How is my master--thy
husband?'
'He is always well, and--but thou knowest what manner of life he
leads. Of late he hath been much disquieted; he is restless--his
mind runs much upon the prophecies of war and pestilence. It is the
news from London and the return of the Mass which keeps him uneasy.
Go in and see him, Humphrey. He will willingly suffer thee to
disturb him, though we must not go near him in his hours of study.'
'Presently; but where is my old playfellow--where is Alice?'
'She is behind you, Humphrey.'
He turned, and his pale face flushed when he saw me.
'Alice?' he cried. 'Is this truly Alice? Nay, she is changed indeed!
I knew not--I could not expect--nay, how could one expect'----
'There is no change,' said my mother, sharply. 'Alice was a child,
and is now a woman; that is all.'
'Humphrey expects,' I said, 'that we should all stop still while
Time went on. You were to become a Bachelor of Medicine, sir, and a
Fellow of All Souls' College, and to travel in Italy and France, and
to come back in a velvet coat, and a long sword, and a periwig over
your shoulders; and I was to be a little girl still.'
Humphrey shook his head.
'It is not only that,' he said; 'though I confess that one did
not make due allowance for the flight of Time. It is that the
sweet-faced child has become'----
'No, Humphrey,' I said, 'I want no compliments. Go now, sir, and
speak with my father. Afterwards you shall tell me all that you have
been doing.'
He obeyed, and opened my father's door.
'Humphrey!' My father sprang to his feet. 'Welcome, my pupil! Thou
bringest good news? Nay; I have received thy letters: I read the
good news in thy face--I see it in thine eyes. Welcome home!'
'Sir, I have, indeed, great news,' said Humphrey.
Then the door was closed.
He stayed there for half an hour and more; and we heard from within
earnest talk--my father's voice sometimes uplifted, loud and angry,
but Humphrey's always low, as if he did not wish us to overhear
them. So, not to seem unto each other as if we were listening,
mother and I talked of other things, such as the lightness of the
pudding, and the quantity of suet which should be put into it, and
the time it should boil in the pot, and other things, as women can
whose hearts are full, yet they must needs be talking.
'Father hath much to say to Humphrey,' I said, after a time; 'he
doth not use to like such interruption.'
'Humphrey's conversation is no interruption, my dear. They think the
same thoughts and talk the same language. Your father may teach
and admonish us, but he can only converse with a scholar such as
himself. It is not the least evil of our oppression that he hath
been cut off from the society of learned men, in which he used to
take so much delight. If Humphrey remains here a little while you
shall see your father lose the eager and anxious look which hath of
late possessed him. He will talk to Humphrey, and will clear his
mind. Then he will be contented again for a while, or, at least,
resigned.'
Presently Humphrey came forth. His face was grave and serious. My
father came out of the room after him.
'Let us talk more,' he said; 'let us resume our talk. Join me on
the hillside, where none can hear us. It is, indeed, the Vision of
the Basket of Summer Fruit that we read this morning.' His face
was working with some inward excitement, and his eyes were full
of a strange light as of a glad conqueror, or of one--forbid the
thought!--who was taking a dire revenge. He strode down the garden
and out into the lanes.
'Thus,' said my mother, 'will he walk out, and sometimes remain in
the woods, walking, preaching to the winds, and swinging his arms
the whole day long. Art thou a physician, and canst thou heal him,
Humphrey?'
'If the cause be removed, the disease will be cured. Perhaps before
long the cause will be removed.'
'The cause--oh! the cause--what is the cause but the tyranny of
the Law? He who was ordered by Heaven itself to preach hath been,
perforce, silent for five-and-twenty years. His very life hath been
taken from him. And you talk of removing the cause!'
'Madam, if the Law suffer him once more to preach freely, would that
satisfy him--and you?'
My mother shook her head. 'The Law,' she said, 'now we have a Papist
on the throne is far more likely to lead my husband to the stake
than to set him free.'
'That shall we shortly see,' said Humphrey.
My mother bent her head over her wheel as one who wishes to talk no
more upon the subject. She loved not to speak concerning her husband
to any except to me.
* * * * *
I went out into the garden with Humphrey. I was foolish. I laughed
at nothing. I talked nonsense. Oh! I was so happy that if a pipe
and tabor had been heard in the village I should have danced to the
music, like poor Barnaby the night before he ran away. I regarded
not the grave and serious face of my companion.
'You are merry, Alice,' said Humphrey.
'It is because you are come back again--you and Robin. Oh! the time
has been long and dull--and now you have come back we shall all be
happy again. Yes; my father will cease to fret and rage; he will
talk Latin and Greek with you; Sir Christopher will be happy only
in looking upon you; Madam will have her son home again; and Mr.
Boscorel will bring out all the old music for you. Humphrey, it is a
happy day that brings you home again.'
'It may be a happy day also for me,' he said; 'but there is much to
be done. When the business we have in hand is accomplished'----
'What business, Humphrey?' For he spoke so gravely that it startled
me.
''Tis business of which thy father knows, child. Nay; let us not
talk of it. I think and hope that it is as good as accomplished now
before it is well taken in hand. It is not of that business that I
would speak. Alice, thou art so beautiful and so tall'----
'Nay, Humphrey. I must not be flattered.'
'And I so crooked.'
'Humphrey, I will not hear this talk. You, so great a scholar, thus
to speak of yourself!'
'Let me speak of myself, my dear. Hear me for a moment.' I declare
that I had not the least thought of what he was going to say, my
mind being wholly occupied with the idea of Robin.
'I am a physician, as you doubtless know. I am Medicinæ Doctor of
Oxford, of Padua, Montpellier, and Leyden. I know all--I may fairly
say, and without boasting--that may be learned by one of my age from
schools of medicine and from books on the science and practice of
healing. I believe, in short, that I am as good a physician as can
be found within these seas. I am minded, as soon as tranquillity is
restored, to set up as a physician in London, where I have already
many friends, and am assured of some support. I think, humbly
speaking, that reasonable success awaits me. Alice--you know that
I have loved you all my life--will you marry me, crooked as I am?
Oh! you cannot but know that I have loved you all my life. Oh!
child,' he stretched forth his hands, and in his eyes there was a
world of longing and of sadness which moved my heart. 'My dear, the
crooked in body have no friends among men; they cannot join in their
rough sports, nor drink with them, nor fight with them. They have
no chance of happiness but in love, my dear. My dear, give me that
chance. I love thee! Oh! my dear, give me that chance?'
Never had I seen Humphrey so moved before. I felt guilty and ashamed
in the presence of this passion of which I was the most unworthy
cause.
'Oh! Humphrey, stop--for Heaven's sake stop!--because I am but this
very morning promised to Robin, who loves me, too--and I love Robin,
Humphrey.' He sank back, pale and disordered, and I thought that he
would swoon, but he recovered. 'Humphrey, never doubt that I love
you, too. But oh! I love Robin, and Robin loves me.'
'Yes, dear--yes, child--yes, Alice,' he said in broken accents. 'I
understand. Everything is for Robin--everything for Robin. Why, I
might have guessed it! For Robin, the straight and comely figure;
for Robin, the strength; for Robin, the inheritance; for Robin,
happy love. For me, a crooked body; for me, a feeble frame; for me,
the loss of fortune; for me, contempt and poverty; for me, the loss
of love--all for Robin--all for Robin!'
'Humphrey, surely thou wouldst not envy or be jealous of Robin!'
Never had I seen him thus moved, or heard him thus speak.
He made no answer for a while. Then he said, slowly and painfully:--
'Alice, I am ashamed. Why should not Robin have all? Who am I that I
should have anything? Forgive me, child. I have lived in a paradise
which fools create for themselves. I have suffered myself to dream
that what I ardently desired was possible and even probable. Forgive
me. Let me be as before--your brother. Will you forgive me, dear?'
'Oh, Humphrey! there is nothing for me to forgive.'
'Nay, there is much for me to repent of. Forget it then, if there is
nothing to forgive.'
'I have forgotten it already, Humphrey.'
'So'--he turned upon me his grave, sweet face (to think of it makes
me yearn with tenderness and pity)--'so, farewell, fond dream! Do
not think, my dear, that I envy Robin. 'Twas a sweet dream! Yet,
I pray that Heaven in wrath may forget me if ever I suffer this
passion of envy to hurt my cousin Robin or thyself!'
So saying, he burst from me with distraction in his face. Poor
Humphrey! Alas! when I look back and consider this day, there is a
doubt which haunts me. Always had I loved Robin: that is most true.
But I had always loved Humphrey: that is most true. What if it had
been Humphrey instead of Robin who had arisen in the early morning
to find his sweetheart in the garden when the dew was yet upon the
grass?