THE VISION OF CONSOLATION.
I ran so fast, being then young and strong, that Benjamin, I am
sure, could not have overtaken me had he tried, because he was
already gross of body and short of breath in consequence of his
tippling. I have since heard that he did not follow me, nor did he
dare to push aside his father. But he laughed and said, 'Let her
run; let her run. I warrant I shall find her and bring her back;'
thinking, I suppose, that I had run from him as a girl in play runs
from her companions. I ran also so long, fear lending me strength,
that the sun was getting even into the afternoon before I ventured
to stop. I looked round from time to time, but saw no one following
me. I do not remember by what road, track, or path I went: pasture
fields and plantations I remember; twice I crossed a stream on
stepping-stones; once I saw before me a village with a church tower;
but this I avoided for fear of the people. When I ventured to stop,
I was in a truly wild and desolate country--our county of Somerset
hath in it many such wild places, given over to forests, fern, and
heather. Presently I remembered the place, though one forest is
much like another, and I knew that I had been in this part before,
on that day when we rode from Lyme to Taunton, and again on the day
when we walked prisoners with the soldiers to Ilminster. I was on
the Black Down Hills again.
When, therefore, I understood where I was, I began to recover a
little from the first horror which had driven me to fly like one
possessed of an evil spirit; and, seeing that no one was in pursuit,
I began to collect my senses and to ask myself whither I was
going, and what I should do. I was then near that ancient inclosure
called Castle Ratch, from whose walls one looks down upon the broad
vale of Taunton Dean. In the distance, I thought I could discern
the great tower of St. Mary's Church: but perhaps that was only
my imagination. I sat down, therefore, upon the turf under these
ancient walls, and set myself to consider my condition, which was
indeed forlorn.
First, I had no friends or protectors left in the whole world,
because after what I had done I could never look upon Robin or even
Humphrey again; nor could I importune Madam, because she would not
anger her son (I represented him in my mind as most unforgiving);
nor could I seek the help of Mr. Boscorel, because that might help
his son to find me out, and everybody knows that a husband may
command the obedience of his wife. And Sir Christopher was dead, and
my father was dead, and my mother was dead, and I could not even
weep beside their coffins or follow their bodies to the grave. A
woman without friends in this world is like unto a traveller in a
sandy desert without a bottle of water.
Yet was I so far better than some of these poor friendless
creatures, because I had, concealed upon me, a bag containing
all the money which Barnaby had given me--two hundred and fifty
gold pieces--save a little which we had expended at Taunton and
Ilminster. This is a great sum, and by its help I could, I thought
with satisfaction, live for a long time, perhaps all my life, if I
could find some safe retreat among godly people.
No friends? Why, there was Susan Blake of Taunton--she who walked
with the Maids when they gave Monmouth the Bible, the sword, and
the flags. I resolved that I would go to her and tell her all that
had happened. Out of her kindness she would take me in and help
me to find some safe hiding-place and perhaps some honest way of
living, so as to save his money against Barnaby's return from the
Plantations.
Then I thought I would find out the valley where we had lived for
a fortnight, and rest for one night in the hut, and in the early
morning before daybreak walk down the comb and so into Taunton while
as yet the town was still sleeping. And this I did. It was very easy
to find the head of the comb and the source of the stream, where we
had made our encampment. Close by, beneath the trees, was Barnaby's
hut: no one had been there to disturb or destroy it; but the leaves
upon the boughs which formed its sides were now dead. Within it the
fern and the heath which had formed my bed were still dry. Outside,
the pot hung over the black embers of our last fire; and, to my
great joy, in the basket which had contained our provisions I found
a large crust of bread. It was, to be sure, dry and hard; but I
dipped it in the running water of the stream and made my supper with
it. For dessert I had blackberries, which were by this time ripe,
and are nowhere bigger or sweeter than on Black Down. There were
also filberts and nuts, now ripe, of which I gathered a quantity, so
that I had breakfast provided for me, as well as supper.
When I had done this, I was so tired and my head was so giddy with
the terror of the day, that I lay down upon the fern in the hut and
there fell fast asleep and so continued until far into the night.
Now, in my sleep a strange thing happened unto me. For my own part,
I account it nothing less than a Vision granted unto me by mercy
and special grace of Heaven. Those who read of it may call it what
they please. It was in this wise. There appeared before my sleeping
eyes (but they seemed wide open), as it were, a broad and open
champaign; presently there came running across the plain in great
terror, shrieking and holding her hands aloft, a girl, whose face at
first I could not see. She ran in this haste and terrible anguish
of fear because there followed after her a troop of dogs, barking
and yelping. Behind the dogs rode on horseback one whose face I saw
not any more than that of the girl. He cursed and swore (I knew the
voice, but could not tell, being in a dream, to whom it belonged),
and cracked a horrid whip and encouraged the dogs, lashing the
laggards. In his eyes (though his face was in some kind of shadow)
there was such a look as I remembered in Benjamin's when he put the
ring upon my finger--a look of resolute and hungry wickedness, which
made me tremble and shake.
Now, as I looked, the dogs still gained upon her who ran, and yelped
as if in a few moments they would spring upon her and tear her flesh
from her bones. Then suddenly, between her who ran and those who
pursued, there arose an awful form. He was clad in white, and in his
hand he bore a sword, and he turned upon that hunter a face filled
with wrath. Lightnings shot from his eyes and a cloud of thunder
lay upon his brow. At the sight of that face the dogs stopped in
their running, cowered, and fell dead. And at the dreadful aspect of
that face the hunter's horse fell headlong, and his rider, falling
also with a shriek of terror, broke his neck, and so lay prostrate
and dead. Then this dreadful minister of God's wrath turned from
him to the flying figure, and lo! his face was now transformed; his
eyes became soft and full of love; he smiled graciously; a crown of
glory was upon his head; white robes flowed downward to his feet;
his fiery sword was a palm branch: he was the Angel of Consolation.
'Have no more fear,' he said, 'though the waves of the sea rise
up against thee and the winds threaten to drown thee in the deep.
Among the ungodly and the violent thou shalt be safe; in all times
of peril the Lord will uphold thee; earthly joy shall be thine. Be
steadfast unto the end.'
And then I looked again, those blessed words ringing in my ears; and
behold! I saw then, which I had not seen before, that the flying
figure was none other than myself; that he who cruelly hunted after
with the dogs and the whip was none other than my husband; and
that the Angel of Wrath, who became the Angel of Consolation, was
none other than my father himself! But he was glorified! Oh! the
face was his face--that, anyone could see; but it was changed into
something--I know not what--so far brighter and sweeter than the
earthly face, that I marvelled! Then the Vision disappeared, and I
awoke.
So bright and clear had it been that I seemed to see it still,
though I was sitting up with my eyes open, and it was night. Then it
slowly vanished. Henceforth, however, I was assured of two things:
first, that no harm would happen unto me, but that I should be
protected from the malice of my enemies, whatever they might design
(indeed, I had but one enemy--to wit, the man who had that morning
sworn to love and cherish me); and next, that I had seen with mortal
eyes what, indeed, hath been vouchsafed to few, the actual spiritual
body--the glorified body, like to the earthly, but changed--with
which the souls of the Elect are clothed.
So I arose now without the least fear. It was night; but in the East
there showed the first grey of the dawn, and the birds were already
beginning to twitter as if they were dreaming of the day. The wind
was fresh, and I was lightly clad, but the splendour of the Vision
made me forget the cold. Oh! I had received a voice from heaven! How
could I henceforth fear anything? Nay, there was no room even for
grief, though those terrible things had fallen upon me, and I was
now alone and friendless, and the world is full of ungodly men.
It must have been about half-past four in the morning. It grew
light quickly, so that not only the trees became visible, but the
black depths between them changed into glades and underwood, and
I could see my way down the comb beside the stream. Then, without
waiting for the sun to rise (which he presently did in great warmth
and splendour), I started, hoping to get into Taunton before the
people were up and the streets became crowded. But I did not know
the distance, which must have been seven miles at least, because it
was nearly eight o'clock when I reached the town, having followed
the course of the stream through three villages, which I have since
learned must have been those of Pitminster, Trull, and Wilton.
It was market day, and the streets were full of country people--some
of them farmers with bags of corn in their hands, going to the
corn-market, and some with carts full of fresh fruit and other
things. Their faces were heavy and sad, and they talked in whispers
as if they were afraid. They had, indeed, good cause for fear; for
the prison held over five hundred unfortunate men waiting for their
trial, and the terrible Judge was already on his way with his carts
filled with more prisoners rumbling after him. Already Colonel Kirke
had caused I know not how many to be hanged, and the reports of what
had been done at Dorchester and Exeter sufficiently prepared the
minds of the wretched prisoners at Taunton for what was about to
be done there. Among them was the unfortunate Captain Hucker, the
Serge-Maker, who had looked for a Peerage, and was now to receive a
halter. There was also among them that poor man, Mr. Simon Hamlyn,
who was hanged only for riding into Taunton in order to dissuade
his son from joining Monmouth. This the Mayor of Taunton pointed
out to the bloodthirsty Judge; but in vain. The whole five hundred
prisoners were, in the end, sentenced to death; and one hundred and
forty-five actually suffered, to the great indignation of those who
looked on, even of the King's party. Nay, at one of the executions,
when nineteen were hanged at the same time, and a great fire was
made so that the sufferers might actually see before their death
the fire that was to burn their bowels, the very soldiers wept,
saying that it was so sad a thing they scarce knew how to bear it.
Three years later, the hard heart of the King met with its proper
punishment.
The soldiers were among the crowd, some leaning against bulkheads,
some drinking at the ale-houses, some haggling for the fruit; some
were also exercising upon Castle Green. They looked good-natured,
and showed in their faces none of the cruelty and rage which
belonged to their officers. But what a doleful change from the time
when Monmouth's soldiers filled the town, and all hearts were full
of joy, and every face shone with happiness! What a change, indeed!
As I passed among the crowd, one caught me by the arm. It was a
little old woman, her face all wrinkled and puckered. She was
sitting on a stool beside a great basketful of apples and plums, and
a short pipe of tobacco within her lips.
'Mistress,' she whispered, taking the pipe from her mouth. 'Thou
wert with the Maids the day of the Flags: I remember thy pretty
face. What dost thou here abroad among the people? The air of
Taunton town is unwholesome! There may be others who will remember
thee as well as I. Take an old woman's advice, and get thee gone.
How fares it with thy father, the worthy Dr. Eykin?'
'Alas!' I said, 'he died in Ilminster Jail.'
''Tis pity. But he was old and pious: he hath gone to glory. Whither
will those poor lads in the Clink go when they are hanged? Get thee
gone, get thee gone! The air is already foul with dead men's bodies:
they tell strange stories of what hath been done by women for the
safety of their brothers. Get thee gone, pretty maid, lest something
worse than prison happen to thee. And Judge Jeffreys is coming
hither like the Devil, having much wrath.'
I could not tell her that nothing would happen to me, because I was
protected by a Heavenly Guard.
'I was in the town forty years agone,' the old woman went on, 'when
Blake defended it, and we were well-nigh starved. But never have I
seen such things as have been done here since the Duke was routed.
Get thee gone!--haste away, as from the mouth of Hell!--get thee
gone, poor child!'
[Illustration: '_As I passed through the crowd, one caught me by the
arm._']
So I left her, and went on my way, hanging my head, in hopes that
no one else would recognise me. Fortunately, no one did, though I
saw many faces which I had seen in the town before. They were then
tossing their caps and shouting for Monmouth, but were now gloomily
whispering, as if every man feared that his own turn would come
next. Over the great gateway of the Castle was stuck up a high row
of heads, arms, and legs of rebels blackened with pitch--a horrid
sight. Unto this end had come those brave fellows who went forth
to dethrone the King. No one noticed or accosted me, and I arrived
safely at Susan's house. The door seemed shut, but when I pushed
I found that it was open--the lock having been broken from its
fastening. Barnaby did that, I remembered. I went in shutting it,
after me. No doubt Susan was with her children in the schoolroom.
Strange that she should not repair her lock, and that at a time when
the town was full of soldiers, who always carry with them their
riotous and lawless followers. 'Twas unlike her orderly housekeeping.
There was no one in the back parlour, where Susan commonly took her
meals and conducted the morning and evening prayers. The dishes were
on the table, as if of last night's supper or yesterday's dinner.
This was, also, unlike a tidy housewife. I opened the door of the
front parlour. Though it was already past the hour for school, there
were no children in the room; the lesson-books and copying-books
and slates lay about the floor. What did this untidy litter mean?
Then I went up-stairs and into the bedrooms, of which there were
three--namely, two on the floor above, and one a garret. No one was
in them, and the beds had not been made. There remained only the
kitchen. No one was there. The house was quite empty; I observed
also that the garden, which was wont to be kept with the greatest
neatness, now looked neglected; the ripe plums were dropping from
the branches trained upon the wall; the apples lay upon the grass;
the flower-beds were cumbered with weeds; grass grew in the walks;
the lawn, which had been so neat and trim, was covered with long
grass.
What had happened? Where was Susan? Then I seemed to hear her voice
above thanking God for the victory, as she had done when Barnaby
burst in upon us; and methought I heard her singing a hymn with the
children, as she had done while we all sat embroidering the Flags.
Oh! the pretty Flags! And oh! the pretty sight of the innocents in
white and blue carrying those Flags! The house was filled with the
sounds of bygone happiness. Had I stayed another moment I am certain
that I should have seen the ghosts of those who filled the rooms in
the happy days when the army was in the town. But I did not stay.
Not knowing what to do or whither to fly, I ran quickly out of the
house, thinking only to get away from the mournful silence of the
empty and deserted rooms. Then, as I stepped into the street, I met,
face to face, none other than Mr. George Penne, the kind-hearted
gentleman who had compassionated the prisoners at Ilminster.