Now winde they a recheat, the roused deer’s knell,
And through the forrest all the beasts are aw’d;
Alarm’d by Eccho, Nature’s sentinel,
Which shows that murd’rous man is come abroad.
_Gondibert._
Early in the morning of the day after that on which the rehearsal at
Milverton House was interrupted by the humiliating scene already
recorded, Cuthbert sallied forth, while the first rays of the level
sun were reflected back by glittering dewdrops; and brushing them with
swift steps from his path, crossed the foot-bridge near Guy’s mill,
and was soon lost to view in the woods upon the far side of the Avon.
The mill was already at work, but he lingered not to gaze upon the
rushing waters. His eye glanced at the glad scene, and his ear drank
in the living sound; but the prosy old miller was at his door, and his
daughter stood on the stepping stones below, watching the white
breasted ducks that played in the back current, therefore, with a
short “good morrow,” that waited for no reply, he passed onwards, for
he was bound on an errand of mercy. Although the old body, Margery,
had escaped the persecution of yesterday, there was good ground for
fearing that it would be soon and more cruelly repeated, if she
continued to dwell in her lonely and exposed hovel; and Cuthbert had
found a poor bricklayer from Coventry, who was then employed in
repairing the roof of an outhouse at Milverton, and who had witnessed
the scene of the day before with a true Christian feeling, quite
willing to give the old woman a lodging in the small house in the mean
alley in which he dwelt, for such consideration as Cuthbert was
willing to pay. With this proposal of shelter and security he sought
the wood, in the bosom of which, beneath a sand-stone rock, in a
forsaken pit, was poor Margery’s desolate abode. From the rude clay
chimney, in the blackened thatch, curled a blue wreath of smoke: he
leaned against the rock above, and called to Margery, but there was
no reply. He went down and entered the hut. Upon a low stretcher on a
coarsely plaited mat of straw, dressed in the same rags in which she
walked abroad, she lay fast asleep, and her breathing sounded soft as
that of a child,--a raven with a clipped wing and club-foot hopped
upon the floor, and croaked at the intrusion; but the sound, though
loud, did not awaken her. “I will not fright away a sleep so
friendly,” thought Cuthbert: he went forth again, and seated himself
beneath a stately oak at no great distance. In an open grassy glade
not far off, in front, a few deer were feeding,--the scene around was
peace and beauty,--trees, herbs, beasts of the field and fowls of the
air were declaring the glory and praising the goodness of a present
God. In silent rapture Cuthbert mused his praise; but adoration was
succeeded by a sense of pain,--another scene, another image,
interposed between the sunny objects before him and his mental vision.
The stony desolation of Mount Calvary, and the black sky above, and
the pale and holy forehead with its crown of thorns, came up startling
and apparent, and reminded him that he was the inhabitant of a fallen
world. This solemn turn being given to his thoughts, his mind
reverted, with serious consideration, to the views of that party in
the state which was already designated by the name of Puritans, and
which had been hitherto, and but for the questions of civil liberty
now widely agitated would still have been, a by-word and a reproach
among the people. “It is true,” said he, “a Christian must be a
mourner--he cannot be other than a mourner; but yet, are we not
graciously commanded to serve the Lord with gladness? is the
countenance always to be sad? is there to be no rejoicing in the light
of the sun? Where is the middle ground between these two great parties
in church and state? Why is not a great and overwhelming majority of
moderate men found there to defend the best interests of all?” The
thoughts to which he thus gave utterance would have found a response
in the bosoms of thousands--indeed they were the very sentiments of
his own father; only that good man knew, what Cuthbert was as yet
ignorant of,--a knowledge which he was soon to purchase at the heavy
price of a most bitter and heart-breaking experience. He had yet to
learn that, in times of public commotion, there is no middle path, and
that a party does too often take the colour of the very worst persons
among those who compose it. The cant of the fanatic and the curses of
the cavaliers alike disgusted him. But yet he was of an age when men
will be sanguine about having the world mended according to their
desired pattern; and his heart glowed with the hope that the best men
of the parliament side would in the end triumph over the cold and
severe intolerance of the high church party, would control the power
of the crown, and would effect great and glorious things for the
liberty and the happiness of England. With these sentiments he had a
very difficult card to play at Milverton, for Sir Oliver was a decided
enemy to the party which he secretly approved; and some of the
neighbouring gentlemen, holding the same opinions with the knight,
gave a much coarser expression to them. He had to hold his mouth as
with a bridle in their presence. Among these persons by far the most
obnoxious was Sir Charles Lambert, a gentleman of about
five-and-thirty, related to Sir Oliver, and residing within a few
miles, at Bolton Grange, upon a fine property, with two younger
sisters left dependent on him.
He had been a great deal about the court formerly, and in his youth
had been attached, for a few years, to the retinue of the late Duke of
Buckingham. Not proving of a capacity for public affairs, he had been
thrown back upon country life, without the true refinements of a
courtier, but with all those vices and fopperies, which, in the train
of Buckingham, it was not difficult to acquire. He covered with satin
and musk a heart as brutal and savage as one of his own
hounds,--resembling in nothing that generous and warm race of men the
country gentlemen of England but in a fine person and in a passion for
the chase. Nevertheless he did so conceal from Sir Oliver his true
character, that he was always made welcome at Milverton. In such
thoughts the mind of Cuthbert was tossed about as on a troubled sea;
and from mere weariness he fell into a contemplation of the sweetness
of nature, and the soft manner of her nursing, when we lie still and
passive in her lap, and look upon her face. So long a time had he
lingered in this green haunt, that the sun was three hours high; and
the great clock of Warwick, striking seven, warned him to return home.
Of the small herd in the open glade a few were still grazing,--others,
and a noble hart among them, lay in perfect repose: but, suddenly,
every neck was raised and turned--the ears stood erect--the nostrils
distended and closed--the eyes dilated--and then, as by accord, they
all stole slowly off to the rocky and difficult ground above them. He
looked around, and could see nothing to alarm them; but, in the same
instant, the blast of a distant hunting horn came up faint on the
wind: the sound was again heard nearer; and the loud voice of dogs in
concert, shrill yet deep, made the woods echo with notes that silenced
every bird, and drove away all the panting creatures from their lairs.
Yet was it a gallant sight--a sight to stir the blood--as within some
twenty yards of the tree under which Cuthbert stood, the chase in
full career swept by:--with antlers well thrown back, in its last
staggering speed, came a blown stag, with a stanch hound so close upon
its flank, you looked to see the fine creature torn down instantly;
not far behind, two leash of dogs were hanging on its track, their
mouths loud opening for prey:--with shouts of joy, and pace
precipitate, the huntsmen followed,--a small but eager band on gallant
steeds all foaming at the mouth, and stained with sweat. Swift as a
vision of the night they passed, and from beyond a swell of ground in
front a winding horn sent forth the well known mort. Cuthbert,
naturally excited, ran to a knoll before him, which might command the
country beyond. On the side of an open slope, at some considerable
distance, he saw the last act of the death. The lifted knife, all red
and reeking, was in the hand of a stranger of noble presence, by whose
side stood Sir Charles Lambert. The lordly game lay stretched upon the
ground, and near, with lolling tongues and panting sides, the hounds
lay gasping as for life. The riders were all dismounted, and their
horses, with drooping heads and their hind quarters sunk and
contracted, stood stiff and motionless beside them. By the loud and
exulting voices of the sportsmen you might know that the run had been
severe; two or three lagging horsemen were seen coming up in their
track; and by a cross path, just above the spot where the stag was
killed, two foresters on foot burst down at the top of their speed,
and joined the group that now more closely surrounded the noble game.
The sound had brought out all the household at Milverton, from whence
the slope was plainly to be seen. The boy Arthur, with some of the
serving-men, ran down the pathway towards Guy’s mill, while Cuthbert
could discern Sir Oliver standing out on the terrace, and Mistress
Katharine by his side, with a loose white kerchief thrown over her
head, to keep off the rays of the sun, which were already powerful.
The hunters now sounded the relief, and waved their caps towards
Milverton; intimating, by that note and action, that they would claim
the hospitality of the mansion; and then, leading their tired horses
by the bridle, they proceeded thither by the mill. Cuthbert, unseen
himself, watched all their motions; and when they had disappeared
within the gates of Milverton, and all below and around him was again
still, he turned, with a dead and jaded interest, towards the
sand-pit. Upon the edge of it, near the rock, he saw the bent figure
of Margery, as if in the act of listening; and as she raised her head,
and observed him walking to the spot, she hastily disappeared below.
He stepped quickly after her; but the door was already barred; and
when he knocked and called to her, the hoarse croak of the raven was
the sole reply. He rapped more loudly,--still the same voice of ill
omen replied; but as he persisted, and said words to re-assure her,
the door was slowly opened, and the withered tenant of the pit
appeared.
“Is it you, young master?” said Margery; “and are you alone, and is
there no hunter with you?”
“There is no one with me,” he replied: “the hunters have gone over the
river.”
“That’s well, that’s well, master: a hunting day, if the game takes
this way, is ever an ill day with me. They that be cowards alone, are
bold in merry company; and I have had a whip on my old shoulders, and
the dogs hounded on me before now, if any thing crossed their sport.
Three years ago, last fall, when his best hound, Bevis, was killed in
the hollow yonder, nothing would serve the turn of Sir Charles but to
float my poor old carcass across the river, and to weigh me against
the church Bible! But he hath had many a sleepless night for that; and
bold as he looks by day, the ticking of a death-watch will keep him
shivering in his bed.”
“What do you mean, Margery? The folk may well think you a witch for
words such as these.”
“Why, I mean,” said the old woman wilfully and spitefully, “that I
never wished ill to any one, but ill came upon ’em.”
“Had I thought this of you yesterday, I should have been slow to ask
any one to give you house room; but you are God’s creature, and have
been crossed with ill usage; and when you find yourself beneath the
roof of a Christian, safe from all enemies, your heart will melt, and
you will taste God’s peace yourself, and wish it to others. I have
found a good man, that lives in Croft’s Alley in Coventry, and he will
give you a chamber and a chimney corner, and kind words, and a stout
arm to protect you; and when we get you safe there your thoughts will
be quiet.”
“Hout-tout! what talk ye about Alley and a chimney corner? haven’t I
my own ingle, and my own ways, and my own company? What voice more
pleasant to me than those I heard when I was young, and hear still?
What’ll take better care of me than that old bird? Few there be that
don’t shun to pass close by this hut; and they that come to it step
swiftly back again. I was told, with a curse, that I might not live
any where else, many years ago; and here I shall stop till my old
bones crumble.”
“Why, mother, why, you might starve here if you were taken ill, and
none to help you.”
“Well, death is but death, let it come how it will.”
“But hunger is a bad death; and besides, are you not in constant
danger of being taken up, and losing your life for a witch? Why, this
bird that you keep, and your words and ways, will surely bring you to
the stake one of these days.”
“Let the day come, if it is to come; and as to dying of hunger, where,
think you, do the foxes die? and where do the birds of the air die?
Why, they that escape the hounds die in their holes; and they that the
bird-bolt misses find a dying place in some nest or corner. Go your
way, young master! I am no tame rabbit, to be kept in a town hutch,
and tormented by children. I don’t want to be led to church, and hear
the parson’s jabber about my old soul.”
“Do not utter such wickedness, unhappy woman. It were charity to think
you crazed, and take you into safe keeping against your will.”
At this the old woman gave a shriek of passion, fitful as that of a
thwarted child, and then, suddenly overcome by fear, fell upon her
aged knees, and lifted and joined her withered hands, and implored
Cuthbert, with wild earnestness, never to have her moved.
“Look you, young master, winter and summer, here I have watched and
waked these many years. It’s a small matter of meal that makes my
porridge;--some give it for pity, and some give it for fear. There’s
no lack of rotten sticks to keep me warm: yonder spring is never dry;
and it’s free I am to go and to come, and nothing here to flout or to
fret me: the deer and the kine take no count of me--the pretty
creatures don’t fear me; and it’s not all the world calling me witch
that will make them. That place is best we think best. Oh, for the
love of God, master, let me alone--let me rot where I am.”
Cuthbert’s mind was in an agony of prayer; but his tongue clave to the
roof of his mouth. He would have said much; but he could speak
nothing. He gave her alms; and telling her that he would do nothing
against her will--nothing to make her unhappy, but that he would come
and see her again--he raised her from her knees, and went upon his way
homewards.
“My father would not thus have left her,” was his first thought. “He
would have found some way to break into her heart. Strange
world--strange thing this human life! This old solitary miserable has
been wrapped in swaddling clothes, even as others--has been suckled at
a human breast--has grasped, with tiny hand, a father’s finger--and
been kissed, and muched; and now, she has survived all kindred--lost
all defence of strength or money--hath none of wisdom, and because her
back is crooked, and nose and chin have come well nigh together, she
has been hunted from her kind, and dwells apart. As God is love,--and
that he is I cannot doubt and live,--this is a mystery! It’s a skein
so much entangled that my poor wit can not unwind it.”
Muttering to himself these wayward fancies, he hurried back to
Milverton as to his heart’s home. There he could see sunlight upon the
earth, and feel warm in the comfort of it. Nor in his then mood was he
sorry that the guest chambers would be full: he wished a day of
cheerful cups, and pleasant voices, and music. Thus absorbed, he
reached the mill, and passed it as swiftly as in the morning.
“There he goes,” said the old miller, speaking to his daughter, who
was spreading out some linen to bleach--“There he goes, as shy as a
hare, and as fast as if he were making for his form. I never gets a
bit of chat with him. He’s not much for company.”
“Why, father,” replied the girl, coming upon the pathway, “he’s a
scholar, you know, and that’s the fashion of them, you know.”
“Well, it’s a bad fashion to go poking about the woods as lonesome as
a stray mule; no good comes of those crazy fashions. I like an open
face, and an open hand, and a free tongue.”
“Eh! he can talk fast enough, I’ll warrant me, if he had a sweetheart
to talk to.”
“He talk to a sweetheart! She must be a poor silly body that would
listen. There are merry men and merry hearts enough in old England for
the lasses to choose from, without giving ear to such as he.”
“Well, they give him kind words at the Hall,--and they say he’s always
more for good than harm; and I find him pleasant spoken enough when he
comes to angle in the mill-pool.”
“There it is! I can never make him say a dozen words, black or white;
now Parson Mullins will chat free for an hour on, and tosses you off a
pot of ale with good words and good will. Why, he and I have smoked
many a pipe together; and he’s a clerk, and a rare scholar too. He
doesn’t give you ignorant stuff o’ Sundays; but Latin, and Greek, and
all the best that he has learned at college. That’s the man for my
money.”
“Well, father, for the matter o’ that, I like to know what folk are
saying; and it might be gipsy language for all you or I are the
wiser.”
“I know where you got that lesson, Miss Pert; that’s what the old
Puritan pedlar said the other day,--rot him! he shall take seat on the
old wive’s ducking-stool if he comes this way again.”
“I am sure he was a quiet civil man; and you have not had a better
piece of linen, or a cheaper, than he sold us, this many a year.”
“Hang his linen, and him too!” rejoined the sturdy old miller. “I
didn’t like the cut of his black head;” and with that he passed into
the mill, and the girl went towards the dwelling.
While this dialogue was passing, Cuthbert Noble was rapidly ascending
the path, which rose gently over a swelling field of luxuriant grass,
to Milverton. Certainly there was much about Cuthbert to excuse the
prejudice of the miller. He was of low stature, with a long visage and
grave aspect; and there was a peculiar expression of his eye, which
disturbed or repelled those who saw him for a first time, or who saw
him not at his ease; but to those whom, upon a nearer acquaintance,
he liked, his dark eye beamed with light; the expression about his
mouth was humane and gentle; his voice was low, and rather tremulous
before strangers; he never laughed, and seldom smiled, save with his
eyes, which gave quick and lively response to whatever pleased him.
Though, in his first manhood, he was not without a knowledge of life
and of the human heart, for his reading had been extensive; and he had
that felicity of apprehension, by which the lessons of books are most
happily caught, and most easily applied to the heart’s daily wants.
Moreover, he had all those graces of persuasion by which a pupil is
best won upon and encouraged to climb the steep hill of fame. More
happily placed he could not have been than in the family of Sir Oliver
Heywood, but for one circumstance--he was too happy. A fear lay
beating in his bosom. He dared not confess to himself the strange, yet
deep, sentiments of admiration with which he regarded the daughter of
the worthy knight. He would fain persuade himself that it was nothing
but an emotion of gratitude to Mistress Katharine for that generous
courtesy which would not suffer a scholar of gentle birth to want such
attention and respect as she might delicately pay to him. Here,
however, his wisdom was at fault. In vain had books taught him the
misery of misplaced affections. He was launching out upon an unknown
sea that has no shore.