Some snakes must hiss, because they’re born with stings.
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:--
“Would’st have a friend, would’st know what friend is best?
Have God thy friend, who passeth all the rest.”