In thee, faire mansion, let it rest,
Yet know, with what thou art possest;
Thou entertaining in thy brest
But such a mind, mak’st God thy guest.
BEN JONSON.
What time the primroses were beginning to spread palely over the green
and sunny banks in the neighbourhood of Milverton House, in the spring
of 1642, the grimed armourers of England were busy in their smoky
workshops; and there was no hall in the land, whether private or
civic, in which the arms were not taken down from the walls and put in
order. Every where notes of preparation were heard, and eyes of
settled resolve might be seen.
The House of Commons had petitioned the King for the militia, and they
were already active in raising men. Sir Oliver Heywood, refusing to
act in this matter, resigned his office of magistrate and justice of
the peace, and took a decided part for the King. But although he had
good will to the royal cause, and spoke his sentiments loudly and
bitterly, although he was ready to make some personal exertions and
some pecuniary sacrifices for his party, he was, as has been observed
before, an indolent, self-indulgent old gentleman, a lover of ease and
of his own way; methodical in all his habits, and obstinate in all his
prejudices. The frequent visits of those hard and active men of
business, who were employed to forward the royal cause by negotiating
with all the Cavalier gentry for supplies of men and money, before the
commission of array was actually issued, disturbed him sadly, and his
temper became very irritable. Sir Charles Lambert had been long
re-established in his good graces, and to the deep sorrow of Katharine
had become once more a constant guest at Milverton. It is true that a
great improvement had apparently taken place in his outward conduct,
but Katharine disliked, mistrusted, feared him. She saw that he again
entertained hopes of accomplishing his purposes upon her weak father,
and of thus obtaining possession of her hand in marriage. It was an
inconceivable mystery to her that any human being should desire to be
united to another, when aware that his very touch was evaded with a
shudder, and that from his gaze the face was averted with loathing.
Some changes had taken place at the Hall within the last year, which
had glided away with the swiftness of a shadow. In the January
immediately preceding the season of which we are now writing, Mistress
Alice had been summoned by that call, which, sooner or later, all must
obey, and laid in a peaceful grave:--the snows that fell upon it were
not more pure and spotless than had been her kind and innocent life,
and her dissolution had been as gentle and as soft as their quick and
silent melting.
The family and household were still in their mourning for her; and had
any stranger gazed upon Katharine Heywood, as in her sad robes of
black she paced the terrace alone with slow and thoughtful steps, he
would have wept for sympathy, and deemed her one of those silent
mourners for the dead who refuse to be comforted, and cherish the
sweet memory of a vanished image; but it was far otherwise,--her
griefs were those of doubt and apprehension about the living. If ever
a glance of the mind looked after the departed Alice, it did so with
affection and complacency; with a calm joy that she was taken from the
evil to come, and with an envy of her quiet tomb. But such movements
of impatience at the difficulties of her path and the dreariness of
that waste which lay before her in her appointed pilgrimage were never
of any long continuance. She knew them to be wicked, and she knew them
to be vain: she wore divine and secret armour, and she neither fled
nor fainted in her hours of trial. The occasional, though less
frequent, visits of George Juxon were a great relief to her,--and Jane
Lambert continued to be her constant friend and beloved companion.
Over the character of Jane there had come a change, which, though at
times it was viewed with serious anxiety by Katharine, did upon the
whole suit far better with those habits of her own soul which care
had begotten.
Jane Lambert’s eyes, which were used to be lighted up with bright and
joyous expression, and a certain lively and winning archness, did now
often fill with unbidden tears, or were fixed gravely upon vacancy.
One day, as the friends were walking together in a silent mood, the
hand of Katharine resting gently upon the shoulder of Jane, and their
steps slow as those of vestals in their groves, Juxon came suddenly
upon them in their path; and so deep was the abstraction of both, that
he was not seen of either till they met closely.
“I am sorry,” he observed, “to break the spell by which you are both
bound, but I could not turn back, for I have business with Sir Oliver;
however, it was to all seeming a spell so black and melancholy that
perhaps it is better broken.”
“It is a good omen for us that it is broken by you, Master Juxon, for
you are always a prophet of good, and misfortune never makes choice of
such a messenger,” said Katharine, with an effort at cheerfulness.
Jane, too, suddenly recollecting herself, endeavoured to put on a
careless smile, of welcome, but the effort failed her, and she burst
into a flood of tears.
Juxon, distressed and affected by the sight, made no reply to
Katharine, but stood rivetted to the spot, hesitating whether he
should proceed towards the house, and leave Jane to recover herself
under the care of her friend, or whether he should remain to render
what service he could, by diverting and calming a sorrow, the secret
cause of which he fancied that he knew.
Meanwhile, Katharine pressed Jane to her heart, and, covering her from
observation, as though she were a child, said, “This is the natural
effect of a night without sleep, and a nervous headache: it will do
her good; you need not stay with us; we shall do very well, and Jane
will be all the brighter for it at supper. You will find my father in
the vineyard.”
Jane, however, in part relieved by these tears, quickly raised her
head, and, with one of her most natural smiles dimpling her wet
cheeks, said, “Pray do not let me drive you away: this is just
nothing at all but what my old nurse used to call the mopes and the
megrims: there, it is all over; that’s one advantage we women have
over you lords of the creation; that is, such of us as are not
heroines, which I shall never be for one: we may now and then have a
good cry; and, take my word for it, it is a fine cure for all
nonsenses,--another favourite noun plural of my dear old nurse when I
was little and naughty.” This flash of affected gaiety did only light
up her features, however, for a passing moment, and ere her few words
were uttered an air of extreme depression returned upon her.
“Nay, Mistress Jane,” said Juxon, “these are no child’s tears, neither
are they fantastical like the melancholy of your fine lady: the
fountain of them is deeper than any of these; you are unhappy. Here,
before your noble friend, I must say that I have seen this for a long
time: for more than a year I have witnessed with deep pain your
altered manners and your failing health. Tell her the sad cause of
your trouble; pour out your heart to her; she will safely advise and
surely comfort you.”
“Really, Master Juxon,” replied Jane, “you are a very strange person;
and when you take a fancy into your head you are like good Sir Oliver,
and truth would not drive it out again, though spoken by an angel,
therefore a poor silly girl like me may not make the attempt.”
“For that matter, lady, you can look and speak persuasively as ever
angel did: where do you hide your wings?”
“Wings!--well, really now, if I were a court lady instead of a rustic,
and had that magic mirror that hides all freckles, and gives every
body that looks into it the face of a beauty, that fine compliment
would win my heart; but as it is, I must e’en be content to walk the
earth on two serviceable feet; on which I shall very soon run from
your words and looks, if you do not speak about a more entertaining
subject than me and my megrims.”
The gravity of her eyes contradicted the gaiety of her lips, as she
thus spoke; and the unuttered wish in the deep recesses of her heart
was, “Oh that I had the wings of a dove, that I might flee away, and
be at rest!”
Juxon looked upon her, for a moment, with a tender manly expression of
countenance, in which were blended respectful pity and warm
admiration; then turning to Katharine, he changed the subject, and
diverted all further attention from Jane by telling the former upon
what matter he was seeking Sir Oliver.
“I have just received a letter,” said he, “from Oxford, from that fine
youth Arthur: it is both conceived and expressed in a spirit worthy
the days of chivalry and of a man of mature age. He desires me to urge
upon Sir Oliver his brave request, which is, that he may be permitted
to come down instantly and take the field with whatever men Sir Oliver
can raise for the King’s service. He says that it is useless to compel
him to remain at the University and pursue his studies in the present
distracted state of public affairs, and that his age is not younger
than that at which many a person renowned in history has appeared in
arms for his country. The reason, it seems, of his preferring this
request through me is, that he has been sharply reprimanded by Sir
Oliver for even thinking of it; for he has already decided to place
all the horsemen which he can raise under Sir Charles Lambert. Arthur
truly observes, that as the infirmities of Sir Oliver now forbid his
going to camp himself, it is right that a representative of his name
should ride at the head of his tenants and yeomen; and that, although
too young for a responsible charge, he can at least share their
danger, and set a good example of devotion to the King’s service. That
he is quite willing to be under the command of Sir Charles Lambert;
but that, if his present wish is refused, he will, at the risk of the
worthy knight’s displeasure, join the banner of the lords Falkland or
Carnarvon as a simple volunteer.”
To this statement Katharine listened with a generous admiration of the
gallant boy, and a hearty approval of his conduct; moreover, she felt
that, by this arrangement, she should have a young protector, not only
for the family, but whom she could depend upon as a shield from the
dreaded importunities of Sir Charles, and whose presence would take
away one of her father’s excuses for urging upon her an abhorred
connection. Of Arthur’s conduct and character she felt sure: he looked
up to her with the reverence of a son and the affection of a brother;
and though her heart beat with a regretted fondness for another
Heywood, a cousin separated from her by fate and fortune, towards this
youth Arthur she entertained the composed and quiet affection of a
young mother or an elder sister; therefore she rejoiced at the
prospect of his return to Milverton, and promised to say every thing
to her father which could move him to consent to this proposal.
Juxon now left the ladies, and walked on at a faster pace towards the
house.
As soon as he was out of hearing, Katharine took Jane by the hand, and
looking steadfastly into her face, said,--
“My dear, dear friend, it is the privilege of friendship, and it is
the enjoined duty of Christians, to weep with those that weep:--Juxon
is right--you are unhappy--some secret sorrow is devouring your
inward peace--reveal it to me.”
“Nay, Katharine, urge me not:--every heart knoweth its own
bitterness--to every one is appointed some inward cross, which is
better borne in silence.”
“Yet the sympathy of a friend is as a balm to the wounded spirit--a
balm, Jane, which you have often poured gently and sweetly into mine,
to the refreshment of my soul and the comfort of my aching
heart;--besides, Jane, we must not let our private and inward griefs
prey upon and consume our vital strength at a period like the
present:--great trials are coming upon us, and severe duties will soon
demand all our energies.”
“I know it, beloved Katharine,--and by your side I can meet them all.
You are to me, all things: I have nothing on earth but you to whom I
can cling: the stream of my heart would run to waste if it might not
flow forth on you.”
“Hush! beloved,--hush!--these words are vain,”--and pointing to the
blue sky and the fleecy clouds above them, Katharine silently
conveyed to Jane her soft reproof and gentle admonition.
“I know all that you would say to me,” answered the mournful girl;
“but, when all is said, how much of our present being must ever remain
a mystery--sunbeams shine upon our heads, and violets spring beneath
our feet--and yet, Kate, the world which this God of love hath created
is a scene of misery--you know it is. What have you ever done that
your brow should be clouded with sorrow, and your cheek blanched by
care----”
“Stop, Jane; for your life, not another word like this:--‘they build
too low who build below the sky:’--a curse is on this earth--a
recorded curse--we may not, must not, cannot make a heaven of it:--it
is our school, our place of discipline--the infancy of our
existence:--what have any of us done, or what can any of us do, that
so many countless blessings should be poured upon us? that we should
be invited and taught to acquaint ourselves with that Holy One, by
whom came truth, pardon, and peace--through whom we may win an
entrance to that heavenly city, where ‘all tears shall be wiped from
all faces?’”
A light of hope beamed in her serious eyes as thus she spoke, and Jane
beheld it with reverence. The friends walked slowly back towards the
house--there was a long pause in their discourse. It was broken by
Jane asking, “You surely admit, dear cousin, that there is a vast
difference in the fortunes and the trials of mankind?”
“The seeming difference is vast, but not perhaps the real:--we see
only the outward aspect of suffering and of prosperity--but the cup of
life is mixed.”
“Surely to many, who are prosperous and happy, few trials are
appointed:--they are pleasant in their lives, and honoured in their
deaths; they appear even upon earth to be the favourites of Heaven.”
“If truly such, my love, their portion in this life will be little
thought of; for they will know that in the bosom of Abraham the
Lazarus of this world has his high place of honour as of comfort, and
that the fashion of this world passeth away; nay, before the great
change comes, one turn of the wheel may bring the loftiest fortunes to
the dust, and crush them beneath it; even now, do we not see and hear
the preparations of war?”
“There, again, Katharine,--how can we reconcile with the power of a
God of love the existence of so dark and terrible a curse as war?”
“It is but one of many forms of death.”
“But the miseries in its violent and bloody path----”
“Are not so great as those of pestilence, or famine, or the
hurricane.”
“Well, Katharine, why pestilence, or famine, or hurricane?--_why
death?_--and _whence sin?_”
“Jane, we know not now--we shall know hereafter; let us not perplex
ourselves with doubts and inquiries which none can solve; the origin
of evil lies hidden from our eyes; it is a deep thing--enough for us
that the Divine champion hath triumphed over sin--hath plucked the
sting from death--and victory from the grave:--in and through him we
may all be conquerors.”
“And can they so conquer if they be not followers of the Lamb?--and
may the followers of the Lamb fight and shed each other’s blood in
battle?”
“It is sad, very sad,” rejoined Katharine, with a shudder of her whole
frame: “it seems a stern necessity in the condition of all the
kingdoms of this world that they should be defended by the sword. Good
men, great men, the holiest servants of Heaven have wielded earthly
arms, and the weapons of death:--with his sword and with his bow the
father of the faithful led his own household to the combat,--and the
virtues of the warrior are the chosen illustrations of those required
in the secret conflicts of the Christian.”
“I know it, Katharine--and that to the spirit of Christian children
there must be joined the courage of sacred warriors. Alas! for me--my
heart faints within me--my mind is confused:--I wish I were a man, for
then, in the excitement of these struggles, I could escape those of
the closet.”
“To suffer, Jane, requires a more enduring courage than to act; and in
patient suffering the high constancy of woman’s mind hath ever shone
most purely:--for the wives of England bitter trials are coming--ours
will be light to theirs; and yours, dear girl, as you well know, less
heavy than even mine.”
“Katharine, you do not know my trial, or you would not speak
thus:--not a faithful and suffering wife in all England but I shall
envy her the sweetness of her sufferings: it is in storms that we
cling most closely to what we love.”
“True, fond girl, but remember that they may also divide us from what
we love. Still there is a sweet truth in your melancholy words: I
think you would be happy united to such a man as Juxon. He is
evidently much attached to you; and I think you are not indifferent to
him.”
“Cousin, he is worthy of a better fortune. He never can be mine.”
“What is the meaning of that strong emphasis? Is, then, the secret of
your sorrow a concealed attachment to another?”
“Katharine, you see not clearly in this matter; I am pitied by Juxon,
not loved.”
“I know not, dear Jane, for what he should pity you; but pity is akin
to love.”
“And also to contempt:--Juxon despises me: yes, the pity of one so
generous and noble hearted is heavy to bear.”
“Impossible! he knows your sterling worth; he knows that you could not
do what was wrong: you utter many things that are idle; but I have
heard him warmly express his regard for your frank character; his
faith in your high principles, and his fear that you judged others by
yourself, and might in the trials of life prove too confiding towards
others.”
“Have you, indeed, Kate? what, lately?”
“Yes; not many days ago.”
“Well, this is comfort; for I love him passing well:--keep my secret,
Katharine; you know not how faithfully I have kept yours.” As Jane
Lambert thus spoke, she took the hand of her fair cousin and pressed
it against her beating heart. Katharine drew it away with a sudden
agitation, and placing it on her pale forehead seemed to muse awhile:
her eyes wore the expression of one that was wildly busy over the
mysterious tablets of her memory; at last, fixing them on Jane with a
troubled gaze, “I have it,” she said: “a light flashes on me; the
interview with Francis: it was observed by some one; it was known to
Juxon, and you have borne----”
“Nothing that I would not bear again for the love of Katharine, and
for her peace of mind.”
“Noblest of beings, alas! how am I punished for having thus employed
you! why did you not tell me all? May God forgive me! I never can
forgive myself.”
“Talk not thus,” said Jane, rushing into her arms. “This moment richly
repays whatever I have suffered: that which I may now safely relate to
you you could not have borne at the time, nor should I tell it even
now, if it were not that I know you will be seeking some explanations
from Juxon.”
The generous girl now gave a minute narration of all that had passed
between herself and Francis at their interview. She told how very
deeply she had been affected by the devotion with which he spoke of
Katharine, and by those looks and gestures which revealed the
constancy and the ardour of his love: the action so passionate towards
her, upon whom his mind’s eye was inwardly resting, with which Francis
had parted from herself, was not forgotten. The circumstance of her
immediately after meeting with Juxon, and the scene which passed
between them, were described with the like fidelity.
A paleness as of marble overspread the face of Katharine; her eyes
assumed a vacant regard; her hand became cold, and from her moving
lips no sound was audible. She stood a while like one suddenly turned
to stone; and Jane, expecting her every instant to swoon away,
supported her in trembling terror. It seemed an age of agony to Jane,
though the trance did not last more than three awful minutes. The
eyelids of Katharine closed; tears glittered on the long dark lashes;
warmth and consciousness returned. She slowly opened her eyes; and,
fixing them on Jane with an affection no words could convey, suffered
herself to be led back in unbroken silence to the mansion.