And now, good morrow to our waking soules,
Which watch not one another out of feare.
DONNE.
The noble spirit of Katharine Heywood was severely exercised by those
disclosures of Jane Lambert which have been related in a former
chapter.
She regretted, too late, that she had ever asked that true-hearted
girl to perform an office so difficult in itself, and which had
proved, in its consequences, so hazardous to her reputation and her
peace. The chance of such a misfortune as that which had befallen Jane
never remotely presented itself to her mind at the moment when she
made the request, yet she could not but feel compunction as she
reflected on the trouble to which the generous constancy of a delicate
mind had subjected her affectionate friend. One slight reparation was
in her power. It became her plain duty to undeceive the mind of Juxon
on the subject; and the thought that she should be thus instrumental
in bringing together two fine characters, formed for each other, made
all selfish considerations about her own sorrow, and every pang which
her maidenly pride must suffer, vanish before that proper resolution.
No opportunity of speaking in private with Juxon occurred on the
evening of Jane’s disclosure to Katharine, nor did any offer itself
until the arrival of her young cousin Arthur from Oxford. It was a
mournful trial to Katharine to observe the high and joyous spirits of
the ardent youth, as he embraced and thanked Sir Oliver for acceding
to his request. The silent house became suddenly full of cheerful
echoes as the brave boy passed to and fro on its oaken staircase and
along the pleasant gallery, singing snatches of loyal songs, or making
his spurs jingle as he ran. All his preparations for the solemn work
of war were made with a light heart, and with little or no
consideration that fellow-countrymen were to be his enemies. Such
little sympathy as the boy once felt for the tortured Prynne existed
no longer for any one of that party, which he had learned to look upon
as traitors.
One would have thought that he was volunteering in a foreign
expedition, by his gay-hearted alacrity in getting ready.
“Cousin Kate,” said he, turning towards her as they sat at breakfast
in the hall, “you must make us a couple of King’s rosettes,--and I
hope you have both of you,” he added, looking at Jane Lambert, “nearly
finished embroidering the small standard for our troop:--you have
laughed at me, and called me boy, Jane; but when I bring you back your
own embroidery, stained with the blood of traitors, you shall reward
me as a man.”
“I am not so very blood-thirsty, Arthur,” said Jane Lambert, “as to
wish it shed to do honour to my embroidery; and if I see you come
safe back with your sword bright and a peace branch in your hand, I
will tell a fib for you, and call you a man before your beard comes.
Now don’t frown--it does not become your smooth face:--when all is
over, you shall play the part of a lady in the first court masque, and
shall wear my rose-coloured gown.”
“Why, Jane,” said Sir Oliver, “what is come to you, girl? It was but
five minutes ago that I saw you with your kerchief at your eyes,
looking as sad as though you were sitting at a funeral; and now thou
mockest poor Arthur, as if he were a vain boaster, instead of a
gallant boy, as thou well knowest.--Never mind her, Arthur: she is a
true woman, and teazes those most whom she loves the best. She will
cry peccavi to thee a few weeks hence, and suffer thee to give her a
full pardon in honest kisses.”
“Marry, Sir Oliver,” said Jane, smiling, “you will spoil the boy, an
you talk thus to him.”
“She shall not wait so long for my pardon,” said the good-tempered
Arthur, with quickness; and rising from his seat, he went to Jane,
and, with the permitted familiarity of boyhood and cousinship, he
gave her a kiss. “There,” he added: “a bird in the hand is worth two
in the bush. ‘To-morrow’ is a word I never liked, and it is a season
which I may never find. Now, remember, if I should have the ill luck
to be cut down by the sword of a traitor, I die in peace with you,
dear coz, and forgive you for your merriment beforehand.”
“She will not be merrier, Arthur, than she is now,” said Katharine;
“and to say truth, the very thought is enough to make us sad, if we
were not melancholy already:--but I must not hear, my dear father, of
your going to the field. It will be at the cost of your life, and
that, too, without your having the satisfaction to be of use.”
“An example, Kate, must always be of service, if it be a good one; and
though I never stood opposite a shotted cannon hitherto, methinks, to
do that once by the side of my King would make the short remnant of my
life all the brighter for it. Besides, my dear girl, for all the talk
which these Parliament men make about their levies, let the country
gentlemen of the western counties arm in right earnest, and the loyal
cavaliers of England will make these praying rogues bend the knee and
cry out for quarter.”
“To be sure they will,” said the excited Arthur: “I will bring cousin
Jane a live specimen of the genuine round-headed rebel, with his hands
tied behind him, and the whites of his eyes where the pupils should
be.”
At this moment Juxon entered the hall from Old Beech:--he caught the
last sentence; and putting one hand on Arthur’s shoulder, as he gave
the other to Sir Oliver.--“Remember, my young master,” he said, “that
thy game must be caught before it can be cooked, at least so says the
cookery book in my old housekeeper’s room; and, believe me, you will
find a day’s fighting with these Parliament boys rather harder work
than a morning’s hare-hunting, and little game bagged at the close of
it.”
“Why, George Juxon! this from you!” said Sir Oliver. “Why, you are the
very last man that I expected to hear croak in this fashion. Why, I
expect to see the vagabonds turn tail, before a charge of well mounted
cavaliers, like a flock of sheep.”
“You could not see such a runaway flight with greater pleasure than I
should; but take my word for it, the King’s enemies are made of
sterner stuff than you give them credit for. Many a great spirit is
reckoned among their leaders; and of the meaner folk that follow them
numbers have put their hearts into the cause, under a notion that it
is that of the people. No, sir, Arthur will act in these troubles, I
am well assured, with the same manliness of spirit with which he wrote
to you from Oxford, and, therefore, I do not wish to hear him talk
like a school boy.”
Arthur coloured with a little confusion at this grave rebuke; but,
with the frank grace of a generous spirit, confessed himself to have
spoken idly, and to be wrong; excusing it, at the same time, by
saying, that he was only vapouring so to plague Jane Lambert a little,
who, he verily believed, to be in love with one of the rebels. The
eyes of Katharine fell, and her gaze was fixed silently upon the
ground, and a slight contraction of her brow showed to Jane how very
keenly she was suffering. It was not possible, at the moment, to leave
the table without an abruptness which must, of necessity, attract
notice, or she would have done so; but Jane, with a ready
cheerfulness, replied, “Perhaps I am: now, guess for me, most noble
cavalier, whether my Puritan suitor be tall or short; young or old;
how many hairs grow on his chin; whether his cheeks be red and white,
like summer apples; how much buff it may take to make him a war coat;
and if he do not wear high boot heels and jingling spurs for bravery?”
The fine temper of Arthur enabled him to take this playful raillery of
Jane’s as pleasantly as it was meant; and Sir Oliver came to the boy’s
aid, observing, “The sly maiden is laughing at us both, Arthur; and it
is too true that I must have a broad seam let into my old buff
coat.--See thou have it done quickly,” said he, “Philip,” turning to
the old serving man behind his chair.
The announcement, however, which Sir Oliver had before made of his
intentions, confirmed by the order thus gaily given, seemed to take
away the old man’s breath; for to old Philip none of these sad changes
were matters for laughter.
Juxon did not discourage these intentions of Sir Oliver for the
present: he had satisfied his own mind that the family must, of
necessity, soon quit the mansion at Milverton for a season. The spirit
in Warwick and in Coventry was decidedly favourable to the cause of
the Parliament; and although many of the gentlemen and yeomen in the
country villages declared for his Majesty, yet whatever men could be
raised under the commission of array would, of course, be marched
away. However, it was agreed among the gentry, that the King should be
invited to show himself in the county, and that some effort should be
made to arouse the loyalty and enlist the feelings of the people in
his quarrel. Should this fail, they all looked to Nottingham or
Shrewsbury as favourable rallying points for the Royalists.
In the mean time secret preparations were made for concealing or
removing valuable effects, and for transporting families and
households, when the approach of the parliamentary forces should
render it no longer safe for the more distinguished and wealthy of the
Royalists to remain in their stately homes.
The conversation at the breakfast table at Milverton was changed from
the jocular mood of the moment to a graver tone.
The news of the day,--the last movements of the King,--the rumours of
his approach,--conjectures of his reception,--by turns engaged the
attention of all, and were discussed between Juxon and Sir Oliver with
earnestness and forethought.
The calm clear judgment of George Juxon made him look far on to
consequences; and Sir Oliver, conscious of his own deficiency of
information, and of the indolence of his inquiries, deferred more
readily to the opinions of Juxon than obstinate men are found willing
to do in general.
When the party rose and quitted the hall, Katharine, under the
pretence of asking Juxon’s advice about packing a valuable picture,
led him to the gallery alone, while Arthur and Jane Lambert were
settling their playful quarrel upon the terrace.
At the far end of the gallery was a windowed niche, with an antique
seat of carved oak. Katharine sat down, and entreating the attention
of Juxon to something of consequence, which it was her desire to
impart to him, he placed himself on the bench by her side.
“You must be at a loss, Master Juxon, I fear, thoroughly to understand
our dear friend, Jane Lambert.”
“It is true--she is a very strange girl.”
“Yes, strangely excellent: her idle words and idle ways do veil a
character of rare and precious worth.”
“I would fain think so, lady; but I do sometimes fear that she is of a
nature too open and too free for this hollow world. Already, to my
thought, she is unhappy from this very cause: whatever may be her
sorrow, I wish she would confide it to you.”
“I have discovered it.”
“Can it be possible? If so, I am truly happy to think that she will
have a friend, whose maidenly reserve and heavenly wisdom may guide
her through all dangers and difficulties in safety.”
“Ah! there’s the pang; ’twas I betrayed her to them.”
“You wrong yourself, lady,--I am convinced you do. I am afraid that I
can make a better guess at what causes the melancholy of Jane Lambert
than you can; however, I do not feel at liberty to speak more
plainly.”
“I tell you it was I who placed her in the painful perplexity in which
you once surprised her. The gentleman from whom you saw her part was
an unhappy relative of mine: mine was the errand she was doing; mine
was the secret that she kept with so noble a constancy:--that
gentleman was nought to her.”
“Indeed! was he not her lover?”
“No: would he were! and yet the wish were selfish, and not kind, for
she loves another.”
“I am utterly confused:--how much have my suspicions wronged her:--she
is a generous girl;--how can I have been so deceived? And yet the
gallant kissed her hand upon his knees.”
“I know it; but even in that action he only charged her with his
homage to another: she was but love’s messenger.”
“Lady, I am troubled in my thoughts at this sad business: it is plain
I wronged her; plain that she is constant as a star to friend or to
lover. What she has done in friendship may well command my lasting
admiration. You tell me that she loves. Why is her lover unknown and
unavowed? What is his condition? Where is he? What barriers divide
their fortunes and their hopes?”
“One only--he knows not of her love.”
“Whoever he may be, wherever he may dwell, in ignorance of such a vast
possession as such a woman’s love--methinks, lady, it is your duty,
your solemn and sweet duty, to make it known to him. I envy you the
joy: let me be the bearer of your words or letter; so shall I some
atonement make for my unworthy suspicions of her danger.”
“You forget--these are no times for lovers’ vows; these are no times
for marrying and giving in marriage: such knowledge might depress the
object of her love with care:--to see happiness offered to our heart’s
want, and then, in the self-same instant, wrested from us by the iron
hand of war, and scared away by the blast of discord, is to make
acquaintance with a sorrow which, by ignorance, we might have
escaped.”
“I think not with you, lady: it were pity for any man to die in his
first field unconscious of such a blessing.”
“As I have a human heart, I can conceive of such a feeling, and like
the noble thought.--Long may you live, Master Juxon, to prove how well
Jane Lambert loves you!” So saying, Katharine rose and left the
gallery.
Juxon remained fixed where he sat, in a state of mind which no
language could faithfully depict. His heart swelled; his eyes became
dim; and as the blinding tears fell fast away, the first object on
which they rested was the figure of Jane Lambert, walking under the
shade of the lime-trees alone. He went down to join her in a tumult
of rapture; but before he reached the end of the avenue the reflection
crossed him, “What am I about to do? what am I about to utter? This is
no moment, this is no mood, in which, for the first time, to address
her as a lover. Katharine said true, ‘These are no times for lovers’
vows.’ ‘For better’ I would have her mine, but not ‘for worse.’ She
shall know no misery that I can shield her from now, as a friend; and
when peace smiles on my country once more, may God then join our
hands, as even now our hearts!”