During the slender repast, Jocelyn, in reply to the inquiries of the
Puritan, explained the two-fold motive of his coming to London; namely,
the desire of taking vengeance on his father's enemies, and the hope of
obtaining some honourable employment, such as a gentleman might accept.
"My chances in the latter respect are not very great," he said, "seeing
I have no powerful friends to aid me in my endeavours, and I must
consequently trust to fortune. But as regards my enemies, if I can only
win an audience of the King, and plead my cause before him, I do not
think he will deny me justice."
"Justice!" exclaimed the Puritan with deep scorn. "James Stuart knows it
not. An archhypocrite, and perfidious as hypocritical, he holdeth as a
maxim that Dissimulation is necessary to a Ruler. He has the cowardice
and the ferocity of the hyaena. He will promise fairly, but his deeds
will falsify his words. Recollect how his Judas kiss betrayed Somerset.
Recollect his conduct towards the Gowries. But imagine not, because you
have been evil intreated and oppressed, that the King will redress your
wrongs, and reinstate you in your fallen position. Rather will he take
part with the usurers and extortioners who have deprived you of your
inheritance. How many poor wretches doth he daily condemn to the same
lingering agonies and certain destruction that he doomed your father.
Lamentable as is the good Sir Ferdinando's case, it stands not alone. It
is one of many. And many, many more will be added to the list, if this
tyrannical Herodias be suffered to govern."
And as if goaded by some stinging thought, that drove him nigh
distracted, Hugh Calveley arose, and paced to and fro within the
chamber. His brow became gloomier and his visage sterner.
"Bear with him, good Master Jocelyn," Aveline said in a low tone. "He
hath been unjustly treated by the King, and as you see can ill brook the
usage. Bear with him, I pray of you."
Jocelyn had no time to make reply. Suddenly checking himself, and fixing
his earnest gaze upon the young man, the Puritan said--
"Give ear to me, my son. If I desired to inflame your breast with rage
against this tyrant, I should need only to relate one instance of his
cruelty and injustice. I had a friend--a very dear friend," he
continued, in a tone of deep pathos--"confined within the Fleet Prison
by a decree of the Star-Chamber. He was to me as a brother, and to see
him gradually pining away cut me to the soul. Proud by nature, he
refused to abase himself to his oppressor, and could not be brought to
acknowledge wrongs he had never committed. Pardon, therefore, was denied
him--not pardon merely, but all mitigation of suffering. My friend had
been wealthy; but heavy fines and penalties had stripped him of his
possessions, and brought him to destitution. Lord of an ancient hall,
with woods and lands around it, wherein he could ride for hours without
quitting his own domains, his territories were now narrowed to a few
yards; while one dark, dreary chamber was alone accorded him. Finding he
must necessarily perish, if left to rot there, I prevailed upon him (not
without much reluctance on his part) to petition the King for
liberation; and was myself the bearer of his prayer. Earnestly pleading
the cause of the unfortunate man, and representing his forlorn
condition, I besought his Majesty's gracious intercession. But when I
had wearied the royal ear with entreaties, the sharp reply was--'Doth he
make submission? Will he confess his offence?' And as I could only
affirm, that as he was guilty of no crime, so he could confess none, the
King returned me the petition, coldly observing--'The dignity of our
Court of Star-Chamber must be maintained before all things. He hath been
guilty of contempt towards it, and must purge him of the offence.' 'But
the man will die, Sire,' I urged, 'if he be not removed from the Fleet.
His prison-lodging is near a foul ditch, and he is sick with fever.
Neither can he have such aid of medicine or of nursing as his case
demands.' 'The greater reason he should relieve himself by speedy
acknowledgment of the justice of his sentence,' said the King. 'The
matter rests not with us, but with himself.' 'But he is a gentleman,
Sire,' I persisted, 'to whom truth is dearer than life, and who would
rather languish in misery for thrice the term he is likely to last, than
forfeit his own self-esteem by admitting falsehood and injustice.' 'Then
let him perish in his pride and obstinacy,' cried the King impatiently.
And thereupon he dismissed me."
"O Sir!" exclaimed Jocelyn, rising and throwing, his arms round the
Puritan's neck; "you, then, were the friend who tended my poor father in
his last moments. Heaven bless you for it!"
"Yes, Jocelyn, it was I who heard your father's latest sigh," the
Puritan replied, returning his embrace, "and your own name was breathed
with it. His thoughts were of his son far away--too young to share his
distresses, or to comprehend them."
"Alas! alas!" cried Jocelyn mournfully.
"Lament not for your father, Jocelyn," said the Puritan, solemnly; "he
is reaping the reward of his earthly troubles in heaven! Be comforted, I
say. The tyrant can no longer oppress him. He is beyond the reach of his
malice. He can be arraigned at no more unjust tribunals. He is where no
cruel and perfidious princes, no iniquitous judges, no griping
extortioners shall ever enter."
Jocelyn endeavoured to speak, but his emotion overpowered him.
"I have already told you that your father rendered me a service
impossible to be adequately requited," pursued the Puritan. "What that
service was I will one day inform you. Suffice it now, that it bound me
to him in chains firmer than brass. Willingly would I have laid down my
life for him, if he had desired it. Gladly would I have taken his place
in the Fleet prison, if that could have procured him liberation. Unable
to do either, I watched over him while he lived--and buried him when
dead."
"O Sir, you have bound me to you as strongly as you were bound to my
father," cried Jocelyn. "For the devotion shown to him, I hold myself
eternally your debtor."
The Puritan regarded him steadfastly for a moment.
"What if I were to put these professions to the test?" he asked.
"Do so," Jocelyn replied earnestly. "My life is yours!"
"Your life!" exclaimed Hugh Calveley, grasping his arm almost fiercely,
while his eye blazed. "Consider what you offer."
"I need not consider," Jocelyn rejoined. "I repeat my life is yours, if
you demand it."
"Perhaps I _shall_ demand it," cried Hugh Calveley. "Ere long, perhaps."
"Demand it when you will," Jocelyn said.
"Father!" Aveline interposed, "do not let the young man bind himself by
this promise. Release him, I pray of you."
"The promise cannot be recalled, my child," the Puritan replied. "But I
shall never claim its fulfilment save for some high and holy purpose."
"Are you sure your purpose _is_ holy, father?" Aveline said in a low
tone.
"What mean you, child?" cried Hugh Calveley, knitting his brows. "I am
but an instrument in the hands of Heaven, appointed to do its work; and
as directed, so I must act. Heaven may make me the scourge of the
oppressor and evil-doer, or the sword to slay the tyrant. I may die a
martyr for my faith, or do battle for it with carnal weapons. For all
these I am ready; resigning myself to the will of God. Is it for
nothing, think'st thou, that this young man--the son of my dear departed
friend--has been brought hither at this particular conjuncture? Is it
for nothing that, wholly unsolicited, he has placed his life at my
disposal, and in doing so has devoted himself to a great cause? Like
myself he hath wrongs to avenge, and the Lord of Hosts will give him
satisfaction."
"But not in the way you propose, father," Aveline rejoined. "Heaven
will assuredly give you both satisfaction for the wrongs you have
endured; but it must choose its own means of doing so, and its own
time."
"It _hath_ chosen the means, and the time is coming quickly," cried the
Puritan, his eye again kindling with fanatical light. "'The Lord will
cut off from Israel head and tail.'"
"These things are riddles to me," observed Jocelyn, who had listened to
what was passing with great uneasiness. "I would solicit an
explanation?"
"You shall have it, my son," Hugh Calveley replied. "But not now. My
hour for solitary prayer and self-communion is come, and I must withdraw
to my chamber. Go forth into the garden, Jocelyn--and do thou attend
him, Aveline. I will join you when my devotions are ended."
So saying he quitted the room, while the youthful pair went forth as
enjoined.