"Not for one moment," answered his son; "but in this matter I desire to
stand alone. We can never tell, Father; I have a clean record, which
may be of use to you."
The colonel laughed. "I don't think I run much danger. Why, there is
scarce a man who is welcoming Charles to London who has not fought with
the Parliamentarians. He would have to take a scythe if he were to
sweep off the heads of all those who have fought against him. And there
is the Treaty of Breda to protect us."
"You forget the clause," said Reginald.
"Tut, tut!" answered the colonel. "De Vere and a few others will be
arrested; the rest will get off."
"Possibly," said Reginald, "but I doubt it."
At that moment the supper-bell rang out from the belfry, and father and
son went together into the great hall, which had been the refectory of
the monks. It was a beautiful place, with carved oak panelling and
fretted roof; but Ann noticed as she sat beside her father that he was
somewhat querulous that night, and drank deeper than was his wont.
"Has anything happened?" she asked Reginald after supper, looking at her
father.
"Nothing that I am aware of," answered Reginald. "Good-night, little
one!" And so they parted.
Father and son rode forth together the following morning on their way to
London.
*CHAPTER III*
*Somerset House*
Somerset House, the English home in which Agnes now found herself, was
very different from the magnificent but sombre Louvre she had left.
It stood almost in the centre of a great bend of the Thames, so that
from its fine terrace could be seen, on one side the city of London,
with its countless spires and its old bridge, on the other the king's
palace and gardens of Whitehall and the great Abbey of Westminster.
Built by the Protector Somerset, it had been greatly improved for Queen
Henrietta Maria, who had furnished it with consummate taste.
On its charming south front, looking out over the river, in full
sunshine, were the queen's principal apartments: her presence-chamber,
private sitting-room, and her bed-chamber, all protected by the
guard-room. Her windows looked down on wide, trim lawns, in the centre
of which was a basin and fountain, while beyond was a broad terraced
walk, the walls of which were at each high tide washed by the Thames.
A handsome flight of steps led down to the river, where the queen's
barge was moored. The Thames was a high-road full of life and movement,
for every nobleman kept a splendid barge, rowed by many men in fine
liveries.
Beyond the queen's apartment were the smaller rooms occupied by the
Princess Henrietta and Agnes Beaumont, who, though she was but twelve
years old, was raised to the dignity of maid of honour to the princess,
thus establishing her right to be always beside her in private and in
public. Agnes was tall for her age and slim; the golden curls of her
childhood had darkened to a rich auburn; her features were delicate but
very marked; her complexion fair, with a soft pink colouring which
suited well with the brown eyes and dark, long lashes. She had been a
beautiful babe, and now she was a fair girl, little more than a child
still, but giving great promise of a beautiful womanhood.
Young as she was, there was a stateliness in her carriage which
betokened high birth. More than once the queen laughed with Patience:
"We cannot hide her dignity if we would," she said; "she carries her
head too high for common folk."
Patience smiled. "Well, well," she said, "her father did the same. The
proverb says, 'Pride will have a fall'. Thank God she cannot fall much
lower than she has!"
"Nay," answered the queen, "we will make of her a duchess. My son the
king noticed her the other day and remarked upon her beauty, and he is
no mean judge," she added with a light laugh.
But Patience flushed crimson. "I would sooner his majesty did not cast
his eyes on her," she said in a low voice.
"Pshaw!" answered the queen, "she is but a child."
"A child who will be a woman before we know it," said Patience. "His
majesty's court is too gay for such young fledgelings."
"Well spoken, Patience!" said a man's voice behind the queen. "Why,
methinks my lord Cromwell's spirit still dwells amongst us in our own
house. You will be a Puritan yet, Patience."
Patience made no answer, but bowed and went out.
Then the speaker, Lord Jermyn, took the queen's hand, kissed it, led her
to a chair, and at a sign from her sat down beside her.
"Patience is right," he said. "I would keep those children away from
Whitehall as much as possible. The king has had but a dull time of it in
exile; he is making up for it now."
Henrietta shrugged her shoulders. "My nephew's court in Paris is no
better," she said, "and there Henrietta, when she is Duchess of Orleans,
will have to live, and probably Agnes will go with her."
"Time enough for that," answered Lord Jermyn. "Do not brush the bloom
off the flowers sooner than need be. They are the prettiest couple at
court, those two, in their young freshness. Have you spoken to the king
concerning Agnes?"
"No, there's time enough," answered the queen. "It were difficult for
the king to act at present. The estates have passed out of his hands,
and he would raise a hornet's nest if he attempted to take them from
their present owner."
"I think you are wrong," said Lord Jermyn; "the sooner such things are
done the better. If his majesty cannot restore to her her rightful
heritage, then he must create a new one for her."
"That is probably what he will do," said the queen. "These are early
days, and his hands are full. His first duty is to do what he is doing,
punish the murderers of his father."
"Ah, well! he is doing that without mercy," said Lord Jermyn, and there
was a certain bitterness in his tone.
"Do you regret it?" asked Henrietta, looking up at him.
"I suppose it has to be," he answered. "But such men as Harrison and
Carew are being raised to the dignity of martyrs; they die like men for
the cause they believe in. There, we will not speak of it. I wish it
were all over."
"I agree with you, my lord," said the young Duke of Gloucester, who had
just come in. "I wish it were all over, this judging and this killing.
I cannot pass in the streets but I see the scaffolds, and men dying
thereon with such firmness and show of piety, with a semblance of joy in
their sufferings." And the young Duke covered his face with his hands.
"Mother, cannot you stop it?" he asked.
"Stop the avenging of your father's death! Nay, Henry, that I cannot
do."
"Then, Mother, pray the king not to have the scaffold so near us as
Charing Cross, or else I will go hence and never visit you. My Lord
Jermyn, plead for me." And the prince hastily left the room, and, going
along the gallery, knocked at the door of his sister's apartment.
It was Agnes who opened to him. She was startled at the pallor of his
face.
"Is your royal highness ill?" she asked.
"No, Agnes, but I am sick at heart and I am sorely puzzled."
"Come in," said she, "and tell us what ails you."
The young duke entered, threw himself into an arm-chair by the hearth,
covering his face with his hands. The Princess Henrietta came and knelt
beside him.
"Tell me what ails you, Henry?" she asked.
"I would go hence, Henrietta, to that kingdom where my father wears an
immortal crown; these earthly baubles are not worth the lives they cost.
It is all so puzzling. What is truth? My Father died for it because he
believed in his cause. These regicides who voted his death are as sure
as he was that they are in the right. I was in the crowd to-day when a
man was being dragged upon a hurdle to his shameful death. His face was
placid and even cheerful. A low wretch called out to him, 'Where is
your good old cause now?' and he answered with a smile, clapping his
hand upon his heart, 'Here it is, and I am going to seal it with my
blood.' And as he went on his way I heard him call out, 'I go to suffer
for the most glorious cause that ever was in the world.'" As if
maddened by the sight he had seen, the young duke rose, saying, "It is
all wrong! It is all wrong! There is no right; I wish I were out of
it!"
They soothed and calmed him, and he remained all the afternoon in the
princess's apartment; but Patience did not like the look of him.
"He is sickening for something," she said.
Later, when he tried to stand he could not, his head was dizzy; so they
carried him to his chamber and they sent for the leech. Perceiving he
had high fever, they bled him, and said, "He will be well on the
morrow."
Upon the morrow he was not well; indeed, the fever had gained upon him
and his mind wandered. His sister Henrietta would have gone to him, but
the leech would not permit it.
"We cannot tell what he is sickening for," he said.
A few days later the whole court was scared, for it was known that the
Duke of Gloucester had been attacked by that terrible disease small-pox,
which made as much havoc in high places as in low slums. That he had
been up to the very last with the young girls, caused both the queen and
Patience great anxiety. They were removed at once from Somerset House
and taken to Hampton Court, that they might breathe fresh country air,
and so rid themselves of infection. Matters went badly with the prince.
The disease assumed its most virulent form, and within a fortnight his
wish was granted; he had passed from earth to heaven.
And so the court for a time was thrown into mourning, and Henrietta and
Agnes were not permitted to return until there should be no fear of any
further infection. When the first shock was over they enjoyed beyond
measure their country life; those beautiful gardens laid out by Cardinal
Wolsey afforded them never-ending pleasure. True, it was winter time;
but the ponds and lakes were frozen over, and after much pleading and
the taking of many precautions they were suffered to go upon the ice
under the care of some of the gentlemen of the court. Neither of them
knew how to skate. Henrietta was timid and would not even try to go
alone, holding on to her cavalier's hand, and sometimes hardly moving;
but Agnes grew impatient.
"Look at that young man and the girl out yonder!" she said, pointing to
a couple who were skimming over the lake like birds. "It seems so
easy."
As she uttered the words the couple approached and heard her. The young
man was handsome, with fair hair and blue eyes, and with a certain
nobility of face. The girl was like him; there was no mistaking they
were brother and sister.
"You are right. It is quite easy," said the girl, as she caught Agnes's
last words. "Will you let us help you?"
"Oh, I shall be so glad, so very glad!" answered Agnes. "It is cold and
stupid standing here and creeping about." And before Patience could
intervene, she had given one hand to the girl, the other to the young
man, and was off between them, slipping and sliding and laughing. But
they steadied her and told her how to use her feet, guiding her gently,
making it so easy for her that soon she began to feel at home, and with
her natural boldness ventured to say:
"Now let me go, let me go alone!"
"You can't," said the young man; "better not try to-day."
"Oh, I must!" said Agnes, and so they let her go.
One step, two steps, then she staggered; but they caught her before she
had time to fall.
"You will soon learn; children always do," said the young man.
"Child!" she cried; "I am not a child. I am over twelve years old, and
maid of honour to Princess Henrietta Maria. Who are you?" And she
threw up her head and looked him in the face.
His blue eyes laughed quizzically: "I am Reginald Newbolt," he said,
"and this is my sister Ann. We are not grand people like you."
"I am not grand at all; I am nobody," Agnes answered, colouring. "I
must go; Patience is signing to me, and Princess Henrietta is shivering
on the side of the lake. Will you come again to-morrow and help me? I
should like to be friends with you."
"We shall be only too glad," answered Ann. "We will come every day as
long as the frost lasts. Now we will take you back to your people."
They took her hands and made her skate in time with them.
"To think I can go so well with you and not alone!" she said. "It is
annoying."
"You need not fear," said Reginald. "In a few days you will go alone;
you have the knack of it."
They reached the edge of the lake where the princess and Patience were
standing.
"Oh, it is so cold!" exclaimed the princess, shivering; "and it is very
imprudent of you to go off like that, Agnes."
"I am sorry to have vexed you," the girl answered; "but it was just
lovely. Will you not try, Princess? This is Mr. Reginald Newbolt and
his sister Ann."
Doffing his cap, Reginald bowed to the princess and Ann curtsied.
Henrietta having recovered from her ill-temper, as she always did
quickly, had seen that to all outward appearance they were gentlefolk.
She gave them a stately bow, then repeated:
"Now we must go home, Agnes; I am frozen."
"I must take off my skates first," answered Agnes, and she sat down at
the edge of the lake while Patience undid the straps. Then she rose.
The princess took Patience's arm and turned towards home. Agnes
followed with Mr. Delarry, who said:
"You make friends easily, Mistress Agnes. Do you know who that young
man is?"
"Did you not hear me tell the princess that he is Mr. Reginald Newbolt,
and that it is his sister who is with him?" she asked.
"Well, they make a handsome couple," said Mr. Delarry. "Newbolt! Did
you say this man's name was Newbolt?"
"Yes," said Agnes; "do you know them?"
"I know him after a fashion," answered Mr. Delarry. "His father is, I
believe, Colonel Newbolt. He is, like many another, an old
Parliamentarian who, to feather his nest, turned king's man and welcomed
the king back. The young man is seeking a commission in the king's
guards and will probably get it, to the detriment of other and better
men."
Agnes's face clouded over. "I am sorry his father was on the wrong
side," she said.
"You need not trouble, or you will have to be sorry for many," said Mr.
Delarry; "but this young fellow is a new recruit, and never drew his
sword in the late war. They say he refused a commission in Cromwell's
army."
"I am glad of that," said Agnes, her face brightening. "There will be
no harm in my skating with them to-morrow, will there, Mr. Delarry?"
"None whatever, if Mistress Patience sees none. He is a handsome fellow,
Mistress Agnes, and will make a fine cavalier."
"I like handsome men," she answered, with childish glee; "and his sister
too is pleasant, but she is prim."
"I hear her mother is a strict Puritan," said Mr. Delarry, "and that the
colonel had much trouble in getting her to come up to London with his
son and daughter. She will not show herself at court, much to his
displeasure. Have a care, Mistress Agnes, or you will be turning
Puritan too!"
"Oh, no!" Agnes answered, laughing. "I do not like them at all, at
least the few of them I have seen in the streets. Patience has pointed
them out to me; they are mostly dressed in black, with white ruffles and
high hats; they look very stern. The women have black cloaks and white
coifs. I like our own pretty clothes best, and our gay cavaliers with
their broad hats and sweeping plumes."
Delarry smiled at her. "You are such a child, Miss Agnes, still. I
thought you were to be a grown woman when you came to England."
"Oh, it is coming, coming very fast!" she said. "Good-bye, Mr. Delarry!"
And she left him, and ran forward to join the princess.
"You talk to everybody," said Henrietta to her reproachfully. "I never
knew such a child. What have you been talking to Mr. Delarry about
now?"
"Only about my new friends," answered Agnes. "Oh, you will be nice,
Henrietta, and skate with them to-morrow, won't you? They just fly over
the ice. It is the most delicious sensation I ever knew. They say in
two or three days I shall go alone, and then," she added mischievously,
"let who can catch me."
*CHAPTER IV*
*New Friends*
On the following day Henrietta was nothing loath to have good sport with
Agnes, and Patience was forced to yield to their desires. Down to the
lake they went, found the Newbolts there, and after a little persuasion
Henrietta ventured on the ice. They brought a chair for her, and she
was content at first to let Mr. Delarry push her; but Agnes gave her
hands to Ann and Reginald and went off. Presently she came back alone,
so sure of foot was she; her figure was so light and easy.
"Do try," she said to Henrietta; "it is just lovely!" And the princess
let herself be persuaded.
Other gentlemen and ladies joined them, and there was much laughter and
many tumbles, but no one was hurt. The time passed quickly, until the
winter day was drawing to a close, and still they were not tired.
"I should never be tired," said Agnes, her face rosy with the keenness
of the air, and her eyes very bright.
This went on for well-nigh a week. The court party they were called;
they were so happy. All the commoners made way for them as they went
hither and thither, gliding over the ice. Indeed, people came from afar
and stood on the edge of the lake looking at them.
The princess, Agnes, Ann, and Reginald, were the principal actors in
that scene. The two girls, muffled in their soft furs, with their
petticoats above their ankles, showing their pretty feet, were a sight
to rejoice the heart, as the sight of all young things must be. The
winter sunshine glinted in Agnes's bright hair, and lit up her dark eyes
with the happiest, softest merriment.
"I never saw such a pretty creature!" said Reginald to Ann, when she had
left them after the day's sport.
"Take care. You will be losing your heart to her!" said Ann, laughing.
"I have done that long ago," he answered. "The first time she looked at
me she took my heart away with her. If I had not been a king's man
before, she would have made me one."
"She is but twelve years old," said Ann, laughing; "you will have to
wait long for her, Reginald."
"And the time will seem but short," he answered, "if I may but see her
once and again. Do you know her name, Ann?"
"Agnes, I have heard; nothing more," she answered. "But that young man,
Delarry, said casually that she had been the darling of the queen-mother
and the princess ever since she was a baby. Nobody knows aught about her
save the queen and Mistress Patience, who carried her over to France
when she was almost in swaddling clothes."
"I was sure of it," said Reginald. "She is a child of one of the great
old families; she looks it, my little sweetheart!" And from that time
forth Reginald hovered round Agnes, and people laughed at her and called
him her knight, and she was mighty pleased and made no little boast of
her handsome cavalier.
It was all so open, so fresh, this budding love; without depth or
passion, it had sprung up like the flowers, and like them was pure and
serene. There was no past, no future for those young creatures; they
lived just for the hour, as with flying feet they skimmed the ice, the
fresh, sharp air cutting their faces. The joy of life was with them and
upon them as it never would be again. They did not recognize how with
each fleeting moment a joy-note sounded and died away. In after-years
they would listen for the echo with that intense longing of hearts which
have known unalloyed happiness; would they hear it again, or would it go
from them for ever, with the flitting moments? Blessed are those who
like them have heard it, whose lips have uttered the words, "I am so
happy, so happy!"
They came like a song of joy to Agnes's lips as she went hither and
thither with Reginald beside her. He, bending towards her, said with a
note of triumph in his voice:
"I would this might last for ever, my little sweetheart----"
"For ever!" she repeated. "For ever! Why not?"
He had not the heart to cast a shadow on that joy. Why tell her nothing
lasts for ever? And so he only answered, "Why not?"
On the morrow the order came: "Back to Somerset House; the air is
purified; Christmas is coming; you must come back."
Before leaving, the princess sent for Reginald Newbolt and his sister,
and they bade each other farewell. "It will not be for long," said the
princess. "I will ask my mother, the queen, to make you one of her maids
of honour, Mistress Ann; so you may live with us, for I have taken a
great liking to you."
"I am afraid the queen will not favour me," was the quiet answer. "I
have not been brought up after your foreign fashion. I do not know your
ways or manners. I am a plain English girl."
"Oh, that does not matter at all! We have many English ladies in our
suite, and the queen loves them well."
"But my mother would not let me dwell in the queen's household; she says
it is godless," said Ann, colouring deeply; "it would, I think, break
her heart."
"Ah well," said Henrietta carelessly, "you must please yourself if you
are so over-strict."
"Say rather, I must obey my mother," answered Ann; "but nevertheless I
am grateful to you and thank you." And she stooped and kissed the
princess's hand. So they parted.
As she was going out Patrick Delarry met her. He was an Irishman who had
been with the queen in France, and of earthly possessions had few; but
he was a true Irishman, full of jokes and fun, taking things lightly
even as the Stuarts did, and, because of this very carelessness, the
noble sweetness of Ann had attracted him.
They met in the corridor leading to the grand staircase. He paused,
bowed before her, saying, "This is no farewell, Mistress Ann; we shall
meet in London."
"Maybe we shall; maybe we shall not," returned Ann. "The princess is
very good and desires to give me a place at court, but my mother would
not hear of such a thing; she is strict in her conduct, and has brought
her children up as strictly."
"I am sorry," said Delarry, "but I daresay she is right. Still, that
will not prevent our meeting, Mistress Ann. Your father is serving the
king; your brother will have a commission in the Guards; surely you will
mix in good society?"
"I greatly fear not," answered Ann. "My mother says that young maidens
should remain at home, and that the court is full of snares."
Delarry laughed. "It is pretty bad," he said, "but you will remember
that if you owe your duty to your mother, you owe it also to the king,
your master. If he bids you attend upon his sister, surely you will not
refuse. Somerset House is not Whitehall."
He spoke with significance, and Ann coloured slightly, for she knew well
that the king's palace was far too gay and frivolous a place for young
maidens who respected themselves.
"If I am summoned to Somerset House," she said, "and my father desires I
should go there, I hope my mother will let me, for the princess is very
sweet to me and my heart inclines towards her. As for little Agnes,"
and she laughed lightly, "I do not think we shall lose sight of her. My
brother has lost his heart to her."
"That is very evident," said Mr. Delarry; "she is a pretty child."
"I must bid you adieu," said Ann. She curtsied and went quickly on her
way down the corridor. Delarry stood a second and watched her till she
disappeared.
"A pretty Puritan maiden; I didn't know they were so smart," he thought.
"It will not be my fault if we do not meet again before long, Mistress
Ann." And so he too went his way.
That same afternoon the princess and Agnes, with Patience, entered the
royal coach, and were driven back to Somerset House. They were neither
of them very cheerful, and the way seemed long and cold, for the air was
heavy with snow ready to fall. London looked dark and sombre when they
entered it, with only the great torches flaring as the torch-bearers
held them on high in front of the coach to guide the driver through the
narrow streets of the city. The courtyard of Somerset House was also
lit up; but it was a sad home-coming, nevertheless, and the queen-mother
welcomed them with tears.
"I do not know how it is," she said to her daughter. "I loved this
country once and I was happy; now I am miserable here. I would go back
to France; this death of your brother is an evil omen."
"Nay, Mother, do not go just yet," said Henrietta. "We have come home at
a bad season of the year. You tell me that the spring is lovely in
England; let us wait and see;" then, sitting before the fire, she and
Agnes told her what good sport they had at Hampton Court, and they spoke
of Reginald and Ann.
The queen frowned. "Patience is over-indulgent to you," she said. "You
have no right to make the acquaintance of strangers, especially of these
upstarts. You say the father is Colonel Newbolt; he was one of
Cromwell's men. Now, because it suits himself and his purse, he is a
king's man. To-morrow, if it suits him, he will be the people's man
again. I am sick of it all."
"Do you not think it well, Mother, to encourage these people to become
faithful lieges to the king?" said Henrietta.
"Faithful!" said the queen, with a mocking laugh. "I have ceased to look
for faithfulness anywhere. As soon as you are married, Henrietta--and
that will, I trust, be before long--we will go back to France. Your
brother's court does not suit me, and his friends do not suit me. Your
brother, the Duke of York, is enamoured of Clarendon's daughter, Ann
Hyde, and there has been much scandal--a secret marriage. It has set
the people talking. I tell you I am sick of it all. There is a
vulgarity which savours not of kings in the whole tone of England now."
Her daughter did not answer her; she could not--she did not understand
what was amiss. She was but a girl still. When she was a woman she
understood better.
Fortunately it was nearly Christmas time, and so that season brought a
certain amount of gaiety and brightness. They were not accustomed to
make as much of it in France as in England, where, then as now, everyone
rejoiced, everyone made merry. It had gone out of fashion to a great
extent during the Commonwealth, but people were glad to go back to their
old ways and drag the Yule-log into the great hall. It was a good
season for the poor, when before great fires bullocks and sheep were
roasted whole in the streets. There were mummers, and morris-dances,
and all manner of sports.
To Agnes's great disgust a week or two before Christmas she received a
letter from Ann, telling her that they were going away down to their
country place, because their mother could not abide in London. She was
willing to feast the poor in the country and those who needed help, but
the frivolities of London did not suit her, and she would not stay
there. Indeed, she was afraid her mother would not let her come back,
which grieved her sorely, for she loved her friends, and would have
gladly served the Princess Henrietta.
When she received this letter Agnes wept bitterly.
"Is there no means by which she could be brought to court?" she said to
Patience.
"I know of none except by the king's command," said Patience, "and
unfortunately the queen-mother is not well inclined towards the
Newbolts."
"Where is their country place?" asked Agnes.
"How should I know?" answered Patience. "They are new people who have
old lands which by rights belong to others."
She spoke bitterly, and Agnes noticed it.
"Well," she said, "I like the Newbolts; I met the colonel last week when
he was presented to the king. He is a fine man, but the queen received
him coldly; and when I asked the princess why her mother did so, she
said, 'Because she misdoubts all old Parliamentarians. There is not one
of them but had a hand in my father's death'."
"'Well, at least Reginald hadn't,'" I said. "He was very young at the
time, and both he and Ann have told me that when they heard of the
king's death they wept and stamped their feet at their father, saying it
was a shame, for which their mother flogged them both and sent them to
bed with bread and water. 'But it only made us more loyal,' Ann said.
By the bye, Patience, do you know I saw Reginald ride past the other day
on his way to Whitehall in the full uniform of the King's Guard? He
looked so handsome."
"Where did you see him from?" asked Patience.
"Oh, from the stained mullion window in the corridor behind my room. I
often go and stand there because I see into the Strand. I think I like
the town better than the river."
"Happily, it is a stained window, so people do not see you," said
Patience. "It is not seemly for a maiden to be staring on to the public
road."
"But people do see me," said Agnes. "Reginald saw me, and he saluted.
You know he is my knight, Patience."
"I know I will not suffer you to behave thus," said Patience. "A
cavalier saluting a maiden at her window, above all things a maiden in
Somerset House! It must not be, Agnes; you are old enough to know
better."
"I do not know what I am," answered the girl impetuously. "Sometimes I
am a child, sometimes a girl, sometimes I am almost a grown woman, as
suits your fancy, Patience." And the big tears gathered in her eyes and
rolled down her face.
"My pretty, my pretty, do not weep," said Patience, and she put her arm
round the girl's waist and drew her upon her lap. "You must mind what I
am going to say to you, Agnes," she continued. "You are not like other
girls, and you must be circumspect. You have no one to defend you from
evil tongues, no one to lift you up if you were to fall; you are alone.
The queen loved your mother; your father died for her husband, and so
she harbours you; but she may not always do so. The day may come when
she will go back to France, and that will be no place for you when the
princess is married."
"Why not--why not?" said Agnes. "I shall go with her."
"Not if I can help it," answered Patience. "I love you too well, my
dove, to let you scorch your wings in the court of the Palais Royal and
Versailles. We must remain in England, Agnes, and the king must pension
you; it is your due."
"But have I no kith or kin, no one belonging to me?" asked the girl.
"No one," answered Patience, "at least that I know of."
"And did my father and mother leave me no wealth and no lands?" said
Agnes.
"What gold they had," said Patience, "I took to France with me, and all
these years it has served us. There is not much left, and as for lands
they are forfeited. Cromwell did what he chose with them and gave them
to whom he would. So you see, my child, you must be prudent. One thing
you have which you must hold--your good name."
"Agnes Beaumont," said the girl.
"That is not all, you have another name," said Patience, looking at her,
"but I have sworn not to reveal it to you until your wedding day or till
you are of age."
"Why not?" she asked. "Why should not I know my own name?"
"Because it might be a danger to you," answered Patience. "There are
those who might wish you ill and do you wrong. When you have a husband
you will have someone to defend you; when you are of age you must judge
for yourself."
"Does no one except you know who I am?" asked Agnes.
"Yes, the queen-dowager knows, and the king," said Patience. "When he
gives you back what is yours, then he will tell you himself what your
station is."
Tears gathered in Agnes's eyes.
"I do not like it," she said. "Have I anything to be ashamed of?" she
asked, her voice trembling.
"Ashamed!" exclaimed Patience. "No, indeed! far from that. I tell you
it is for your own personal good, to shield you from those who have
taken your lands from you and who might resent their being restored to
you. You are the last of your race; your very birth has been hidden,
but it will all come right one day if only you will be patient."
"Very well," said Agnes, "I will ask no questions; I will wait. It does
not really matter, only I heard someone say the other day, 'Agnes
Beaumont! What Beaumont is that?' and no one seemed to know."
"It was your mother's name," said Patience; "you have a right to bear
it, for you were christened Agnes Beaumont. Your father's name alone is
wanting, and that you will surely claim one day, either you or your
husband for you."
"Oh, that husband!" said Agnes, laughing; "I wonder who he will be!"
"A noble gentleman, I trust," said Patience, "who will give you back all
that you have lost."
Agnes pouted.
"I do not care to go to any man as a beggar girl," she answered proudly.
"That you surely will not," answered Patience. "Have no fear. And now
let me dress you. The princess is going to Whitehall with the queen
to-night, and you are to accompany her. It is a mistake, a great
mistake," continued Patience; "you are too young."
"Ah! but I like it," said Agnes; "I like going to the king's court, and,
if the Princess Henrietta goes, surely it cannot hurt me."
Patience shook her head.
"I am not so sure of that," she said.
"Oh, well, never mind!" said Agnes; "you dear old thing, you are always
frightened lest something should befall me. Let me wear my satin gown
embroidered with rosebuds to-night; it becomes me well."
"You cannot," said Patience; "the court is in mourning still, have you
forgotten?"
"Ah! yes, I forgot," said Agnes. "The poor duke. Well, give me my lilac
gown with the black knots." And thus soberly attired she went to court.
*CHAPTER V*
*May-Day*
Time flies for the young; the days, the weeks, the months seem to have
wings; they heed it not, they are glad, because each day is a new joy, a
new surprise.
So it was with the Princess Henrietta and Agnes. They had no cares, at
least Agnes had none. She loved the winter, the biting cold, the snow,
the frost; she would go out with Patience in all weathers, and ofttimes
with the princess to St. James's Park, where they would skate and
otherwise disport themselves. Gradually, however, Agnes fell into the
background; she was too young to be at all the court parties, and
Patience observed this to the queen-dowager.
"She is but a child, and the late hours are injuring her," she said;
"let her abide at home with me." And the queen acquiesced; indeed, she
knew full well that the king's court was no place for the young.
Arrangements were being made for Henrietta's marriage to the Duke of
Orleans, and many noblemen and courtiers came over from France to greet
her. Her time was much taken up with all this, so that Agnes naturally
drifted into a quieter world, and was seen less and less in public,
excepting when there were grand receptions at Somerset House. Some of
these she was permitted to attend, for girls were older for their years
in those days than they are now; still, she was not as much at home in
the court circle as she had been when she was only a spoilt child. She
did not care for, or rather she did not understand, the compliments
which were sometimes addressed to her--for she was very pretty, nay, she
was beautiful, and attracted not a little attention from women as well
as men. She was a general favourite, and if Patience would have allowed
it she would have had many invitations and have been made much of. But
Patience was a very dragon of propriety.
"You shall not go," she said. "You are too young."
"I do not care to go," Agnes answered. "I cannot abide it."
More than once Patience found her asleep, her pillow wet with tears.
She did not question her, she guessed what it was. The first sorrow in
her life would soon come. In June the Princess Henrietta was to be
married, and then they would be parted and she would be alone.
"That will not be good for the child," Patience reasoned. "What shall I
do with her, where shall I take her?"
A curious thing happened. Ann Newbolt had returned to London and little
by little had wound herself into Patience's good graces. More than once
they had met in the park when Agnes was taking her morning airing. Ann
was given to coming thither at the same hour with two dogs which she
brought with her to give them a free run.
"I could not be without them," she would say, "and so I begged Father to
let me bring them up from the manor for company's sake. Our big London
house is so dreary."
Now Agnes had never had any animals of her own, and her delight was
great when, after a few outings, Caesar and Juno--for so they were
called--learned to know her, and would bound across the park when they
saw her coming, and well-nigh knock her down with joy. She would run
with them, she would play with them. At first this was much to
Patience's displeasure; but Ann had her old nurse with her, and she said
to Patience:
"Let the child be, let her run and play; she is too much cooped up in
your palace. Do you not see she is growing pale?"
Ann chimed in, "She is like a hot-house plant; you are forcing her,
Mistress Patience."
"Not I," returned Patience, "but those who surround her, those who do
not understand that she is a child."
"Why do you not take her into the country and let her run wild for a
year or two?" asked Ann's nurse. "Then you would bring her back as
fresh and fair as a rose. Court life is not good for children."
"I would I could do it," said Patience; "but I am not mistress."
"Shall you go back to France with the queen?" asked Ann.
"No, I will not do that," said Patience; "I would rather carry her away
and hide her. King Charles's court is bad enough; what the Duke of
Orleans will be I dare not even think. No, I will keep my sweet lamb
unspotted if I can. She knows no evil, therefore she sees none, though
she be hedged in with wrong-doers. But that will not always be. I
promised her dear mother I would protect her, and so, help me God, I
will."
"You will do well," said Ann. "She is a sweet flower, and worthy of all
care; I would she were my sister."
"I pray I may live to see her an honest man's wife," said Patience.
Such conversations as these were frequent between the two, Patience not
having the remotest idea that it was the Newbolts who possessed the
lands which should have been Agnes's heritage.
The Newbolts were equally ignorant that Agnes was a De Lisle. To them
she was, and had ever been, plain "Agnes Beaumont", the queen's
favourite and the Princess Henrietta's devoted companion.
But enlightenment was soon to come to Patience. The winter passed, and
the spring began to show itself. The trees in the park were budding
green; April showers succeeded March winds, and there was much gaiety in
London. Gilded coaches went and came in the streets, barges floated up
the Thames, and no one troubled, though many knew, that the royal
exchequer was well-nigh empty. The people adored their king as they had
never adored his saintly father. Wherever he passed there were shouts
of, "Long live the king!" and his smiles and bows were received with
enthusiasm.
Never had a king been so popular. There was laughter and merriment
everywhere, dancing and songs even in the streets. The only place where
any decorum was observed was at Somerset House. There the queen-dowager
dwelt, and the people did not love her. She never had been a favourite.
Many people were ready to lay the blame of her dead husband's errors
upon her shoulders, so they frowned upon the queen-dowager and her
sombre court, while they laughed at the merry court at Whitehall, and
would not listen to the evil reports of the goings-on within its
precincts.
The pendulum had swung back; the order of the day had changed; they
treated Charles, his follies, his sins, as they might have treated the
peccadilloes of a spoilt child. When he rode forth in his gilded coach
or went on horseback through the city with his favourites and his
brother, the Duke of York, in his rich attire of gold and satin, his
long, curled wig, great hat with plumes which swept almost on to his
shoulders, the people were wild with delight, and would press round him
in their eagerness; and he would speak to them, calling them his good
people, bidding them make way for him, with that wonderful charm of
manner, that smile, which was the inherent gift of the Stuart race, and
won every heart. They cared not what he did nor what he said; he was
their king, their chosen one, their beloved. If he squandered money
they laughed, and hardly grumbled at supplying his extravagances. Had
he not suffered dire poverty in those evil days when Cromwell sat in his
seat and the Puritan preachers thundered their maledictions against him
from St. Paul's Cross? Every old English custom which could be raked up
was brought to the fore, to the extreme delight of all men. He touched
for the king's evil, and the sick believed they were cured. In the
people's imaginings he could not do wrong, though wrong stared them in
the face.
In olden days there had stood in the Strand a big May-pole, which was
decorated on the first of May with flowers and ribbons, and round which
sports, and dances, and great merriment were wont to take place; but
when the Puritans were masters they exclaimed against this device, as
they did against everything that savoured of pleasure, which they
considered unholy. So the ancient May-pole, which stood a hundred feet
high in the Strand, had been hewn to the ground; there were no more
sports on May-Day. Indeed, there were few sports in England at all
during that season of strict observance of the Sabbath.
Young men and maidens well-nigh forgot how to dance. They went softly,
they laughed but little, because at any sign of outward rejoicing their
elders frowned upon them. The faces of the men seemed to grow longer,
the pretty curls on the maidens' heads were smoothed away beneath
tight-fitting caps. It was not a genial time, and so now, when the sun
shone, and the flowers burst forth, there arose a gentle murmur
throughout the land: "Let us have our May-poles again."
London was, as usual, the first place whence this cry proceeded, and
thousands responded to it--the king and the Duke of York among the
foremost. Yes, they would have a May-pole, larger and finer than any
previous one.
The citizens of London determined to make a display of their loyalty.
We read in an old tract of the times, called "The City's Loyalty
Displayed", how this tree was a most choice and remarkable piece.
"'Twas made below bridge" (that is, below London Bridge), and brought in
two parts up to Scotland Yard, near the king's palace of Whitehall, and
thence it was conveyed, on April 14, 1661, to the Strand, to be erected
there. It was brought with streamers flourishing before it, drums
beating all the way, and other sorts of music. It was so long that
landsmen could not possibly raise it; therefore the Duke of York, Lord
High Admiral of England, commanded twelve seamen to come and officiate
in this business.
They came, and brought their cables, pulleys, and other tackle, along
with six great anchors. After these were brought three crowns, borne by
three men, bareheaded, and a streamer displayed all the way before them,
drums playing, and other music; people thronging the streets with great
shouts and acclamations all day long. The May-pole then being joined
together and looped about with bands of iron, the crown and cane ("the
sceptre"), with the king's arms richly gilded, was placed on the head of
it. A large hoop like a balcony was about the middle of it. Then,
amidst sounds of trumpets and drums, and loud cheering, and the shouts
of the people, the May-pole, far more glorious, bigger, and higher than
any that had preceded it, was raised upright, "which", we are told,
"highly pleased the merry monarch and the illustrious prince, the Duke
of York, and the little children did much rejoice, ancient people did
clap their hands, saying, 'the golden days had begun to appear'. A
party of morris-dancers came forward, finely decked with purple scarves
and their half shirts, with tabor and pipe--the ancient music--and
danced round about the May-pole."
This went on for some time, and there never was seen again such a
May-day as in this year of Our Lord, 1661.
From the windows of Somerset House Princess Henrietta and Agnes watched
the ceremonies. The putting up and the decking of this token that "the
summer had come ", aroused a more tenacious loyalty than ever.
Day by day, as they watched, Agnes's excitement increased; it was no use
for Patience to tell her she should not be seen at the open window.
"I must, I must!" she cried; and, indeed, it would have been cruel to
hinder her.
All over England that May-Day was remembered long afterwards. The king
had come into his rights again, the people had come into theirs, and
they would not be gainsaid.
As for Agnes, she tried to put care on one side, though she knew that
Henrietta's marriage loomed not far distant; sometimes she wondered what
was to become of her when it was accomplished. Once or twice she
approached Patience on the subject, but she frowned and answered her:
"Do not trouble, child. Think ye that you are of less account than the
sparrows on the house-tops or the lilies in the field?" And she would
hurry away, leaving Agnes with her own thoughts and her own fears.
No wonder if on the child's face there came a serious expression, a
certain sadness, which is often to be seen on the faces of children who
are motherless and fatherless, a sort of yearning for something, they
know not what, that has been denied to them.
And yet Agnes was not unhappy. Mistress Newbolt had refused at first to
come up to London, but the colonel had insisted she should do so.
"It is injuring Ann's prospects," he said, "and I cannot entertain
guests in a house where there is no mistress." Therefore she had been
obliged to yield, but she did so only in so far that she ruled the
servants and saw that there was no wilful waste. For herself she
remained in her own apartments, and would not join in the entertainments
which her husband delighted in, neither would she permit Ann to do so.
Thus it came to pass that Agnes and Ann drew closer and closer one to
the other. Not a day passed but they saw one another. Agnes delighted
to go to their house, and, strange to tell, Mistress Newbolt took a vast
liking to her. She would let her follow her into her store closet; she
would let her watch her make the dainty comfits for which she was
renowned; and she would send her away with all manner of good things
piled in a little basket which she kept for that purpose. But if she did
her these kindnesses, she insisted that every time she came to see her
she should go with her to her closet, and there she would read to her
some portion of the Bible and would pray with her. Agnes conformed
meekly to her desires. She looked upon her as a saint, and though she
was stern and cold, and never caressed her, there was a certain
motherliness about her which appealed to the child's heart.
So the month of June came, and the Princess Henrietta was carried over
to France to meet the saddest fate that can befall any woman, namely to
marry a bad man. Agnes thought her heart would break when she bade her
and the queen adieu. Indeed, she fell quite sick with sorrow, lay on her
bed, turned her face to the wall, and would not be comforted.
*CHAPTER VI*
*A First Parting*
Queen Henrietta had been loath to part from Agnes, and she would have
kept the child about her person had it been possible for her to do so,
and had Agnes been a few years older; but to take a child just budding
into girlhood alone, without any other companion, or without any
definite object in view, to the French court seemed folly.
It had been settled that Patience should make a home for her in England.
The queen had spoken seriously to the king about Agnes, and he had
settled a pension on her, "until I can do better," he said. "But we
must first find out to whom her estates have passed. I'll enquire into
the matter. I do not suppose I shall be able to restore them to her;
but something shall be done either when she marries or comes of age.
Till then I will give her a suite of apartments at Hampton Court."
"That is good," said Henrietta, "and my little lady shall have her town
house too, for I will leave Patience in charge of my private apartments
in Somerset House. I do not care for all manner of people to have
access to them, and so Agnes can come to town when she likes."
"And to court when she is old enough," said Charles, with a merry laugh
and twinkling eye.
"No, your majesty," answered Henrietta, "she must wait for that till my
return, and until her position is settled. She has no womankind to
watch over her except Patience, so she must abide at home."
"As you please," said Charles carelessly. So the matter was settled.
Henrietta explained all this to Patience, Agnes standing by and
listening. They even went out to Hampton Court and looked at the
apartments which the king had ordered to be prepared for her. The rooms
were bright enough, looking out upon a sort of private garden, in a wing
of the palace. The queen thought them poorly furnished, and added many
little comforts and graceful remembrances, which made them look more
home-like.
At times over this unfortunate queen's soul, seared and wounded by
sorrow, the old gaiety, the warm, affectionate nature with which she was
endowed, would once more show itself, oftener perhaps to Agnes than to
anyone else, even oftener than to her own daughter.
"She grows so like her mother," she said one day to Patience, tears
filling her eyes, and then she would give Agnes some present, and make
much of her.
"My little girl," she said at parting, "it costs me a great deal to
leave you behind, but I think Patience is right. You have much to
learn. Apply yourself to study; both you and Henrietta have been
neglected. It does not matter for her--the women at the French court are
for the most part ignorant, some of them can scarcely read or write; but
your home will be in England--your father and mother desired it--and
some women are very learned in England. I have left you good teachers,
a tutor, and a governess, so see that your time is well employed."
Then she kissed her.
It was a very lonely little maiden who walked on the terrace of Somerset
House, a beautiful dove-coloured greyhound, which the queen had given
her, her only companion. The animal kept close to its little mistress,
thrusting its long muzzle into her hand as if to console her, its
speaking brown eyes looking up at her as if to say, "Never mind. We are
both young; we shall see them again"; and so she paced up and down the
terrace, then, bidding Duke lie down and wait for her, she entered the
chapel--a lovely piece of architecture, the work of Inigo Jones--the
doors of which were always kept open, though, now the queen was gone,
they would be closed.
It required considerable tact in those difficult religious times to
bring up a child born of English parents in the midst of the French
court. But Patience was a wise woman, broad-minded, and with what was
then an almost unknown quality, a vast toleration. She held an
anomalous position in the queen's household, even as Agnes herself did;
but the marked deference the queen-mother showed her, made it evident
that she was a person of high station. The education both of Agnes and
the Princess Henrietta was left, to a very great extent, in her hands;
it was the same with the religious teaching, the princess had the court
chaplain, but Agnes knelt with Patience and learnt the great truths of
religion from her lips; she guarded her soul as she guarded her body,
she would allow of no religious discussions in her presence. To the
grand services of the Church of Rome she did not take her. "You are too
young, you would not understand," she said; but morning and evening she
would go with her into one of the many beautiful churches in Paris, and
in silence and devotion watch and pray. So the child learnt all
reverence and the great gospel truths. The Bible was a familiar book to
her, read in their quiet chamber. "When you are older you will learn
many other things," she told her; and since they had come to England
Agnes had awakened to the knowledge that the Christian Church was
divided against itself. Sometimes the thought troubled her. Her soul
was growing, she was striving to see and understand. Instinctively now,
in this her first sorrow, she sought comfort where alone she knew it
could be found, and so she entered the beautiful chapel and knelt and
prayed that her friends might be given back to her. Then she crossed
her arms on the back of the prie-Dieu, and her tears flowed fast and
little sobs escaped her. Suddenly she felt a hand laid on her shoulder,
and looking up she saw Patience. They both gazed into each other's eyes
and smiled.
"Be comforted, sweetheart," whispered Patience; and the beauty of her
face, the saintliness of it, struck Agnes as it had never done before.
In truth, Patience, even in appearance, was by no means an ordinary
woman. She had a marked personality, was tall and slight, holding
herself very erect, always dressed in black, plainly but not
inelegantly. She had a certain distinction about her. In age she could
not have been more than forty, and she did not look that even. Under
her white coif her brown hair waved softly; there were no wrinkles or
marks of age upon her face; her hazel eyes were clear, but with an
ineffable sadness in them--indeed, sadness was the note which Patience
struck. She was seldom seen to smile; even when Agnes was a little
child she played with her sadly; but she loved her so intensely that the
child did not feel this sadness. She would sooner be with Patience than
with anyone; Patience meant home to her. She seldom openly caressed
her, but then her whole life toward Agnes was one caress, and
instinctively the child felt this.
Now she rose quickly from her knees, and threw her arms round her neck,
murmuring:
"At least I have you, my own dear Patience; you have not forsaken me."
"Did you think that possible, my darling?" And taking her by the hand,
she led her out into the open. With a short bark of joy and a prolonged
whine, Duke sprang upon them.
"I was looking for you," said Patience, "and could not find you. Duke
saw me coming along the terrace, and bounded whining to me. 'Where is
Agnes?' I asked him. He turned, leapt towards the chapel, looking round
to see that I followed him."
"Ah, he is a dear dog!" said Agnes, laying her hand on his head. "Why
were you looking for me, Patience? You knew I should not be far."
"Because you forget you are alone now," was the quiet answer, "and you
must not wander away; it is not safe for a young girl like you to be
alone. You know how seldom I left you and the princess, and then you had
an attendant."
"I thought that was for the princess," said Agnes, "because of her high
dignity. It does not matter about me; I am nobody."
A slight smile played round Patience's mouth. "We are all somebody," she
said; "we have our honour to safeguard, and a young maiden cannot be
seen alone, in these times especially."
"Is that why I am to have a governess?" asked Agnes sharply. "I do not
like it; let me stay with you, Patience."
"For you to run away as you have done now?" was the answer. "Besides,
you need someone to teach you many things of which I am ignorant."
"And I am to have a tutor too; I cannot require both," Agnes continued.
"We shall be happier alone, Patience, you and I. I will promise you I
will work and never run away; and when you want to leave me, to see
after the queen's affairs, Ann Newbolt will come and sit with me or stay
with me if her mother will let her. I cannot have a governess sending
me to the right and to the left; it would drive me wild; _that would_
make me run away."
"Well, we will see," said Patience; "I am not much inclined for it."
"Oh, you are not inclined for it at all!" said Agnes. "Think of someone
always present in our quiet evenings, or when we stroll about as we are
doing now; a third party would not be pleasing to either of us. If I
must needs always have someone with me, then there is old Martha; surely
she will frighten anyone away, and snarl like an angry dog if man,
woman, or child come within ten yards of me."
Again Patience smiled--she never laughed. It was a sad smile, as if
there lay beneath it a whole world of memories.
They moved to the edge of the terrace and looked up and down the river.
The waters sparkled and shone in the sunlight of this lovely June day.
Barges went and came, boatmen shouted to one another, the sky was blue,
the light of the sun was dazzling: it was one of those days which have a
touch of Italy in them--the very air was warm with perfume, and the
scene was so bright that it seemed to sweep away the great sadness which
had oppressed Agnes.
"Yes, you will think about it, Patience," she persisted. "We must be
happy together, you and I. After all, I knew the princess would go one
day."
Once more the tears gathered in her eyes; but they did not fall, for
coming towards them was Reginald Newbolt.
He made them a deep bow, his plumed hat sweeping the ground, and his
young handsome face alight with kindly sympathy. He saw the tears in
Agnes's eyes, but taking no note of them, said:
"My mother has sent me to ask you on this lovely day to go with her in
our barge to the park at Greenwich, which adjoins the palace. It is
well in the country, and the air is fresher there than it is here in the
city. You must come, because my mother so seldom proposes anything
approaching a diversion. I have not known her go beyond the precincts of
her own home for years. I think, Mistress Agnes, you have thrown your
spell upon her."