Covenanters' army, carried on a correspondence with him, and copies of
his letters were believed to be stolen from the King's pockets at night
by one of the gentlemen of the bed-chamber, and sent to the leader of
the Scots' army. Montrose retired into Scotland, and as the King was
desirous of continuing a correspondence which promised so much, he
decided upon sending a special messenger to the Marquis. Inglesant was
fixed upon for this mission, as being known by the Royalists as a
confidential agent of the Court, but at the same time almost entirely
unknown to the opposite party. He found Montrose at Edinburgh, at a
time when the Marquis was endeavouring to form a party among the
nobility of Scotland, in opposition to the Covenant. Inglesant was
probably little more in this negotiation than an accredited
letter-carrier; but a circumstance occurred in connection with his stay
in Scotland which is not without interest with reference to his future
character. Among the gentlemen with whom Montrose was in connection
were some of the Highland chiefs, and to one of these the Marquis sent
Inglesant as a safe agent, being perfectly unknown in Scotland. This
gentleman, understanding that the messenger of Montrose was coming to
meet him, travelled down from the Highlands with a great retinue of
servants, and sent on one of his gentlemen, with a few attendants, to
meet the young Englishman on the borders of Perthshire. Inglesant had
ridden from Stirling, and the night being stormy and dark, he had
stopped at a gentleman's house in a lonely situation at the foot of the
Badenoch Hills. Here, late in the evening, his entertainers met him,
and they passed the night in company. After supper, as they were
sitting in front of the fire with the master of the house and several
more, the conversation turned upon the faculty of second sight, and the
numberless instances of its certainty with which the Highland gentlemen
were acquainted. While they were thus discoursing, the attention of the
gentleman who had come to meet Inglesant was attracted by an old
Highlander who sat in the large chimney, and he inquired whether he saw
anything unusual in the Englishman, that made him regard him with such
attention. He said no, he saw nothing: in him fatal or remarkable more
than this, that he was much mistaken if that young man was not a seer
himself, or, at any rate, would be able before many months were over to
see apparitions and spirits. Inglesant thought little of this at the
time, but he remembered it afterwards when an event occurred on his
return to London which recalled it to his recollection.
The treaty having been settled with the Scots, and the writs issued for
a new Parliament, the King returned to London.
One day in September, Inglesant received a visit from one of the
servants of the Archbishop of Canterbury, who brought a message from
Laud expressing a wish to see Mr. Inglesant at his dinner at Lambeth
Palace on any day that would suit his convenience. He went the next day
by water at the proper hour, and was ushered into the great hall of the
palace, where dinner was laid, and many gentlemen and clergymen standing
about in the windows and round the tables, waiting the Archbishop.
Inglesant's entrance was remarked at once, his dress and appearance
rendering him conspicuous, and his person being well known, and
occasioned some surprise; for the Archbishop had not been latterly on
friendly terms with the Queen, whom he had opposed on some questions
relating to Papists, to whose party, even since his being in the King's
household, Inglesant was considered to belong. The servants had
evidently received orders concerning him, for he was placed very high at
table and waited upon with great attention. On the Archbishop's
entrance he noticed Inglesant particularly, and expressed his pleasure
at seeing him there. The conversation at dinner turned entirely on the
Scotch rebellion, and the failure of the Earl of Strafford to repress
it; and on the King's return to London, which had not long taken place.
Several gentlemen present had been with the army, and spoke of the
insubordination among the officers, especially such as had been
Parliament men. The elections for the new Parliament were expected
shortly to take place, and many of the officers were deserting from the
army, and coming up to London and other places to secure their return.
The utmost dissatisfaction and insubordination prevailed over the whole
country, for Laud and Strafford, after exciting the animosity of the
people, had proved themselves weak, and the people began to despise as
well as hate them--not perceiving that this probably proved that they
were not the finished tyrants they were supposed to be. Strafford's
army, raised by himself, having proved powerless against the Scots and
insubordinate against its master, the popular party was encouraged to
attack him, whom they hated as much as ever, though they began to fear
him less. The violent excitement of the popular party against the High
Churchmen and against ceremonies was also a subject of conversation.
The wildest rumours were prevalent as to the probable conduct of the new
Parliament, but all agreed that the Lord Lieutenant and the Archbishop,
and probably the Lord Keeper, would be impeached. After dinner the
Archbishop rose from table, and retired into one of the windows at the
upper end of the hall, overlooking the river, requesting Inglesant, to
whom he pointed out the beauties of the view, to follow him. Having
done this, he said a few words to him in a low voice, explaining his
regret at the difference which had arisen between himself and the Queen,
whose most faithful servant he protested he had ever been, and whom he
was most desirous to please. He then went on to say that he both could
and intended to inform Her Majesty of this through other channels than
Mr. Inglesant, though he bespoke his good offices therein; but he wished
principally to speak to him of another matter, which would require
privacy to explain fully to him; but thus far he would say, that
although he had always been a true servant of the Church of England, and
had never entertained any thoughts inconsistent with such fidelity, yet
he believed the Roman Catholics were aware that he had always behaved
with great toleration to them, and had always entertained a great
respect for their religion, refusing to allow it to be abused or
described as Antichrist in the English pulpits; that it was notorious
that he had excited the enmity of the popular party by this conduct; and
that whatever he might suffer under the new Parliament would be in
consequence of it. He was aware that Mr. Inglesant was in the
confidence of that party, and especially the particular friend of Father
Hall, the leader of the most powerful section of it; and he entreated
his services to bring the Jesuit and himself to some understanding and
concerted action, whereby, at least, they might ward off some of the
blows that would be aimed at them. The Archbishop said that many of the
wisest politicians considered that the two parties who would divide the
stage between them would be the popular party and the Papists; and if
this were really the case (though he himself thought that the loyal
Church party would prove stronger than was thought), it was evident that
Mr. Inglesant's friend would be well able to return any kindness that
the Archbishop had shown the Romanists.
Inglesant went to the Jesuit as soon as possible, and related his
interview with the Archbishop. Father Hall listened to it with great
interest.
"He has been like a true ecclesiastic," he said, "blind to facts while
he was in the course of his power, astonished and confounded when the
natural results arrive. Nevertheless, I fancy he will make a good
fight, or at least a good ending. The people know not what they want,
and might have been led easily, but it is too late. What was the real
amount of tyranny and persecution the people suffered? The Church
officers were blamed on the one hand for not putting the laws in force
against the Papists, and on the other, for putting them in force against
the Puritans. However, he has a right view of the power of the Church
party, in which I join him. We shall see the good fight they will make
for the King yet. The gentry and chivalry of England are rather rusty
for want of use, but we shall see the metal they are made of before
long. However, the Catholics will be ready first, are ready in fact now,
and I have great hopes of the use that we shall make of these
opportunities. I am much mistaken if such a chance as we shall have
before many months are over will not be greater than we have had for a
century. I shall count on you. We have been long delayed, and you must
have thought all our pains would come to nothing; but we must have long
patience if we enter on the road of politics.
"You are now," said the Jesuit, "embracing the cause full of enthusiasm
and zeal, and this is very well; how else could we run out the race,
unless we began with some little fire? But this will not last, and
unless you are warned, you may be offended and fall away. When you have
lived longer in this world and outlived the enthusiastic and pleasing
illusions of youth, you will find your love and pity for the race
increase tenfold, your admiration and attachment to any particular party
or opinion fall away altogether. You will not find the royal cause
perfect any more than any other, nor those embarked in it free from mean
and sordid motives, though you think now that all of them act from the
noblest. This is the most important lesson that a man can learn--that
all men are really alike; that all creeds and opinions are nothing but
the mere result of chance and temperament; that no party is on the whole
better than another; that no creed does more than shadow imperfectly
forth some one side of truth; and it is only when you begin to see this
that you can feel that pity for mankind, that sympathy with its
disappointments and follies, and its natural human hopes, which have
such a little time of growth, and such a sure season of decay.
"I have seen nothing more pathetic than touches in the life of some of
these Puritans--men who have, as they thought in obedience to the will
of the Deity, denied themselves pleasure--human pleasure--through their
lives, and now and then some old song, some pleasant natural tale of
love flashes across their path, and the true human instinct of the sons
of Adam lights up within them.
"Nothing but the Infinite pity is sufficient for the infinite pathos of
human life.
"As you know, we have many parties in our Church, nay, in our own order:
different members may be sent on opposing missions; but it is no matter,
they are all alike. Hereafter it will be of little importance which of
these new names, Cavalier or Roundhead, you are called by, whether you
turn Papist or Puritan, Jesuit or Jansenist, but it will matter very
much whether you acted as became a man, and did not flinch ignobly at
the moment of trial. Choose your part from the instinct of your order,
from your birth, or from habit or what not; but having chosen it, follow
it to the end. Stand by your party or your order, and especially in the
hour of trial or danger be sure you never falter; for, be certain of
this, that no misery can be equal to that which a man feels who is
conscious that he has proved unequal to his part, who has deserted the
post his captain set him, and who, when men said 'such and such a one is
there on guard, there is no need to take further heed,' has left his
watch or quailed before the foeman, to the loss, perhaps the total ruin,
of the cause he had made his choice. I pray God that such misery as
this may never be yours."
The elections being over, London became very full. The new members
hastened up. The nobility and country gentry came crowding in, and all
the new houses in the Strand and Charing Cross were occupied, and a
throng of young Cavaliers filled the courts and precincts of the palace.
As soon as the King arrived, Inglesant went into waiting in his new
post, in which great responsibility in the keeping of the royal
household, especially at night, devolved upon him. His post came
immediately after that of the gentlemen of the privy chamber, with whom
the immediate attendance on the person of the King stopped, but the
charge of the King's rooms brought him continually into the royal
presence.
As soon as the Parliament met, the impeachment of Strafford began; and
as it proceeded, the excitement grew more and more intense. It was not
safe for the courtiers to go into the city, except in numbers together,
and a court of guard was kept by the Cavaliers before Whitehall towards
Charing Cross.
One day Inglesant received a letter from the Jesuit, whom he seldom saw,
as follows:--
"Jack, tell your friend, the Archbishop, that Lambeth House will be
attacked two nights from this, by a rabble of the populace. The
Parliament leaders will not be seen in this, but they can be felt. Burn
this, but let the Archbishop know the hand from which it comes."
On receiving this warning the Archbishop fortified his house, and
crossed the water to his chamber in Whitehall, where he slept that night
and two others following. His house was attacked by a mob of five
hundred men; one of them was wounded and afterwards executed; not much
damage was done.
History can furnish few events so startling and remarkable as the trial
and death of Lord Strafford--events which, the more they are studied,
the more wonderful they appear. It is not easy to find words to express
the miserable weakness and want of statesmanship which led to, and made
possible, such an event; and one is almost equally surprised at the
comparatively few traces of the sensation and consternation that such an
event must have produced. I am not speaking of the justice or the
injustice of the sentence, nor of the crime or innocence of the
accused,--I speak only of a great minister and servant of the Crown, in
whose policy and support the whole of the royal power, the whole
strength of the national establishment, was involved and pledged. That
such a man, by the simple clamour of popular opinion, should have been
arrested, tried, and executed in a few days, with no effort but the most
degrading and puny one made on his behalf by his royal master and
friend, certainly must have produced a terror and excitement, one would
think, unequalled in history. That the King never recovered from it is
not surprising; one would have thought he would never have held up his
head again. That the royal party was amazed and confounded is not
wonderful; one would have thought it would have been impossible ever to
have formed a royal party afterwards. What considerations were powerful
enough in the King's mind to induce him to consent to an act of such
wretched folly and meanness we shall never know.
It was two nights after the execution. The guard was set at Whitehall
and the "all night" served up. The word for the night was given, and
the whole palace was considered as under the sole command of Inglesant,
as the esquire in waiting. He had been round to the several gates, and
seen that the courts and anterooms were quiet and clear of idlers, and
then came up into the anteroom outside the privy chamber, and sat down
alone before the fire. In the room beyond him were two gentlemen of the
privy chamber, who slept in small beds drawn across the door opening
into the royal bedchamber beyond. The King was in his room, in bed, but
not asleep; Lord Abergavenny, the gentleman of the bedchamber in
waiting, was reading Shakespeare to him before he slept. Inglesant took
out a little volume of the classics, of the series printed in Holland,
which it was the custom of the gentlemen of the Court, and those
attached to great nobles, to carry with them to read in antechambers
while in waiting. The night was perfectly still, and the whole palace
wrapped in a profound quiet that was almost oppressive to one who
happened to be awake. Inglesant could not read; the event that had just
occurred, the popular tumults, the shock of feeling which the royal
party had sustained, the fear and uncertainty of the future, filled his
thoughts. The responsibility of his post sat on him to-night like a
nightmare, and with very unusual force; a sense of approaching terror in
the midst of the intense silence fascinated him and became almost
insupportable. His fancy filled his mind with images of some possible
oversight and of some unseen danger which might be lurking even then in
the precincts of the vast rambling palace. Gradually, however, all
these images became confused and the sense of terror dulled, and he was
on the point of falling asleep when he was startled by the ringing sound
of arms and the challenge of the yeoman of the guard, on the landing
outside the door. The next instant a voice, calm and haughty, which
sent a tremor through every nerve, gave back the word "Christ."
Inglesant started up and grasped the back of his chair in terror.
Gracious Heaven! who was this that knew the word? In another moment the
hangings across the door were drawn sharply back, and with a quick step,
as one who went straight to where he was expected and had a right to be,
the intruder entered the antechamber. It wore the form and appearance
of Strafford--it was Strafford--in dress, and mien, and step. Taking no
heed of Inglesant, crouched back in terror against the carved
chimney-piece, the apparition crossed the room with a quick step, drew
the hangings that screened the door of the privy chamber, and
disappeared. Inglesant recovered in a moment, sprang across the room,
and followed the figure through the door. He saw nothing; but the two
gentlemen raised themselves from their couches, startled by his sudden
appearance and white, scared look, and said, "What is it, Mr. Esquire?"
Before Inglesant, who stood with eyes and mouth open, the picture of
terror, could recover himself, the curtain of the bed-chamber was drawn
hastily back, and the Lord Abergavenny suddenly appeared, saying in a
hurried, startled voice:--
"Send for Mayern; send for Dr. Mayern, the King is taken very ill!"
Inglesant, who by this time was recovered sufficiently to act, seized
the opportunity to escape, and, hurrying through the antechamber and
down the staircase to the guard-room, he found one of the pages, and
despatched him for the Court physician. He then returned to the guard
at the top of the staircase.
"Has any one passed?" he asked.
"No," the man said; "he had seen no one."
"Did you challenge no one a moment ago?"
The man looked scared, but finally acknowledged what he feared at first
to confess, lest it should be thought he had been sleeping at his post,
that he had become suddenly conscious of, as it seemed to him, some
presence in the room, and found himself the next moment, to his
confusion, challenging the empty space.
Failing to make anything of the man, Inglesant returned to the privy
chamber, where Lord Abergavenny was relating what had occurred.
"I was reading to the King," he repeated, "and His Majesty was very
still, and I began to think he was falling asleep, when he suddenly
started upright in bed, grasped the book on my knee with one hand, and
with the other pointed across the chamber to some object upon which his
gaze was fixed with a wild and horror-stricken look, while he faintly
tried to cry out. In a second the terror of the sight, whatever it was,
overcame him, and he fell back on the bed with a sharp cry."
"Mr. Inglesant saw something," said both the gentlemen at once; "he came
in here as you gave the alarm."
"I saw nothing," said Inglesant; "whatever frightened me I must tell the
King."
Dr. Mayern, who lodged in the palace, soon arrived; and as the King was
sensible when he came, he merely prescribed some soothing drink, and
soon left. The moment he was gone the King called Abergavenny into the
room alone to him, and questioned him as to what had occurred.
Abergavenny told him all he knew, adding that the esquire in waiting,
Mr. Inglesant, was believed to have seen something by the gentlemen of
the privy chamber, whom he had aroused. Inglesant was sent for, and
found the King and Abergavenny alone. He declined to speak before the
latter, until the King positively commanded him to do so. Deadly pale,
with his eyes on the ground, and speaking with the greatest difficulty,
he then told his story; of the deep silence, his restlessness, the
sentry's challenge, and the apparition that appeared. Here he stopped.
"And this figure," said Abergavenny in a startled whisper, "did you know
who it was?"
"Yes, I knew him," said the young man; "would to God I had not."
"Who was it?"
Paler, if possible, than before, and with a violent effort, Inglesant
forced himself to look at the King.
A contortion of pain, short but terrible to see, passed over the King's
face, but he rose from the chair in which he sat (for he had risen from
the bed and even dressed himself) and, with that commanding dignity
which none ever assumed better than he, he said,--
"Who was it? Mr. Esquire."
"My Lord Stafford."
Abergavenny stepped back several paces, and covered his face with his
hands. No one spoke. Inglesant dared not stir, but remained opposite
to the King, trembling in every limb, and his eyes upon the ground like
a culprit. The King continued to stand with his commanding air, but
stiff and rigid as a statue; it seemed as though he had strength to
command his outward demeanour, but no power besides.
The silence grew terrible. At last the King was able to make a slight
motion with his hand. Inglesant seized the opportunity, and, bowing to
the ground, retired backward to the door. As he closed the door the
King turned towards Abergavenny, but the room was empty. The King was
left alone.
*CHAPTER VII.*
In the beginning of 1642 the King left Whitehall finally, and retired
with the Queen to Hampton Court, from which he went to the south to see
Her Majesty embark, and without returning to London proceeded to the
north. Very few attendants accompanied him, and Inglesant was left at
liberty to go where he pleased. His brother was in France, and he was
at the moment ignorant where the Jesuit was. Several motives led him to
go to Gidding, where he felt sure of a welcome, though Mr. Ferrar was
dead, and he accordingly rode there in the end of March. Mr. Nicholas
Ferrar jun. had been dead nearly a year, having not long survived his
uncle, and the household was governed by Mr. John Ferrar, Mr. Nicholas
Ferrar's brother. Their usual quiet and holy life seemed quieter and
more holy; a placid melancholy and a sort of contented sorrow seemed to
fill the place, which was not disturbed even by those expectations of
approaching trouble and danger which all felt. They received Inglesant
with kindness and even affection, and begged him to remain as long as he
pleased. Mary Collet, who, secretly he acknowledged to himself, was the
principal reason of his coming down, met him frankly, and seemed more
attractive and beautiful than before. He felt awed and quieted in her
presence, yet nothing was so delightful to him as to be in the room or
garden with her, and hear her speak. He endeavoured to assist her in
her work of attending to the poor and sick, and in tending the garden,
and became like a brother to her, without saying or desiring to say one
word of gallantry or of love. The Puritans of the neighbouring towns,
who had always disliked the Ferrars, came more frequently into their
neighbourhood, and endeavoured to set the country people against them,
and even to stir them up to acts of violence; but the Ferrars remarked
that these annoyances were lessened by the efforts of a Puritan
gentleman, who was possessed of considerable property in Peterborough,
and who had latterly taken advantage of several excuses to come to
Little Gidding.
Inglesant saw this gentleman once or twice, and became rather attracted
towards him in a strange way. He appeared to him to be a man in whom a
perpetual struggle was going on between his real nature and the system
of religion which he had adopted, but in whom the original nature had
been subdued and nearly extinguished, until some event, apparently of
recent occurrence, had renewed this conflict, and excited the conquered
human nature once more to rebellion. This alone would have afforded
sufficient interest and attraction to a man of Inglesant's temperament;
but this interest was increased tenfold when he perceived, as he did
very soon, that this disturbing event and the reason which brought Mr.
Thorne to Gidding, were in fact one and the same, the same indeed which
brought himself there--attraction to Mary Collet. The peaceful
half-religious devotion with which he regarded his friend prevented him
from being incited to any feeling of jealousy by this discovery, and
indeed would have made the idea of such a sentiment and opposition
almost ridiculous. He treated Mr. Thorne, when they met at table or
elsewhere, with the most marked courtesy--a courtesy which the other
very imperfectly returned; at first ignoring Inglesant altogether, and
when this was no longer possible, taking every opportunity to reprove
and lecture him in the way the Puritans took upon them to do, all of
which Inglesant bore good-humouredly. Things had gone on this way for
several weeks, and Mr. Thorne's visits had grown less frequent, when one
summer afternoon he rode over, and after seeing Mr. John Ferrar, came to
seek Mary Collet. He found her and Inglesant alone in one of the small
reading parlours looking on the garden. Inglesant had been reading
aloud in Mr. Crashaw's poems; but on the other's entering the room, he
rose and stood behind Mary Collet's chair, his hand resting on the high
back. His attitude probably annoyed Mr. Thorne, whose manner was more
severe and stern than usual. He made the lady a formal greeting, and
took slight heed of Inglesant, who wished him Good-day.
"The days are far from good, sir," he said severely, "and the night of
the soul is dark; nevertheless, there is a path open to the saints of
God, which will lead to a brighter time."
He looked hard at Mary Collet as he spoke.
"I should hope, sir," said Inglesant, with a conciliatory smile, "that
you and I may one day stand together in a brighter dawn."