of Inglesant's manner few could resist, but he hardened himself
instantly, and replied,--
"It is a fond hope, sir. How can two walk together unless they are
agreed? What fellowship is there between the saints (however unworthy)
and the followers of the pleasures of this world? And how may you, on
whom the Prince of this world has bestowed every brilliant gift and
power, stand at the resurrection amongst the poor and despised saints of
God?"
Mary Collet moved slightly, and put her hand back upon the chair elbow,
so that it partly and slightly touched Inglesant's hand, at which
movement, a spasm, as of pain, passed over Mr. Thorne's features, and he
drew himself up more sternly than before.
"But I am idling my time vainly and sinfully here," he said, "in
chambering and wantonness, when I should be buckling on my armour.
Mistress Collet, I came here to wish you farewell. I am going to London
in the good cause, and I shall in all human probability never see you
more. I intreat you to listen to the bridegroom's voice, and from my
heart I wish you God-speed."
As she rose, he pressed her hand lightly, and raised his eyes to heaven,
as the Puritans were ridiculed for doing; then he bowed stiffly to
Inglesant, and was gone.
Inglesant followed him to the courtyard, where his horses were standing,
but he took no further notice of him, and rode off through the gate.
Johnny stood looking after him down the alley, between the latticed
walks of the garden. At last he stopped and looked back. When he saw
Inglesant still there, he seemed to hesitate, but finally dismounted and
led his horse back. Inglesant hastened to meet him, with his plumed hat
in his hand.
"Mr. Inglesant," said the Puritan, speaking slowly and with evident
hesitation, "I am going to say something which will probably make you
regard with increased contempt not only myself, which you may well do,
but the religion which I profess to serve, but which I betray, in which
last you will commit a fatal sin. But before I say it, I beg of you, if
a few moments ago I said anything that was unnecessarily severe and more
than my Master would warrant, that you will forgive it. Woe be to us if
we falter in the truth, and speak pleasant things when we should set our
face as a flint; nevertheless, there is no need for us to go beyond the
letter of the Spirit, and I almost feel that the Lord has disowned my
speech, seeing that so soon after I fear I myself am fallen from Grace."
He stopped, and Inglesant wondered what this long preamble might mean.
He assured him that he bore no ill-feeling, but very much the contrary;
but the Puritan scarcely allowed him to finish before he began again to
speak, with still greater difficulty and hesitation.
"I came here to-day, sir, with the intention, at which I have arrived
not without long wrestling in prayer, of proposing in the Lord's name a
treaty of marriage with Mrs. Mary Collet. In this I have sought
direction, as I say, for a long time before addressing her. At length,
yesterday, sitting all alone, I felt a word sweetly arise in me as if I
heard a voice, which said, 'Go and prevail!' and faith springing in my
heart with the word, I immediately arose and went, nothing doubting.
But when I came into her presence, and found her with you, upon whom I
have ofttimes apprehended that her affections were fixed; when I thought
of the disadvantage at which doubtless, in the world's eye at least, I
should be thought to stand with regard to you; when I considered her
breeding and education in every sort of prelatical and papistical
superstition--which latter has all through been a great stumbling-block
to me, and to some others of the godly to whom I have opened this
matter;--when I thought of these things, I, wretched man that I am! I
mistrusted the Lord's power. I was deaf to the voice that spoke within
me, and I left my message unsaid. What my sin is in this cannot be told.
It may be that I have frustrated the Lord's will and purpose with regard
to her, not only as regards calling her out of that empty show and
profession in which she is, but, which doubtless will seem of more force
to you, of providing her with some refuge from the storm which assuredly
is not far from this household. I have already, if you will believe me,
done something in warding off the first advances of that storm, and
think I do not deceive myself that I have power sufficient to continue
to do so. I entreat you, Mr. Inglesant, to think of this, if you have
not yet done so, for her sake, and not for mine." He spoke these last
words in a different manner, and with an altered voice, as though they
were not part of what he had originally intended to say, but had been
forced from him by the spectacle his mind presented of danger to her
whom it was evident he unselfishly loved. "I am not so ignorant in the
world's ways," he went on, "as not to know how absurd such an appeal to
you must seem; probably it will afford amusement to your friends in
after days. Nevertheless, I cannot refrain myself. I am distracted
between two opinions, and as I rode away it came into my mind, that I
might after all be flying away from a shadow, and that there might be no
such relation between you as that which I have supposed--no other than
that of a free and fair friendship; in which case I entreat you, Mr.
Inglesant, though I confess I have no right nor claim upon you even for
the commonest courtesy, to let me know it."
Inglesant had listened to this singular confession at first with
surprise, but as the man went on, he became profoundly touched. There
was something extremely pathetic in the sight of the human nature in
this man struggling within him beneath the force of his Puritanism, the
one now urging him to conciliate, and the next moment the old habit
breaking out in insult and denunciation; the one opening to him glimpses
of human happiness which the other immediately closed. And what he said
was doubtless very true, and pointed plainly to Inglesant what men would
say was his duty. What ground had he to oppose himself to this man--he,
with scarcely any formed purpose of his own? If the lofty Strafford had
fallen, and the Archbishop had proved powerless to protect himself, how
was he to protect any who might trust to him? Even if he had thought
nothing of this, it would have been impossible to have been angry with
the distracted man before him, untrained to conceal his thoughts, nay,
taught by his religion that self-restraint or concealment is a sin, and
that to keep back a word or a thought is a frustration of the will of
God--a training that would lay him open at every point before the
polished pupil of the Jesuit and the Court.
These reflections gave to his ordinary courtesy an additional charm,
which plainly commanded the confidence of his rival, and he said,--
"What do you wish me to do, Mr. Thorne? I am willing to leave
everything to Mrs. Collet's decision."
"I will take nothing on myself again," said the other; "I will leave
everything in the Lord's hands. If it is His will that we be brought
together, we shall be so brought. I will not stay now--indeed I am in
no fit state of mind--but in a few days I will come again, and whatever
the Lord shall do in the meanwhile, His will be done."
The inconsistency of this last resolution with the denunciation of the
Ferrar family, and especially of Inglesant, which he had before
expressed, struck Inglesant as so extraordinary that he began to doubt
the sanity of his companion; but finding that Mr. Thorne was determined
to go, he parted from him with mutual courtesy, and returned at once
into the house.
As he entered the room where Mary Collet was still sitting alone, she
looked up with a smile, and was about to speak, no doubt to palliate the
rudeness of their guest; but seeing from his manner that something
extraordinary had occurred, she stopped, and Inglesant, who had resolved
to tell her all that the Puritan had said, began at once and related
simply, and, as closely as he could, word for word, what had happened.
As he went on, the sympathy which the strange conflict he had witnessed
in the other's breast had excited in his own, and the feeling he had of
the truth of the other's power to protect, inspired his manner so that
he spoke well and eloquently of his rival's nature, and of the
advantages that alliance with him would bestow; but honest as his
purpose was, no course more fatal to his rival's chance could probably
have been taken, while at the same time he seriously, if he had any
cause himself, jeopardised that also.
Mary Collet listened with ever-increasing surprise, and the light in her
eyes died away to coldness as she continued to look at Inglesant. Her
calm look suffered no other change; but that acute perception which
Inglesant's training had given him--perception which the purest love
does not always give--showed him what was passing in his friend's mind:
he stopped suddenly in his pleading, and knew that he had said too much
not to say more. He sank on the ground before the chair, and rested his
hands upon the carved elbow, with his face, to which excitement gave
increased beauty, raised to Mary Collet's eyes.
"It is all true, Mary," he said. It was the first time he had called
her by her name, and it sounded so sweetly that he said it again. "It
is all true, Mary; I might have spoken to you of another, would many
times have spoken, if all this had not been true. As he said to me,
dark days are coming on, the State is shaken to its base, the highest in
the realm are disgraced and ruined, and even harried to death; what will
happen the wisest heads cannot think; the King is a fugitive; I am all
but penniless, should be homeless but for you. This even is not all; if
it had been I might have spoken, but there is more which must be told.
I am not my own. I am but the agent of a mighty will, of a system which
commands unhesitating obedience--obedience which is part of my very
being. I cannot even form the thought of violating it. This is why,
often, when I tried to speak, my tongue refused its office, my
conscience roused itself to keep me still. But if, happily for me, I
have been wrong; if, even for me, the gates of heaven may still
open,--the gates that I have thought were inexorably closed,--I dare not
face the radiance that even now issues through the opening space. Mary,
you know me better than I know myself; I am ignorant and sinful and
worldly; you are holy as a saint of God. Do with me what you will, if
there is anything in me worthy of you, take me and make it more worthy;
if not, let me go: either way I am yours--my life belongs to
you--neither life nor death is anything to me except as it may advantage
you."
The light shone full on Mary Collet's face, looking down on him as he
spoke. The odour of the garden flowers filled the room. The stillness
of the late afternoon was unbroken, save by the murmur of insect life.
Her eyes--those wonderful eyes that had first attracted him in the
Church--grew larger and more soft as they looked down on him with a love
and tenderness which he had never seen before, and saw only once again.
For some seconds she did not--perhaps could not--speak, for the great
lustrous eyes were moist with tears. He would have lain there for ever
with no thought but of those kindly eyes. At last she spoke, and her
voice was tender, but low and calm; "Johnny,"--it was the first time she
had called him so, and she said it twice,--"Johnny, you were right, I
know you better than you know yourself. Your first instinct was right;
but it was not your poverty, nor the distraction of the time, nor yet
this mysterious fate that governs you, which kept you silent; poverty
and the troubles of the times we might have suffered together; this
mysterious fate we might have borne together, or have broken through.
No," she continued with a radiant smile, "cavalier and courtier as you
are, you also, in spite of Mr. Thorne, have heard a voice behind you
saying, 'This is the way, walk in it.' That way, Johnny, you will never
leave for me. As this voice told you, this is not a time for us to
spend our moments like two lovers in a play; we have both of us other
work to do, work laid out for us, from which we may not shrink; a path
to walk in where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage. As
for me, if I can follow in any degree in the holy path my uncle walked
in, growing more into the life of Jesus as he grew into it, it is enough
for me; as for you, you will go on through the dark days that are at
hand, as your way shall lead you, and as the divine voice shall call;
and when I hear your name, as I shall hear it, Johnny, following as the
divine call shall lead, you may be sure that my heart will beat
delightedly at the name of a very noble gentleman who loves me, and
whom--I love."
The evening sun that lighted all the place went down suddenly behind the
hedges of the garden, and the room grew dark.
*CHAPTER VIII.*
The manner of life at Gidding went on after this without the least
alteration, and Inglesant's position in the family remained the same.
Two or three days after, Mr. Thorne returned, and had an interview with
Mary Collet alone. She told him she had not thought of marriage with any
one, but had dedicated her life to other work. He attempted a flowing
discourse upon the evils of celibacy, and managed to destroy by his
manner much of the kindly feeling which Mary had conceived for him. He
met John Ferrar and Inglesant coming from the Church, and Inglesant
tried to exchange some kindly words with him; but he avoided
conversation with him, and soon left. Inglesant passed most of his time
(for he was not quite so much with Mary Collet as before) in reading,
especially in Greek, and in assisting some of the family in preparing
that great book, which was afterwards presented to Prince Charles. The
influence of Mr. Hobbes's conversation wore off in the peaceful
religious talk and way of life of this family. It was here that he had
first obtained glimpses of what the divine life might be, and it was
here alone that he felt any power of approach to it in his own heart.
His love for Mary Collet, which was increased tenfold by the
acknowledgment she had made to him, and which grew more and more every
day that he spent at Gidding, associated as it was with all the
teachings and incidents of these quiet holy days, made this life of
devotion more delightful than can be told, and, indeed, made that life
more like to heaven than any other that Inglesant ever lived. As he
knelt in Church during the calm hours of prayer, and now and again
looked up into Mary Collet's face from where he knelt, he often felt as
though he had found the Beatific Vision already, and need seek no more,
so closely was her beauty connected with all that was pure and holy in
his heart. In these happy days all pride and trouble seemed to have
left him, and he felt free in heart from all self-will and sin. It was
a dream and unreal, doubtless; but it was allowed him not altogether
without design, perhaps, in the divine counsel, and it could not be
without fruit in his spiritual life.
The long summer days that passed so quietly at Gidding were days of
disturbance all over England, the King's friends and those of the
Parliament endeavouring to secure the counties for one or other of the
contending parties. Nearly the whole of the eastern counties were so
strong for the Parliament that the King's friends had little chance, and
those gentlemen who attempted to raise men or provide arms for the King
were crushed in the beginning. But Huntingdonshire was more loyal, and
considerable preparation had been made by several gentlemen, among
others Sir Capel Beedel and Richard Stone, the High Sheriff, to repair
to the King's quarters when the standard should be set up. Inglesant
was waiting to hear from his brother, who had returned from France, and
was in Wiltshire with the Lord Pembroke, who had set in force the
commission of array in that county. Inglesant would have joined him but
for the close neighbourhood of the King, who might be expected in those
parts every day. Accordingly, one afternoon, the King, accompanied by
the Prince, afterwards Charles the Second, and the Duke of Lennox, and
by Prince Rupert, whom some called the Palsgrave after his father, came
to Huntingdon. Inglesant rode into Huntingdon that evening, and found
the King playing at cards with the Palsgrave. The King received him
graciously, and spoke to him privately of Father St. Clare, who had
latterly, he said, been very active among the Catholics of Shropshire
and Staffordshire, from whom he soon expected to receive large sums of
money. He said the Jesuit had told him where Inglesant was, and that he
intended on the next day to come by Little Gidding on his way, and
should spend some hours there, as he was very desirous again to see a
place which had so pleased him, and of whose inmates he had formed so
high an opinion from what he had seen of them. Inglesant slept that
night in Huntingdon, but very early on the fine summer morning he rode
out to Little Gidding to warn the family of the honour that was intended
them. Accordingly, about noon, they saw from the windows of the house
the royal party approaching at the bottom of the hill. The whole family
went out to meet them to the boundary of the lordship at a little bridge
that spans the brook.
When the King approached foremost of all, they went to meet him, and
kneeling down, prayed God to bless and preserve His Majesty, and keep
him safe from his enemy's malice. The King rode up the hill at a foot
pace, and alighted at the Chapel, which he examined carefully, and was
then shown over the whole house, being particularly pleased with the
almshouses, for whose inmates he left five pieces of gold, saying it was
all he had. He had won them from the Palsgrave the night before at
cards.
When he was come into the house, the great book that was being prepared
for the Prince was brought him, and he spent some time in examining it
and admiring the prints of which it was full, pointing out to the
Palsgrave, who appeared to understand such things, the different style
of each engraver. When he had sufficiently admired the book and walked
about the house, admiring the pleasant situation upon a little hill, the
sun beginning to go down, the horses were brought to the door, and the
King and the rest mounted. The whole family, men and women, knelt down
as the King mounted, and prayed God to bless and defend him from his
enemies, and give him a long and happy reign. "Ah!" said the King,
raising his hat, "pray for my safe and speedy return again," and so rode
away, not knowing that he should return there again once more, in the
very dead of night, a fugitive, and almost alone.
* * * * *
When John Inglesant had said to Mary Collet that he was almost
penniless, he had used rather a strong hyperbole, for at that time the
sum of money his father had left him was almost untouched. Upon leaving
London, he had managed to get it transferred from the goldsmith with
whom he had deposited it to another at Oxford, by a bill of exchange on
the latter, as was the custom in transmitting sums of money in those
days. This bill being now due, Inglesant decided on going to Oxford to
secure possession of the money. He lodged at first at Mr. Martin
Lippiard's, a famous apothecary; but after a few days he entered himself
at Wadham College, where he got rooms which were of great use to him
afterwards, when the Court came to Oxford.
No place could have been found which offered more to interest and
delight a man of Inglesant's temperament than Oxford did at this time.
It was still at the height of that prosperity which it had enjoyed under
the King and Laud for so many years, but which was soon to be so sadly
overcast. The colleges were full of men versed and intelligent in all
branches of learning and science, as they were then taught. The halls
and chapels were full of pictures and of rich plate soon to be melted
down; the gardens and groves were in beautiful order, and the bowling
greens well kept. The utmost loyalty to Church and State existed. Many
old customs of the Papists' times, soon to be discontinued, still
survived. One of the scholars sang the Gospel for the day in Hall at
the latter end of dinner. The musical services in the Chapels on
Sundays, Holy Days, and Holy Day Eves, were much admired, and the
subject of great care. Music was studied deeply as a science, antiquity
and every foreign country being ransacked for good music, and every
gentleman pretending to some knowledge of it. The High Church party,
which reigned supreme, were on excellent terms with the Papists, and
indeed they were so much alike that they mixed together without
restraint. No people in England were more loyal, orthodox, and
observant of the ceremonies of the Church of England than the scholars
and generality of the inhabitants.
Every kind of curious knowledge was eagerly pursued; many of the
Fellows' rooms were curious museums of antiquities and relics, and
scarce books and manuscripts. Alchemy and astrology were openly
practised, and more than one Fellow had the reputation of being able to
raise Spirits. The niceties of algebra and the depths of metaphysics
were inquired into and conversed upon with eagerness, and strange
inquiries upon religion welcomed. Dr. Cressy, of Merton, was the first
who read Socinus's books in England, and is said to have converted Lord
Falkland, who saw them in his rooms. A violent controversy was going on
among the physicians, and new schools had risen up who practised in
chemical remedies instead of the old-fashioned vegetable medicines.
The members of the University had put themselves into array and a
posture of defence, for as yet there was no garrison at Oxford, and
divers parties of soldiers were passing through the country, sent by the
Parliament to secure Banbury and Warwick. The deputy Vice-Chancellor
called before him in the public schools every one who had arms, and the
recruits were trained in the quadrangles of the colleges and other
places. Matters being in this state, late in October, in the middle of
the week, news reached Oxford that the King had left Shrewsbury with his
army, and was marching through Warwickshire on his way to London. The
Parliamentary army was following from Worcester, and, as was thought,
the two armies would soon engage. Numbers of volunteers immediately
started to meet the King's army; many of the undergraduates stealing out
of Oxford secretly, and setting forth on foot. Inglesant joined himself
to a company of gentlemen who had horses, and who, with their servants,
made quite a troop.
Some way out of Oxford he overtook a young undergraduate, the elder
brother of Anthony Wood, afterwards the famous antiquary (who had stolen
out of Oxford as above), and made one of his servants take him up behind
him. They went by Woodstock and Chipping Norton, and slept the Friday
night at Shipston-upon-Stour, and early the next morning obtained news
of the royal army, which arrived under the Wormleighton Hills in the
evening of Saturday. The King lodged that night at Sir William
Chauncy's, at Ratoll Bridge, some distance from the army, where
Inglesant went late in the evening. These quiet woodland places, some
of the most secluded in England, both then and now--so much so, that it
was said in those days that wolves even were found there--were disturbed
by unwonted bustle these dark October nights, parties marching and
counter-marching, recruits and provisions arriving. It was not known
where Lord Essex's army was, but after it was dark it was discovered by
the Prince of Wales's regiment, which had been quartered in two or three
villages under Wormleighton Hills. The whole regiment was drawn out into
the fields, and remained there all night, provisions being brought to
them from the villages, and news was sent to the King and Prince Rupert.