Return him safe; learning would rather choose
Her Bodley or her Vatican to lose,
All things that are but writ or printed there,
In his unbounded breast engraven are.
And this great prince of knowledge is by Fate
Thrust into th’ noise and business of a State.
He is too good for war, and ought to be
As far from danger as from fear he’s free.
“Lines on Lord Falkland.”--Cowley.
Little Helena Locke was made happy one day towards the end of July, by
receiving a letter from her father. That it had been long upon the road
did not surprise her, for letters naturally led a hazardous existence
in war time, and she never knew how nearly she had missed receiving this
one; never guessed that for many days it had lain securely in Colonel
Norton’s pocket, that it had been through the battles of Lansdown and
Roundway Down, and had finally been given by Norton, at Marlborough, to
the first messenger he came across.
Whether the sight of the Major’s dead face had pricked his conscience,
or whether he deemed it most to his own interest to have the little
heiress safely bestowed at Notting-hill Manor, it would be hard to say.
For a minute or two Helena’s fate had hung in the balance, but chancing
to come across a man who was riding westward, Norton had entrusted him
with the letter, and after many vicissitudes it had been delivered.
The very day after she had received it came tidings that Prince Rupert
had taken Bristol, and the news so appalled the citizens that Alderman
Pury determined to lose no time in sending his charge to London, for it
was now almost certain that the Royalists would besiege Gloucester.
Helena, glad of any change, and heartily tired of the somewhat sombre
atmosphere of the Pury household, made her preparations in high glee,
and was singing a cheerful ditty that evening as she packed up her
belongings, when a knock at the door of her bedroom recalled her from
dreams of Gabriel Harford to the facts of real existence.
To her surprise, she found pretty Mistress Clemency Coriton standing
without.
“How good of you to come and see me; ’tis a sure sign that Captain
Heyworth is on the high road to recovery,” she said, gaily, “or you
would never have quitted him.”
“Yes, in truth, he is recovering fast,” said Clemency, yet her face
remained grave and sad, and something in her tone puzzled Helena.
“Will you not come to the parlour?” she said. “My room, as you see, is
all in disorder.”
“They gave me leave to seek you out here, because I wanted to see you
alone, dear Helena,” replied Clemency. “Alderman Pury has received a
letter from Lord Falkland, and he tells him that Major Locke was sorely
wounded at Roundway Down. You remember Sir William Waller could give us
no news of him when he passed through Gloucester a few days since.”
“No, for the whole army was dispersed,” said Helena, her face growing
white. “But what more does Lord Falkland say, and how came he to know?
Oh! I understand! My father is a prisoner.”
Clemency put her arms round the girl.
“He is not a prisoner now, dear Nell. He is safe and at rest.”
Helena’s grief was speechless; she only clung to her friend in the
numbing, paralysing shock of a first great sorrow.
“The letter,” she said at last. “I want to see it.”
And Clemency put it into her hands, knowing that Lord Falkland’s
delicately worded and thoughtful kindness would be the best means
of conveying to her the details of her father’s death. She guessed,
moreover, that the news of Gabriel Harford’s imprisonment at Oxford
would rouse her, and fill to some extent the terrible blank that had
come in her life.
“I must do what my father bids me, and go at once to London,” said Nell,
her childlike face looking all at once years older under the strain of
this sudden grief and desolation. “Madam Harford may be able to help her
grandson, and at least I can tell her of his sore need.”
“Yes, you see what Lord Falkland says about trying to effect an
exchange,” said Clemency, glad that she had turned to this practical
thought. “Alderman Pury bid me ask whether you knew who was your
father’s trustee.”
“It is his cousin, Dr. Twisse, the rector of Newbury; he told me so when
we parted; and his attorney is Mr. Corbett, here in Gloucester,” said
Helena.
“I will go and take him word,” said Clemency, “for he is anxious that no
time should be lost; we are in great danger, they say, now that Bristol
hath fallen.”
“But what will become of you if Gloucester is besieged?” said Helena.
“If you could but come with me to London, you would be far safer.”
“My brother-in-law is against it,” said Clemency; “and, indeed, I could
not bear to be parted just now from Joscelyn. It hath been settled that
we shall be married next Saturday.” Promising to return, she went down
in search of the master of the house, and poor Helena, still with
a dazed look of hopeless grief, went on mechanically with her
preparations, her mind haunted now by a vision of her father lying dead,
now by a vivid picture of Gabriel Harford in Oxford Castle, and again by
the thought of Joscelyn Heyworth and Clemency Coriton hurriedly married
ere the perils of the siege began.
When the next day she set off on her journey, under the charge of her
cousin and an escort which Alderman Pury had provided, she was far more
composed than Mistress Malvina, said her farewells without any emotion,
and, like one in a dream, quitted Gloucester for the long and dangerous
journey to London, caring very little what happened to her.
It had been arranged that they should visit Dr. Twisse, the Puritan
rector of Newbury, and her only surviving kinsman, on the way; and
Cousin Malvina found some comfort in this plan, for as they journeyed
Helena’s looks began to alarm her. By day she was silent and pale, at
night flushed and feverish, and when at length they reached Newbury,
and dismounted at the Rectory, it was quite clear that the girl was very
ill.
The rector, however, proved a kindly host, and his wife, though secretly
dismayed when the next day the physician plainly told her that weeks
must elapse before their guest could travel, was an indefatigable nurse,
and never let Helena feel that she was giving trouble.
And so the poor little heiress fought her way through sorrow and
suffering, helped on by an illusion, dreaming of Gabriel Harford and of
how she could best gain his release, dreaming also--not of the marriage
of Captain Heyworth and her friend Clemency--but of that other marriage
which her father had twice suggested to her. Had it, she wondered, ever
been mentioned to Lieutenant Harford? And if so, had he perhaps thought
of her when he so gallantly tried to save her father? And did he now at
Oxford call to mind the maid he had so gallantly rescued from Colonel
Norton’s villainy? Alas! she knew nothing of Gabriel’s grave words at
West Kennet, and never dreamed that at this very time his red-letter
days were the ones when, while others slept, he found a chance of
looking at the carefully concealed miniature of a dark-eyed, darkhaired
maiden, whose sweet yet wilful lips were the only lips in the world he
cared to kiss.
By the time Helena had recovered from her illness, news had reached them
that Lord Essex had relieved Gloucester, and was endeavouring to return
with his victorious army to London, while the King was concentrating all
his efforts on the attempt to block his road. To let two ladies travel
while the country was in such a disturbed state seemed out of the
question, and though it was now past the middle of September, Dr.
Twisse insisted on keeping his visitors. Nor was Helena at all averse
to staying, for she was still very far from strong, and shrank from the
idea of the tedious journey still before them.
Yet Dr. Twisse half wished he had let them go when on the 18th September
it seemed likely that the two armies would encounter each other in
the near neighbourhood of Newbury. A sharp skirmish was reported from
Aldbourn Chase, and on the 19th the King’s forces took possession of
Newbury, to the great disgust of the inhabitants, who were strongly
in favour of the Parliament. In their breasts bitter memories still
lingered which made them little inclined to favour a king who was swayed
by his “popish” wife. Some of the old people could well recall the
burning of the Newbury martyrs, and all the grown folk had heard from
their fathers and mothers details which had sown in their hearts an
unconquerable Protestantism, just as past persecutions have firmly
established in Ireland an unconquerable Catholicism.
With what feelings Helena watched the entry of the King’s forces may
easily be imagined, but it was at least some satisfaction to her to
learn that Prince Maurice’s troop was not in that part of the country,
and that she ran no danger of seeing Colonel Norton.
The window of the Rector’s study commanded a good view of the street,
and she sat looking out at the busy throng below, while Dr. Twisse
worked at his Sunday sermon, pausing now and then to ask some question
of his sad little kinswoman, more for the sake of breaking the monotony
for her than because the movements of the soldiers interested him.
Presently a knock at the front door aroused him.
“Who comes hither, Nell?” he asked. “’Tis late for visitors.”
“It is the gentleman you spoke with as we walked to church on Sunday,
sir,” said Nell.
“What! good Mr. Adam Head, of Cheap-street? I trust he does not want us
to lodge any of the King’s officers.”
“There is an officer with him, sir,” said Helena. “A gentleman with lank
black hair.”
Before more could be said the two visitors were shown into the room,
and the good Rector was courteously receiving them with bows, and no
apparent lack of hospitality, though in the dim recesses of his mind
there lurked a troubled consciousness that the guest rooms were already
full.
“I must present you, sir, to my noble guest, Lord Falkland,” said Mr.
Head.
(“After all he does not want to lie here this night,” reflected the
Rector, his manner becoming still more cordial.)
“My lord, this is Dr. Twisse, who will, I am sure, be ready to serve
your lordship.”
Falkland’s greeting was full of charm. He bowed low to Helena as she was
about to glide quietly by them to the door, but the Rector put his hand
on her arm and stayed her.
“Wait, Helena,” he said, “I am sure my Lord Falkland will spare a moment
to let us thank him for the very kind trouble he took in sending you the
last details as to your father. This, my lord, is the daughter of Major
Locke, whose death at Marlborough you notified to us.”
Falkland gave a glance full of kindness and pity at the delicate,
fair-haired girl; the colour had risen in her pale face, and her blue
eyes were bright with tears. He bent down and kissed her hand, vividly
recalling as he did so the face of the dead Parliamentary officer lying
in the church at Marlborough.
“It was through Mr. Harford, madam, that I learnt your address; being
unable to write to you himself while a prisoner, he begged me to send
you word of what had passed.”
As he spoke he saw the colour deepen and spread in Helena’s pretty face,
and knew by the tone of her voice that she was far from indifferent
to the young lieutenant. Remembering the miniature of the beautiful
dark-haired girl, and Gabriel’s own words as to a kinswoman of the
Bishop of Hereford, he guessed that there were all the materials for a
tragedy in this little maid’s romance.
“Is it true, my lord, that the prisoners in Oxford Castle are cruelly
treated?” asked Helena. “We have heard such shocking tales of their
sufferings.”
“I fear the tales are o’er true,” said Falkland, sadly. “I did what
little was possible for Mr. Harford, and have spoken to those in
authority as to his exchange, but at present there is nothing for it
but patience, and that he has--the patience of a man who believes in his
cause.”
“We owe Lieutenant Harford a debt of gratitude, my lord,” said the
Rector, “not only for rescuing Helena from the vile scheme of Colonel
Norton, an ill-conditioned neighbour of her father’s, but for all that
he did for my dead kinsman. Helena hopes shortly to be in London
under the charge of her godmother, Madam Harford, a kinswoman of the
lieutenant’s, and she will do her utmost to obtain his exchange. But
we trouble your lordship too much with our affairs. In what can I serve
you, my lord?”
“In truth, sir, I came to ask if you would administer the sacrament to
me and to the family of my kindly host, Mr. Head, to-morrow morning,
before I go forth to the expected battle,” said Falkland.
The Rector gladly consented, and the time having been arranged the two
visitors withdrew, Falkland pausing for a few words aside with Helena,
regretting that he could tell her so little with regard to her father,
since all that he knew had been already put in his letter.
Nevertheless his sympathy was no small comfort to the girl, and did much
to take the sting from her grief.
Unable to sleep, partly from excitement, partly from the disturbed state
of the town, she rose early and joining the Rector as he was about to
go to the church, begged leave to accompany him. The quiet service over,
she was waiting at the church door for Dr. Twisse, when Mr. Head and his
guest passed out. She looked in astonishment at Lord Falkland’s face,
for the deep sadness which had struck her so much on the previous night
had utterly gone, his dark eyes were radiant, his manner cheerful and
buoyant; even in his dress, which had before been somewhat disordered
and neglected, she noticed a change. Recognising her, as Mr. Head bowed
in passing, he paused, and in his gentlest and most winning manner said,
“There is a favour I would ask at your hands, Mistress Locke. By Mr.
Harford’s express wish I have in my possession his horse Harkaway. I do
not propose, however, to ride it this morning, and will give orders
that it is to be sent to the Rector’s stables. Perhaps you will be good
enough to use it on your journey to London, so that it may await its
owner on his release.”
“But, my lord,” said Helena, hesitatingly. “If he wished you to have
the horse----?”
“Tell him I have ridden Harkaway ever since quitting Oxford,” said
Falkland. “And if,” he added, gently, “I may venture a word to you in
your bereavement, I would bid you not to weep for the dead, but for
those who live on in these grievous times. It needs no prophet to
foresee much misery to our unhappy country. But I do believe I shall be
out of it ere night.”
Then, with a kindly and courteous farewell, he walked on with his host,
and, mounting at the door of the house in Cheap-street, rode to join Sir
John Byron’s brigade of horse.
All noticed the cheerfulness of his manner and bearing in, the charge
across Wash Common; every hedge in the neighbourhood was lined by the
Parliamentary Musketeers, and the guns on the heights in front of them
were doing their utmost to decimate the troop. But still in the front
rank Falkland rode unscathed; it seemed as if death shrank from taking
one whose noble heart and great intellect so far surpassed all others
on that fatal field, destined to see the slaughter of well-nigh three
thousand Englishmen.
At the end of the Common there came a pause, for it was necessary that
Sir John Byron should reconnoitre the enclosed ground. Finding that the
Parliamentary foot were drawn up at the further side of a large field,
fenced on all sides by high, quickset hedges, and that the only entrance
into this field was far too narrow to allow of the safe passage of the
cavalry, Sir John gave orders that the gap should be widened, and even
as he gave the word it was evident that the whole fire of the foot
soldiers would be concentrated on this spot directly any should-pass it,
for his horse was shot in the throat. Springing to the ground, he called
for another, and in that moment Falkland--ever the first to rush upon
danger--spurred his horse forward.
There was a happy light in his face, as was always the case in moments
of peril.
Here was the chance he had long looked for! He passed through the
gap--one man alone betwixt the two armies; the next instant horse and
rider fell riddled with bullets.
The narrow entrance had proved for the heart-broken hero the gate of
life.
All through the day the battle raged; the Parliamentary troops under
Essex and Lord Roberts, with starvation staring them in the face, knew
that they must conquer their foes or die and leave the city unprotected;
the Royalists were determined to block the road to London, cost what it
might.
At last darkness made further fighting impossible, and it was evident
that the Parliamentary army had gained ground; moreover, the men could
starve another day, but the King, whose ammunition had failed, was in a
worse plight.
At midnight, Helena, lying sleepless in her room at the Rectory, heard
the rumbling of gun carriages, and the tramp of armed men, and sprang
up to hear what had passed. Dr. Twisse could only learn that the King’s
troops were falling back on Newbury, and it was not until the next
morning that they learnt that the London road was free. Later in the day
Mr. Head brought them the news of Lord Falkland’s death.
“His body hath but now been recovered from the field,” he said; “and is
to be borne to Oxford and thence to Great Tew. The peace of which he was
a passionate promoter will be long in dawning for England, but it hath
dawned for him.”
Helena’s own grief was too new, however, to endure listening to further
details; she stole from the room, and ran for comfort and quiet to the
stables, where in Harkaway’s stall she could cry unmolested, finding
some comfort in leaning her aching head on the neck of the horse which
Gabriel had ridden when he had gallantly tried to rescue her father.
It seemed to her that all the great and good were dying; her own father,
Hampden the patriot, Lord Brooke and a host of others within the last
few months--and now the noble-hearted Falkland, with whom only the day
before she had received the sacrament. Who in that generation would rise
to fill the terrible gaps which this great struggle betwixt opposing
principles had caused?