CHAPTER XVI.

Nought is there under heaven's wide hollownesse

That moves more dear compassion of mind,

Than beautie brought t'unworthie wretchednesse

Through envious snares or fortune's freaks unkinde.

* * * * * * *

To think how causeless of her own accord

This gentle damzell, whom I write upon,

Should plonged be in such affliction,

Without all hope of comfort or reliefe.

SPENSER.

"I am driven to it, I am driven to it!" repeated Sir Willmott Burrell,

as he attired himself in his gayest robes, while his eyes wandered

restlessly over the dial of a small clock that stood upon the

dressing-table. "No one has seen her--and I have forced Constantia to

wed at six, instead of seven. Once wed--why, there's an end of it; and

if the worst should come, and Zillah persecutes me still, I can but

swear her mad, and this will terminate her fitful fever." He placed a

small pistol within his embroidered dress, and girded his jewelled sword

more tightly than before. "The minutes linger more tardily than ever,"

he continued: "full fifteen to the time.--Would it were over! I am

certain Cromwell would not interfere, if once she was my wife; he loves

her honour better than the Jew's."

Again he drew forth the pistol and examined it, and then replaced it as

before--again girded his sword; and having drunk copiously of some

ardent spirit, a flask of which had been placed near him, he descended

to the library.

The only person in the apartment was Sir Robert Cecil: he was leaning,

in the very attitude in which we first met him, against the high and

dark chimney-piece of marble; but, oh, how altered! His hand trembled

with emotion as he held it to Sir Willmott, who took it with that air

of easy politeness and cordiality of manner he could so well assume.

"The hour is nearly arrived," said the old man, "and you will become the

husband of my only child. Treat her kindly--oh, as you ever hope to have

children of your own, treat her kindly: be to her what I ought to have

been--a protector! Sir Willmott, I cannot live very long; say only that

you will treat her kindly. Whatever I have shall be yours: you will be

kind, will you not?" And he looked at Sir Willmott with an air of such

perfect childishness, that the knight imagined his mind had given way.

"Sit down, my good sir; compose yourself--you are much agitated--I pray

you be composed."

"Broad lands are a great temptation," continued Sir Robert, with the

same appearance of wavering intellect--"Broad lands and gold are great

temptations, and yet they do not make one happy. Stoop your

head--closer--closer--there:--now I will tell you a secret, but you must

not tell it to Constantia, because it would give her pain--I have never

been happy since I possessed them! Stop, I will tell you all, from

beginning to end. My brother, Sir Herbert--I was not Sir Robert then--my

brother, I say----"

"Some other time, my dear sir," interrupted Burrell, whose apprehension

was confirmed; "you must cheer up, and not think of these matters: you

must take some wine." He filled a goblet from a silver flagon that stood

with refreshments on the table; but the baronet's hand was so unsteady,

that Sir Willmott was obliged to hold the cup to his lips. "Now, my dear

sir, collect your thoughts; you know all things are safe and secret:

there is no possibility of your ever being otherwise than beloved and

respected."

"Not by my child," said the unhappy man two or three times, twisting his

hands convulsively--"Not by my child, my pride, my Constantia! Her kiss

is as cold as ice upon my brow; and I thought--perhaps 'twas but a

dream, for I have been sleeping a little--I thought she wiped her lips

after she kissed me. Do you think she would destroy the taste of her

father's kiss?"

"Most certainly not: she loves you as well and as dearly as ever."

"I cannot believe it, Sir Willmott, I cannot believe it;--besides,

there's no safety for me till Hugh Dalton's pardon is granted."

"Damn him!" growled Burrell, and the curse grated through his closed

teeth--"Damn him, deeply, doubly, everlastingly!"

"Ay, so he will be damned," replied Sir Robert, in a calm, quiet tone,

"and we shall all be damned, except Constantia; but he must be

pardoned--on earth I mean--for all that."

Burrell looked daggers at Sir Robert Cecil, but he heeded them not, saw

them not. Sir Willmott's first suspicion was right--the injured were

avenged! The unhappy man retained his memory, though his words and

actions were no longer under the control of reason: his conscience lived

on--his intellect had expired. "It is even so," thought Sir Willmott the

next moment: "and now, Constantia, despite your scorn, your hatred, your

contempt, I do pity you."

Burrell understood not how superior was Constance in every respect,

either to his pity or his praise.

Exactly as the clock struck six, the doors at the bottom of the room

were thrown open, and Lady Frances Cromwell entered with her friend;

Barbara and the waiting-maidens of Lady Frances followed; but nothing

could exceed Burrell's displeasure and mortification, when he perceived

that his bride was habited in the deepest mourning. Her hair, braided

from her brow, hung in long and luxuriant tresses down her back, and

were only confined by a fillet of jet. Upon her head was a veil of black

gauze, that fell over her entire figure; and her dress was of black

Lucca silk, hemmed and bordered with crape. She advanced steadily to her

father, without noticing her bridegroom, and, throwing up her veil,

said, in a low voice,--

"Father, I am ready."

Burrell, who feared that even in the very brief space which now

remained, Sir Robert would betray the weakness of his mind, stepped

forward, and would have taken her hand; but she put him from her, with a

single gesture, saying,--

"Not yet, sir, I am still _all_ my father's.--Father, I am ready."

It was pitiable to see the vacant eye which Sir Robert fixed upon her

pale, fine face, and most painful to observe the look of anxious inquiry

with which she regarded him.

"Dear father," she exclaimed at length, sinking on her knees, "dear

father, speak to me."

The gesture and the voice recalled him for a little to himself. He

kissed her cheek affectionately, and, rising with much of the dignity of

former years, pressed her to his bosom.

"Forgive me, child;--my Lady Frances, I crave your pardon--I am

myself again--I was a trifle indisposed, but it is over. Fill me

some wine," he commanded to the attendants, who gathered in the

doorway--"Yes--up--full--more full; I drink--" he continued, with a

gaiety of manner suiting ill with his grey hairs and pallid face--"I

drink to the happiness and prosperity of my daughter and her

bridegroom!" He quaffed to the bottom of the cup, then flung it from

him.

"Now go we to the bridal," he said, leading Constantia forward, while

Sir Willmott conducted Lady Frances, who hardly condescended to touch

the hand he presented to her. As they passed an open court, leading to

the little chapel, Sir Robert stopped abruptly, and addressing his

daughter, said,--

"But I have not blessed you yet; you would not like to die without my

blessing."

"Die, my father!" repeated Constance.

"I pray your pardon, child," he replied, in a half muttering, half

speaking voice--"I was thinking of your mother: but now I quite remember

me, this is a bridal," and he hurried her forward to the altar where the

clergyman stood ready to receive them.

"Sir Willmott Burrell," said Constantia to the knight, as he placed

himself at her side, "my father is ill, and I cannot think upon what his

malady may be with any thing like calmness; if what I dread is true, you

will not force me from him."

"Let the ceremony proceed, and, villain as I know you think me, I will

not oppose any plan you may form for him," was Burrell's reply. Lady

Frances stood close beside her friend; and Barbara, in her white robes

and simple beauty, headed the group of servants who crowded round the

steps.

The clergyman commenced the service according to the form of the

Established Church, and concluded the opening address without any

interruption. He then proceeded to the solemn and beautiful appeal made

as to the liberty of those who present themselves at the altar.

"I require and charge you both, (as ye will answer at the

dreadful day of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be

disclosed,) that if either of you know any impediment why ye may

not lawfully be joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess

it?"

At this point Sir Robert Cecil, his enfeebled mind still more relaxed

after the strong effort made at self-possession, and weakened and heated

by the wine he had taken, exclaimed,--

"Those two joined together in matrimony! It is impossible--she has not

on a wedding-garment! What does she here?" Then looking round, he left

his daughter's side, and seizing Barbara's hand, dragged her to the

altar, saying, "This must be our bride--our lady bride--no one would wed

in sables."

It is impossible to describe the consternation which this circumstance

occasioned; but the baronet had hardly uttered the words, when the

window that Barbara had taken so much pains in adorning, was darkened by

a figure springing into and standing on the open casement, and the

shrill voice of the Jewess Zillah shouted, in a tone that was heard most

audibly over the murmurs of the little crowd, and echoed fearfully along

the chancel, "Justice--vengeance!" and, suiting the action to her words,

she discharged a pistol with but too steady an aim at the innocent

Barbara, whom on this occasion, as before, she had mistaken for her

rival, Constantia Cecil.

END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

VOLUME THE THIRD.

CHAPTER I.

Behold!

What blessings ancient prophesie foretold,

Bestow'd on her in death. She past away

So sweetly from the world, as if her clay

Laid onely downe to slumber. Then forbeare

To let on her blest ashes fall a teare.

But, if th'art too much woman, softly weepe

Lest grief disturbe the silence of her sleepe.

HABINGTON.

Barbara, the young, the beautiful, the innocent Barbara, fell, as the

bullet struck her, upon the arm of the imbecile Sir Robert Cecil. It is

impossible adequately to describe the scene that followed. Constantia

caught the maiden from her father, who shrank at the sight of blood, and

drew himself gradually away, like a terrified child from a frightful

object, while his daughter, kneeling, supported the stricken girl upon

her bosom. After the deed was done, the Jewess stood for a moment with

an air of exultation upon the ledge of the oriel window, and then

disappeared; but Sir Willmott, who saw that the time was come when, if

ever, his prey was to be secured, rushed to the open door, with a view

to seize her as she descended, and at once rid himself of all danger by

her destruction. At the instant his evil purpose was about to be

accomplished, his course was arrested, as he reached the postern, by a

powerful arm, which grappled at his throat. The stentorian voice of

Dalton shouted "Villain!" so loudly, that many, who had crowded round

the dying Barbara, turned in alarm to ascertain who spoke.

"Hinder me not," said Sir Willmott, gasping for breath, "but help me to

secure the murderer--the girl is slain!"

"God of Heaven!--what girl?--Who was it fired?" exclaimed the

Skipper.--"What means this?" he continued, relaxing his grasp, and

advancing up the chancel with a beating heart and a rapid step. Burrell

took advantage of the momentary reprieve, and was hastily proceeding

round to the window, when the tramp of many horses came upon his ear.

The steel caps and polished blades of a detachment of Cromwell's own

Ironsides glittered amid the ruins and trees that surrounded the chapel,

and his progress was again stayed by no other than Colonel John Jones.

"Sir Willmott Burrell," said the Puritan soldier, in a slow and

deliberate tone, "his Highness commands your immediate presence at the

house of Hampton, profanely denominated Hampton Court; and I have his

Highness's commands also to prevent the taking place of any union

between you and Mistress Constantia Cecil."

"It has taken place," interrupted Burrell, turning pale, and trembling.

"It has _not_ taken place," interrupted in her turn Lady Frances, whose

habitual and active kindness had prompted her to seek assistance for

Barbara, so that she encountered the troop under the command of her

step-uncle--"I say it has not taken place--half a ceremony is no

marriage. But have you any with you skilled in surgery? for here has

been a most foul murder: come with me into the chapel, and behold!" Lady

Frances returned, followed by Colonel Jones, Sir Willmott as a prisoner,

and the greater number of the soldiery.

Constantia Cecil, still kneeling, supported Barbara, whose life was

ebbing fast, as the blood trickled from a small wound, where the ball

had entered a little above her right shoulder. Her eyes, gentle and

expressive as ever, were fixed upon her father, who stood speechless and

powerless by her side. The women gathered, weeping, around. The good

clergyman approached to offer spiritual consolation to the departing

girl. Hugh Dalton had heard the story of the fatal act repeated by at

least a dozen persons, who were ignorant that they spoke in the presence

of the poor maiden's parent; but he heeded not their words; he did not

even ask how or by whom the dreadful deed was done. Enough to him was

the certainty that his daughter was dying, dying before him--that she,

to whom his heart had clung through evil report and good report, in

sorrow and in sin, but always with confidence and hope, as the star that

would at length guide him into a haven of peace and joy, which had been

rapidly growing out of repentance; that she, his only, his beloved, his

most excellent, and most unspotted child, would, within an hour, become

as the clay on which he trod--that her mild, cheerful, and patient

spirit, was passing to the God who gave it--unrepiningly passing; for

no groan, no murmur came from her lips--lips that had never been stained

by deceit or falsehood. Still her eyes rested on her parent, and once

she endeavoured to stretch forth her weak arms towards him, but they

fell powerless at her side; while he, still mute and motionless as a

statue, seemed rooted to the earth. The clergyman spoke a few words of

an approaching eternity. It was only then the Buccaneer replied; without

a tear, without a sob; or any outward demonstration of sorrow: though

all who heard him felt that the words came from a man whose sole

sensation was despair.

"No need, sir, to speak so to her. She knows about these things far more

than we do. Hush! for the sake of God, and let me hear her breathing."

"Some ten of you look out for the murderer," commanded the stern voice

of Colonel Jones, who had by this time received the whole account from

the Lady Frances.

"You will not be able to find her," exclaimed the alarmed Burrell,

dreading that, if she were secured, she might communicate the secret she

still retained. "You will not, I assure you, be able to find her," he

repeated, as the sturdy soldiers prepared to obey their officer's

command.

"You know the person, then, Sir Willmott," said Colonel Jones, coldly.

Burrell looked abashed. "Mistress Constantia will, I hope, forgive me,"

added the rough soldier, walking towards the steps of the altar, where

the lady of Cecil Place still supported the fading form of the poor

faithful maiden she had so truly loved--"Mistress Constantia will

forgive one of her father's oldest friends for thus breaking in upon and

disturbing a most solemn ceremony. His Highness has commanded her

bridegroom to be brought before him, and the marriage to be stayed,

inasmuch as he charges Sir Willmott Burrell with being already wedded!"

The maiden to whom he spoke looked up, and gazed into the countenance of

the speaker; but it would have been difficult to determine the nature of

her feelings, save by the cold shudder that seemed to pass over her

whole frame.

On Sir Robert Cecil the information made no impression, for he

understood it not, though he smiled and bowed several times to his old

companion in arms. But the Buccaneer started, roused for a moment from

the one absorbing sorrow of his whole soul, but still heedless of the

danger he encountered in thus standing face to face with a troop of the

hardiest soldiers of the Commonwealth. Turning eagerly towards their

officer, he exclaimed,--

"Ha! it is known!--then the papers were received."

"Traitor! double traitor! I have ye now!" shouted Burrell, presenting

his pistol at the head of the Buccaneer. Instantly Barbara, as with a

last effort, sprang from the arms of the Lady Cecil, and threw herself

on her father's bosom. The effort was not needed, for the weapon was

snatched from the villain's hand. He had now to encounter the reproof of

Colonel Jones.

"Sir Willmott, I thought I could have taken your word, that you had no

arms except your sword. I was mistaken."

"That fellow is the famous Buccaneer, Hugh Dalton, upon whose head a

price is set. Arrest him, Colonel Jones!" exclaimed Burrell, skilfully

turning the attention from himself to the Skipper, who stood embracing

the lifeless form of his daughter--gazing upon eyes that were now

closed, and upon lips parted no longer by the soft breath of as sweet a

maiden as ever was born of woman.

"Are you the Malignant of whom he speaks?" inquired the stern colonel.

"He is the unhappy father of that murdered girl," interposed Constantia.

"Whoever refuses to seize him deserves a traitor's death," reiterated

Sir Willmott.

The troopers stood with their hands on their swords, awaiting their

officer's commands.

The Buccaneer turned fiercely round, still pressing his child to his

bosom with one arm, and holding a pistol within the other hand.

"I am," he said in a bold and fearless, but not an arrogant tone, "I am

he whom that accursed villain names. But ye had better not rouse a

desperate man. Dare not to touch me; at your peril stay my course.

Colonel Jones, tell the Protector of England, that Hugh Dalton craves no

pardon now. This, this was my hope--my pride; for her I would have been

honest, and well thought of! Behold! she stiffens on my arm. She is

nothing now but clay! Yet, by the God that made her! no churlish earth

shall sully this fair form. She was as pure as the blue sea that cradled

her first months of infancy; and, mark ye, when the rays of the young

sun rest upon the ocean, at the morning-watch, by my own ship's side, in

the bosom of the calm waters, shall she find a grave. I will no more

trouble England--no more--no more! Gold may come dancing on the waves,

even to my vessel's prow, I will not touch it. Cromwell may take me if

he will, but not till I perform for my good and gentle child the only

rite that ever she demanded from me."

Even as the tiger-mother passes through an Indian crowd, bearing the

cherished offspring of her fierce but affectionate nature, which some

stray arrow has destroyed--terrible in her anguish and awful in her

despair--her foes appalled at her sufferings and the bravery of her

spirit, though still panting for her destruction--their arrows are on

the string--yet the untaught, but secret and powerful respect for the

great source of our good as well as of our evil passions--Nature--works

within them, and she passes on, unmolested, to her lair:--even so did

Dalton pass along, carrying his daughter, as she were a sleeping infant,

through the armed warriors, who made way, as if unconscious of what they

did;--some, who were themselves fathers, pressed their mailed fingers on

their eyes, while others touched their helmets, and raised them a little

from their brows.

"Colonel Jones," exclaimed the enraged Burrell, "you will have to answer

for this to a high power. The Protector would give its weight in gold

for the head of that man; and the weight of that again for a knowledge

of his haunts."

"Sir Willmott," was the soldier's reply, who, now that Dalton was really

gone, began to fear he had done wrong in permitting his escape, and

therefore resolved to brave it haughtily, "I can answer for my own

actions. Methinks you are cold and hot as best serves your purpose!"

Then turning abruptly from him, he added, "We will but intrude upon the

hospitality of this mourning bride," glancing at Constantia's dress, and

smiling grimly, "until some tidings be obtained of the person who has

perpetrated this horrid murder; and having refreshed our horses, return

forthwith; for his Highness is impatient of delay, and 'tis good fifty

miles to London. Our orders were, Sir Willmott, that you hold no

communion with any; so that, if you have aught to say to Mistress Cecil,

it must be said at once."

"I can only offer my protestations against this tyrannical--ay, sir, I

speak boldly, and repeat it--this tyrannical mandate--and assure the

fair dame that I consider her my lawful wife."

Constantia made no reply. Colonel Jones then gave the Lady Frances a

slip of paper from the Protector, which merely stated that he thought

she ought to remain with her friend, until the mysterious rumour was

either cleared up or confirmed. Lady Frances right joyfully assented;

and Constantia, overpowered by a multitude of contending feelings, led

the way with her father, who seemed as passive and as uninterested in

the events of that most eventful hour, as if he were a child of a

twelvemonth old. The soldiers who had been sent to reconnoitre soon

returned, for night was closing upon them, and they had searched the

ruins of Minster, and galloped over the wild hills of Shepey, without

being able to trace the misguided Jewess. Colonel Jones could,

therefore, do nothing more than advise Sir Michael Livesey (the sheriff,

who resided, as we have stated, at Little Shurland) of the circumstance

that had occurred, and send off to King's Ferry, Sheerness,

Queenborough, and all the little hamlets along the coast, information of

the melancholy event, with orders to prevent any stranger, male or

female, from quitting the island, until his Highness's future pleasure

was known.

The murder of Lady Cecil's favourite was calculated to excite strong

feelings among all classes; for the poor had long considered the

residence of so good a family on their island as a blessing from Heaven;

more particularly, as the former possessor, Sir Herbert, Sir Robert's

elder brother, only lived at Cecil Place occasionally, being of too gay,

too cavalier a temperament, to bide long in so solitary a dwelling. He

had been warmly attached to the house of Stuart; and while his younger

brother sought, and made friends of the Parliamentarian faction, he

remained steady in his loyalty, and firm in his attachment to the

unfortunate and unpopular Charles. Upon this topic we may hereafter

treat: at present, we have to do with the living, not the dead.

We cannot now intrude upon the privacy of either Lady Frances or

Constantia; we must content ourselves with simply stating that Colonel

Jones took his departure, leaving, at Lady Frances's request, a guard of

six soldiers at Cecil Place--a precaution he felt justified in adopting

when he had taken late events into consideration, and was made

acquainted with the miserable condition of Sir Robert's mind, to whom

also he undertook to send immediate medical advice. The servants,

particularly Lady Frances's women, assembled in the great hall, and with

many tears, real and unfeigned tears, lamented the loss of poor

Barbara--talked of the mystery of her birth, and the sudden and almost

supernatural appearance of her father. Greatly did they blame themselves

for permitting him to remove the body, "not knowing," as they said, "but

he would give it heathenish and not Christian burial."

After a little while they conversed upon the malady that had overtaken

their master, and then hints and old tales were thought of, and almost

forgotten rumours of Sir Herbert and his revelries repeated; and as the

lamps burned still more dim, and the embers of the fire dropped one by

one into that grey and blue dust that heralds their perfect decay, the

legends of the isle were rehearsed--How Sir Robert de Shurland, a great

knight and a powerful thane, being angry with a priest, buried him alive

in Minster churchyard; and then, fearing the king's displeasure, and

knowing he was at the Nore, swam on a most faithful horse to his majesty

from the island, to crave pardon for his sin; and the king pardoned him;

and then, right joyfully, he swam back to the land, where, on his

dismounting, he was accosted by a foul witch, who prophesied that the

horse which had saved him should be the cause of his death; but, in

order to prevent the accomplishment of the prophecy, he slew the

faithful animal upon the beach;--how that some time afterwards he passed

by the carcass, and striking a bone with his foot, it entered the flesh,

which mortified, and the tyrant died; in testimony whereof the tomb

stands in Minster church until this day, in the south wall, under a

pointed arch, where he lies, leaning on his shield and banner, and at

his feet a page, while behind him is carved the horse's head that caused

his death:--and, moreover, how his spirit is seen frequently leaping

from turret to turret of the house of Great Shurland, pursued by a

phantom steed! Of such like legends did they talk. Then they thanked God

that their lady was not likely to be Sir Willmott's wife, and spoke of

Dalton and his daring, and many of the old servants shuddered.

Then again they reverted to Barbara, and the women crept more closely

together, like a flock of frightened sheep, when one older than the

others affirmed that no true maid could ever rest in the ocean's bed,

unless a Bible were slung about her neck; and as Dalton, of course, had

no Bible, their beloved Barbara could have no rest, but must wander to

all eternity on the foam of the white waves, or among the coral-rocks

that pave the southern seas, or sigh in the shrouds of a doomed ship.

But again, some other said, as she was so pure a Christian, perhaps that

would save her from such a fate; and one of the soldiers who sat with

them reproved their folly, and lectured, and prayed for their

edification, with much zeal and godliness; and when he had concluded,

the thought came upon them that the Reverend Jonas Fleetword had not

been there since the earliest morning, when somebody declared he was

seen talking with Sir Willmott Burrell near the Gull's Nest, and fear

for the preacher came over them all--why, they could not tell.

CHAPTER II.

Poesy! thou sweet'st content

That e'er Heaven to mortals lent,

Though they as a trifle leave thee

Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee;

Though thou be to them a scorn

That to nought but earth are born;

Let my life no longer be

Than I am in love with thee.

GEORGE WITHER.

There are two things that to a marvellous degree bring people under

subjection--moral and corporeal fear. The most dissolute are held in

restraint by the influence of moral worth, and there are few who would

engage in a quarrel, if they were certain that defeat or death would be

the consequence. Cromwell obtained, and we may add, maintained his

ascendency over the people of England, by his earnest and continually

directed efforts towards these two important ends. His court was a rare

example of irreproachable conduct, from which all debauchery and

immorality were banished; while such was his deep and intimate, though

mysterious, acquaintance with every occurrence throughout the

Commonwealth, its subjects had the certainty of knowing that, sooner or

later, whatever crimes they committed would of a surety reach the ear of

the Protector. His natural abilities must always have been of the

highest order, though in the early part of his career he discovered none

of those extraordinary talents that afterwards gained him so much

applause, and worked so upon the affections of the hearers and standers

by. His mind may be compared to one of those valuable manuscripts that

had long been rolled up and kept hidden from vulgar eyes, but which

exhibits some new proof of wisdom at each unfolding. It has been well

said by a philosopher, whose equal the world has not known since his

day, "that a place showeth the man." Of a certainty Cromwell had no

sooner possessed the opportunity so to do, than he showed to the whole

world that he was destined to govern. "Some men achieve greatness, some

men are born to greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them."

With Cromwell, greatness was achieved. He was the architect of his own

fortunes, owing little to, what is called, "chance," less to patronage,

and still less to crime, if we except the one sad blot upon the page of

his own history, as connected with that of his country. There appears in

his character but a small portion of that which is evil, blended with

much that is undoubtedly good. Although his public speeches were, for

the most part, ambiguous--leaving others to pick out his meaning--or

more frequently still, having no meaning to pick out--being words,

words, words--strung of mouldy sentences, scriptural phrases, foolish

exclamations, and such like; yet, when necessary, he showed that he

could sufficiently command his style, delivering himself with so much

energy, pith, propriety, and strength of expression, that it was

commonly said of him, under such circumstances, "every word he spoke was

a thing." But the strongest indication of his vast abilities was, the

extraordinary tact with which he entered into, dissected, and

scrutinised the nature of human kind. No man ever dived into the manners

and minds of those around him with greater penetration, or more rapidly

discovered their natural talents and tempers. If he chanced to hear of a

person fit for his purpose, whether as a minister, a soldier, an

artisan, a preacher, or a spy--no matter how previously obscure--he

sent for him forthwith, and employed him in the way in which he could be

made most useful, and answer best the purpose of his employer. Upon this

most admirable system (a system in which, unhappily, he has had but few

imitators among modern statesmen,) depended in a great degree his

success. His devotion has been sneered at; but it has never been proved

to have been insincere. With how much more show of justice may we

consider it to have been founded upon a solid and upright basis, when we

recollect that his whole outward deportment spoke its truth. Those who

decry him as a fanatic ought to bethink themselves that _religion was

the chivalry of the age in which he lived_. Had Cromwell been born a few

centuries earlier, he would have headed the Crusades, with as much

bravery, and far better results than our noble-hearted, but wrong-headed

"Coeur de Lion." It was no great compliment that was passed on him by

the French minister, when he called the Protector "the first captain of

the age." His courage and conduct in the field were undoubtedly

admirable: he had a dignity of soul which the greatest dangers and

difficulties rather animated than discouraged, and his discipline and

government of the army, in all respects, was the wonder of the world. It

was no diminution of this part of his character that he was wary in his

conduct, and that, after he was declared Protector, he wore a

coat-of-mail concealed beneath his dress. Less caution than he made use

of, in the place he held, and surrounded as he was by secret and open

enemies, would have deserved the name of negligence. As to his political

sincerity, which many think had nothing to do with his religious

opinions, he was, to the full, as honest as the first or second Charles.

Of a truth, that same sincerity, it would appear, is no kingly virtue!

Cromwell loved justice as he loved his own life, and wherever he was

compelled to be arbitrary, it was only where his authority was

controverted, which, as things then were, it was not only right to

establish for his own sake, but for the peace and security of the

country over whose proud destinies he had been called to govern. "The

dignity of the crown," to quote his own words, "was upon the account of

the nation, of which the king was only the representative head, and

therefore, the nation being still the same, he would have the same

respect paid to his ministers as if he had been a king." England ought

to write the name of Cromwell in letters of gold, when she remembers

that, within a space of four or five years, he avenged all the insults

that had been lavishly flung upon her by every country in Europe

throughout a long, disastrous, and most perplexing civil war. Gloriously

did he retrieve the credit that had been mouldering and decaying during

two weak and discreditable reigns of nearly fifty years'

continuance--gloriously did he establish and extend his country's

authority and influence in remote nations--gloriously acquire the real

mastery of the British Channel--gloriously send forth fleets that went

and conquered, and never sullied the union-flag by an act of dishonour

or dissimulation!

Not a single Briton, during the Protectorate, but could demand and

receive either reparation or revenge for injury, whether it came from

France, from Spain, from any open foe or treacherous ally;--not an

oppressed foreigner claimed his protection but it was immediately and

effectually granted. Were things to be compared to this in the reign of

either Charles? England may blush at the remembrance of the insults she

sustained during the reigns of the first most amiable, yet most weak--of

the second most admired, yet most contemptible--of these legal kings.

What must she think of the treatment received by the Elector Palatine,

though he was son-in-law to King James? And let her ask herself how the

Duke of Rohan was assisted in the Protestant war at Rochelle,

notwithstanding the solemn engagement of King Charles under his own

hand! But we are treading too fearlessly upon ground on which, in our

humble capacity, we have scarcely the right to enter. Alas! alas! the

page of History is but a sad one! and the Stuarts and the Cromwells, the

Roundheads and the Cavaliers, the pennons and the drums, are but part

and parcel of the same dust--the dust we, who are made of dust, animated

for a time by a living spirit, now tread upon! Their words, that

wrestled with the winds and mounted on the air, have left no trace along

that air whereon they sported;--the clouds in all their beauty cap our

isle with their magnificence, as in those by-gone days;--the rivers are

as blue, the seas as salt;--the flowers, those sweet things! remain

fresh within our fields as when God called them into existence in

Paradise--and are bright as ever. But the change is over us, as it has

been over them: we, too, are passing. O England! what should this teach?

Even three things--wisdom, justice, and mercy. Wisdom to watch

ourselves, and then our rulers, so that we neither do nor suffer

wrong;--justice to the memory of the mighty dead, whether born to

thrones or footstools;--mercy, inasmuch as we shall deeply need it from

our successors.

We must not longer trifle with or mingle among forbidden themes, but

turn to that which lightens many a heart, and creates of its own power a

magic world of pure and perfect enjoyment.

Many there were, before and during those troublous times, who, heedless

of the turmoils that were taking place around them, sang, as birds will

sometimes sing, during the pauses of a thunder-storm. We would fain con

over the names of a few of those who live with the memories of peace,

and hope, and love, and joy--as so many happy contrasts to the wars and

intrigues, that sin, and its numberless and terrible attendants, have

brought upon this cheerful, and beautiful, and abundantly gifted earth.

A blessing on sweet Poesy! whether she come to us mounted on the gallant

war-horse, trumpet-tongued, awakening our souls and senses unto glory,

hymning with Dryden some bold battle-strain that makes us crow of

victories past, present, and to come;--or with a scholar's trim and

tasselled cap, a flowing gown of raven hue, and many tales of

Chaucer's--quaint, but pleasing--good reading under some old tree close

by a quiet brook, where minnows sport and dart with silver flight

beneath the broad-leaved lilies, whose white and yellow chalices are

spread full to the cheerful heavens, wherein the sun rides like a

monarch in his azure kingdom;--or, better still, mounted on a green

dragon with glaring eyes and forky tongue, looking for encounter with

some Christian knight, who, "full of sad feare and ghastley dreariment,"

would nathless risk life, honour, all--for his faire ladie love. Beloved

Spenser! age withers not thy beauty.

Or Poesy may come in the cool twilight, when the garish day is past, and

the young modest flowers, which refused their perfume to the sun, that,

with his hot and fiery beams, sought to command their incense, now

welcome back the evening, and become prodigal of sweetness;--within some

rustic temple, clustered with woodbine, where the robin or the tiny wren

hath formed a nest of matchless skill and neat propriety, and trembles

not at the approaching footstep, while the soft breath of heaven plays

with those blossoms of the sun--the painted butterflies--that fold their

wings and fain would sleep till morning. There let her come, and with

her bring more blessed children of the olden time,--

"Whose names

In Fame's eternal volume live for aye."

The gallant handsome Surrey, tutored by Love into our first, if not our

sweetest sonneteer; and Michael Drayton, with his apt crest--Mercury's

bright cap, blazoned with sunbeams. Old Fletcher, floating towards his

Purple Island, in the same graceful bark that bears his more thoughtful,

it may be sombre, brother Giles. Then, garlanded with the rich thistle

in all its purple glory; the perfume of his braes, and burns, and

heather, reeking amid his clustering hair; his cheerful plaid, and his

gay bonnet, graced by the heron's plume; his voice subdued by sorrow,

but still sweet and free, singing of "Sion's flowers"--Drummond of

Hawthornden! welcome from bonny Scotland, herald of a line of poets, who

fling their music on the breezy air, that floats along in melody.

Our gentle Lovelace! thee too I hail--beauty in all thy lines, so quaint

yet graceful. A fopling poet though thou wert, dainty and perfumed, yet

still a poet, sweet in a lady's bower, where all is fashioned as befits

the place and time: a poet indeed! and, what is more, never wert thou

turned from thy chosen path of duty by praise or purse--although a poet

and poor all the days of thy most checkered life. Alas! must we contrast

thee with the weathercock of the rhyming folk, bowing to kings,

protector, lords, and all that could pay golden coin for his poesy? Many

there be among the scribbling tribe who emulate a Waller's practice, and

amble in his ill-chosen path; how few have the redeeming gift that was

his so largely!

And thou must not be forgotten, "O rare Ben Jonson!" for whom a single

sentence doth suffice. And him, "the melancholy Cowley!" let him come

too, with his honeyed wisdom: it will be still the sweeter if we think

upon his stern bitterness in prose. Let him reprove the muse to whom he

owes his fame,--

"Thou who rewardest but with popular breath,

----And that too after death:--"

let him reprove, yet not come without her. Ah! the poet is but a sorry

politician after all.

Ye cannot do ill if ye pile the verdant turf breast high with those old

masters; those mighty monarchs of sweet song,--

"Blessings be with them and eternal praise,

The poets!"

Bring them all, all, from the ancient of days, who have gained this

"praise eternal," to those of our own age, who have laboured for, and

will also obtain it. And chiefly among such as have sweetly carolled

among us--still more, if ye be young and warm-hearted, with the

affections pure and true within you--bring the dear lays of a poet--a

ladye poet--a poet who will hold rank among the best, when life shall

have given place to immortality.--How gladly do I add the tribute of

admiration to the gift of friendship.--In her own eloquent words may we

give our thoughts utterance.

"Methinks it is not much to die--

To die, and leave behind

A spirit in the hearts of men,

A voice amid our kind;

When Fame and Death, in unison,

Have given a thousand lives for one.

"Our thoughts, we live again in them,

Our nature's noblest part;

Our life in many a memory,

Our home in many a heart:

When not a lip that breathes our strain,

But calls us into life again."

But fail not, above all, to bring the one who comprehends the whole;

whose name is to be found in every school-boy book, written in living

letters--words that breathe; to whom the hearts of multitudes were as

one most simple instrument, which he could tune and tone unto his

pleasure. The birds taught him their language--the forest leaves had

life within their veins, and talked with him of Nature's mysteries. The

broad sea sent its homage by a thousand sprites, fresh from their coral

beds, who watched him in his dreams, or by those sylvan glens wherein he

wandered--riding the salt-sea foam, or the light spray of the wild

cataract, they sung the melodies of river and of ocean into his soul.

The beings of air, that, atom-like, float in the clearest ether, bathe

in the liquid dew, or drink their nectar from the honey-bells of the

wild heather bloom, called him their brother, and prated of their tricks

in gay familiarity. Oh, world! art thou the self-same world that

Shakspeare trod upon?

And there's another too, who stands alone in his sublimity--who dared

the mysteries of Paradise, and communed with angels--angels both of hell

and heaven--a giant-master, yet a man of beauty, wisdom, simplicity,

knowledge. Behold him as he sits, within the tapestried chamber at

Hampton Court! 'Tis the same room in which the Protector sat last night;

but how changed its aspect, just by the presence of that one man! How

different is the feeling with which we regard men of great energy and

men of great talent. Milton, blind--blind, powerless as to his actions,

overwhelming in his genius, grasping all things and seeing into them,

not with the eyes of flesh, but those of mind, altering the very

atmosphere wherein we move, stilling the air that we may hear his

oracles!

The room is one of most curious fashion, and hung with the oldest

tapestry in England, lighted on either side by long and narrow windows,

that are even now furnished as in the time of the old cardinal who built

them. On the low seat formed within the wall the poet sat. Who would

suffer a thought of the ambitious Wolsey or the sensual Henry to intrude

where once they held gay revels and much minstrelsy in their most tyrant

pastimes? Cromwell, the great Protector, even Cromwell is forgotten in

the more glorious company of one both poor and blind! He sat, as we

describe him, within the embrasure of the narrow window; the heat and

brightness of the summer sun came full upon his head, the hair upon

which was full and rich as ever, parted in the centre, and falling in

waving curls quite to his shoulders; his eyes were fixed on vacancy, but

their expression was as if communing with some secret spirit, enlivening

thus his darkness; he seemed not old nor young, for the lines upon his

face could not be considered wrinkles--tokens were they of care and

thought--such care and such thought as Milton might know and feel.

He was habited with extraordinary exactness; his linen of the finest

quality, and his vest and doublet put on with an evident attention to

even minute appearance. His hands of transparent whiteness were clasped,

as if he were attending to some particular discourse; he was alone in

that vast chamber,--yet not alone, for God was with him--not in outward

form, but in inward spirit. It was the Sabbath-day, and ever observed

in the Protector's family with respect and reverence. The

morning-meeting was over, and Cromwell in his closet, "wrestling," as he

was wont to term it, "with sin." Silence reigned through all the

courts--that due and reverend silence which betokens thoughtfulness, and

attention to one of the Almighty's first commands--"Keep holy the

Sabbath-day," given when he ordained that man should rest from his

labours in commemoration that he himself set an example of repose after

calling the broad earth into existence and beauty. The poet sat but for

a little time in that wide silence; yet who would not give a large

portion of their every-day existence to have looked on him for those

brief moments, moments which for their full feeling might play the part

of years in our life's calendar? Blessed holy time!--when we can look on

genius, and catch the gems that fall from its lips! Yet Milton spoke

not--he only looked; and still his looks were heavenward--turned towards

that Heaven from whence they caught their inspiration. He heard the

sound of coming footsteps, and loving quiet on that holy day, withdrew

to his own chamber. How empty now appeared the tapestried hall! as when

some great eclipse shuts to the golden portals of the sun, and steeps

the earth in darkness!

Soon after Milton's departure, the Protector entered, in conversation

with his secretary, Thurloe; and although it was the Sabbath, there was

an air of anxiety and eagerness about him, which made his step more

hurried, more abrupt than usual. He suddenly stopped, and said,--

"Pray God that Colonel Jones and the troop arrived in time! Lady

Frances, methinks, must have known something--seen something--however,

now all shall be investigated. Pray God they arrived in time!"

He then took from a large pocket-book a set of tablets, and having read

therein for a few minutes, suddenly turning to Thurloe, exclaimed,

"What! is this indeed the tenth?"

"Even so," replied the secretary.

"Then have I business which requires immediate attention," said his

Highness. "Behold! I had nearly forgotten both the promise and the

appointment; but spare nor haste nor trouble! Under the archway, at the

left-hand side of Gray's Inn, after you pass the house whose corners are

bound with white stones, the walls being of red brick--under that arch

you will see a man--now mark me--a man wearing a green cloak, the collar

being of velvet; and, to distinguish him the more perfectly, you will

perceive that his hat is banded by a small blue riband, of the narrowest

breadth: his left hand will be uncovered, and placed upon his breast,

and on its centre finger will be a broad hoop ring of jet. Be there

exactly as the clock of St. Paul's strikes three-quarters past four; and

speak thou no word, nor make sign, except to put this bill into his

hand, which, as thou seest, is for twenty thousand pounds, payable to

the bearer at Genoa."

"Is it your Highness's pleasure that I take no receipt?"

"It is not needed--you can return hither by the evening meal."

The secretary bowed, and withdrew; and at the same moment, the trampling

of many horses sounded in the paved court-yard; and looking from the

window, Cromwell beheld the arrival of Colonel Jones, and his prisoner,

Sir Willmott Burrell.

CHAPTER III.

The base and guilty bribes of guiltier men

Shall be thrown back, and Justice look as when

She loved the earth, and feared not to be sold

For that which worketh all things to it, gold.

BEN JONSON.

"The course of justice must not be delayed, although it be the Sabbath,"

said the Protector; and, having hastily ascertained that his officer had

arrived at Cecil Place in time to prevent the intended marriage, he

immediately ordered that Colonel Jones and Sir Willmott Burrell should

be at once ushered into his presence. At the same time he despatched one

of his pages to command the attendance of Manasseh Ben Israel.

When the knight entered, he was received by Cromwell with his usual show

of courtesy. He appeared, however, with a downcast look, his hands

folded over his bosom, and his mind made up to the approaching contest

with one whom he well knew to be as profound and accomplished a

dissimulator as himself, when dissimulation was the weapon wherewith he

designed to fight.

Sir Willmott briefly apologised for his travel-worn and soiled

habiliments, and displayed a due portion of surprise and indignation at

being torn from his bride in the midst of the marriage ceremony. The Jew

trembled with agitation, and would have interrupted the Protector's more

slow, but not less sure, proceedings, had he not been prevented by a

timely check from Cromwell, who bent his brow towards him with a

peculiar and warning expression.

"It cannot be supposed, Sir Willmott," he observed, in a calm, and even

friendly tone, "but that I regret exceedingly being compelled to trouble

you in this manner, and at such a time. You will be made aware that I

have been called upon to perform a double duty; first, to my worthy and

excellent friend Manasseh Ben Israel, with the nature of whose

suspicions (it maketh a Christian soul shudder to think upon it) you are

already acquainted--and next, to the lady who was about to become your

wife. Her Highness has long and truly loved her; and she is, moreover,

somewhat related (although only after the Episcopalian fashion) to my

most beloved daughter. I was, therefore, bound to have especial care

concerning the maiden's bridal."

"The Lady Frances Cromwell could have informed your Highness that

Mistress Constantia was, of her own free will, a party to the ceremony."

"I do not dispute it. Now our business is to satisfy the mind of our

friend here, as to your alleged conduct towards his only child. It is a

noble matter in our laws, and one that we may well be proud of, that, by

God's blessing, every man is considered innocent until he be proven

guilty. The Lord forbid that I should lay aught of sin unto your

charge!--you, who have appeared at all times a sure and a safe prop unto

our Commonwealth. Doubtless you saw the lady--Zillah: say you not,

worthy Rabbi, that the maiden's name was Zillah?"

"Even so," replied the Jew, with a bitter sigh; "she was named after her

mother."

"You, doubtless, saw her, and, struck by her beauty, which we hear was

most marvellous, paid her more courtesy than was quite fitting in a

betrothed man. But Satan lays many snares for the unwary, and beauty is

a peril that few men altogether escape. Verily, it is of the evil one.

But there are excuses; at least there may be excuses, especially in such

a land as France, where temptation assumes every seducing form; and a

young woman, like this lady, might have been easily led to believe your

courtliness to be that of the heart, whereas it was only that of the

manner."

The rabbi stood aghast, his friend Cromwell talked in a tone so much

more moderate than he had expected--he knew not what to think. Even

Burrell, who had anticipated a thunder-storm, was deceived by the calm;

and, after considering a moment that the Protector would not speak thus

if he had really received any communication from Hugh Dalton, replied,

breathing freely for the first time since he received the mandate to

appear at Hampton Court,--

"It is possible she might have been led to such belief, though, as I

have before assured her father, I had no intention so to mislead his

daughter. It is very hard to be suspected of a crime so base; and----"

"But innocence wears a robe of such pure light," interrupted the

Protector, "that it will shine in the darkest night, as yours will, if

you are innocent. Know you how the fair Jewess became possessed of this

picture? Nay, I should hesitate to think harshly of you, even if you had

given it to her, which you might have done in pure friendliness,

although the world--it is a harsh and ill-judging world--might condemn

you on such ground. But we have ourselves suffered so much from its

wrong judgment, as to have learned mercy towards others. Friendship,

excellent, right, true friendship, may exist between man and woman in

our advanced--ay, and in our young years. Why should it not? Or, as the

picture is of excellent painting, and the young lady, it would seem,

desired accomplishment in that useless art, you might have lent it her

as a study--or----"

"I certainly did not give it," replied Burrell; "but I have some idea of

having lent it, with sundry Flemish drawings. Your Highness may remember

that several gentlemen, attached to the embassy at Paris, came away

hastily. I was one of those."

Hereupon the Rabbi would have spoken, for he remembered how Sir Willmott

had told him that the picture was not his; but the Protector again

stayed him, seeking to entangle Burrell in a web of his own weaving.

"You visited the lady frequently?"

"Not very frequently. I told Manasseh Ben Israel, when first he injured

me by this most unjust suspicion, that I did not often see her, and when

I did, it was to ascertain if there were any letters she desired to

transmit to England."

"Not from the carnal desire of paying her homage?"

"How could your Highness suppose it was?"

"You but now confessed she might so have interpreted your civilities.

But--know you aught of one Hugh Dalton, a free-trader?"

"Know--know--know, your Highness? I know him for a most keen villain!"

replied the Master of Burrell warmly.

"Indeed!--But you scorned not to employ him."

Burrell was silent; for, though he had journeyed full fifty miles, he

had not been able to form any plan of defence, if Cromwell should really

be aware of the arrangements entered into in the cavern of the Gull's

Nest Crag. Such he now dreaded was the fact, not only from the

appearance of a paper the Protector drew forth, but from the fact that

the seeming calmness was fading from his brow. All that remained was

stoutly to deny its being in his hand-writing: it was a case that

finesse could in no way serve.

"Did your Highness mean that I employed this man?" he said at last, with

a clever mingling of astonishment and innocence in his voice and manner.

During a brief pause that followed, the eye of Cromwell was, as it were,

nailed upon his countenance.

"I do mean, Sir Willmott Burrell, that you scorned not to employ this

man. Know you this hand-writing?"

Sir Willmott's worst fears were confirmed.

"Permit me," he said, glancing over the document; then, looking from it

with most marvellous coolness, he raised his eyes, exclaiming, "Sir,

there is a plot for my destruction! This hand-writing is so well

feigned, that I could have sworn it my own, had I not known the total

impossibility that it could so be!"

"I have seen your hand-writing before:--write now, sir."

Burrell obeyed--took the pen in his hand, and Cromwell noted that it

trembled much.

"Sir Willmott, I believe you in general place your paper straight?"

"Please your Highness, I do; but I am not cool--not collected enough to

act as calmly as at my own table. The knowledge in whose presence I sit,

might agitate stronger nerves than mine. Behold, sir, the villain

counterfeited well; the _W_ is exact, even in the small hair-stroke--the

_tt_'s are crossed at the same distance, and the _ll_'s are of the

height of mine:--a most villanous, but most excellent counterfeit!"

"Which?" inquired the Protector: "which mean ye is the counterfeit--the

writing or the writer?---- Without there!--Call in Robin Hays. Sir

Willmott Burrell, Sir Willmott Burrell! the Lord deliver me from such as

thou art!" he continued, swelling and chafing himself into anger,

'pricking the sides of his intent,' that so he might overwhelm the

dastard knight. "We doubted, sir, at first, but we doubt no longer. Sir,

you have robbed that old man of his daughter! You have, by so doing,

perjured your own soul, and brought most foul dishonour upon England. I

once heard you talk of patriotism: a true patriot loves his country too

well to commit a dishonourable action! Sir, I have learned that you were

married to the Jewish girl."

"Please your Highness," interrupted Manasseh at length, "I do not wish

the marriage: if there be, as we suppose, a marriage, I wish it not

kept; I only want my wretched and deluded child."

"Your pardon, good Rabbi. I am protector of the rights, and not the

fantasies, of those who inhabit England, and I hold no sinecure. You may

well turn pale, Master of Burrell!--O Lord! that such should dwell in

the tents of Judah!--that such should remain sound in life and limb,

blessed with carnal and fleshly comforts!--that such reptiles should

crawl among us--be fed by the same food, warmed by the same sun, as just

men! No, no, Manasseh; if there _has_ been a marriage, as sure as the

Almighty governs heaven, it shall be kept! Nay, Sir Willmott Burrell,

never dare to knit your brows. Justice, sir, justice to the uttermost,

is what I desire in this country! Dost remember the fate of Don

Pantaleon Sa, the Portugal ambassador's brother--a knight of Malta, and

a person eminent in many great actions? Dost remember him, I say--that

he died the death of a murderer, according to the Scripture, 'he that

sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed.' Justice shall be

satisfied!--Not that I seek to confound you without a hearing. But here

comes one, once a retainer of your own, who can point out where the lady

is."

Robin Hays, little conscious of the fate that had befallen Barbara,

entered with much alacrity, for he was glad of anything that afforded

him change of place.

"What, Robin Hays!" said Burrell. "Methinks your Highness has assembled

most creditable witnesses against me--a Jew, and a thing like that!"

"No sneering, sir. This person asserts that Zillah Ben Israel came over

in the Fire-fly."

"Ah! with Hugh Dalton," said Sir Willmott, thrown off his guard at what

he conceived the Skipper's utter faithlessness; then muttering, "I

thought----"

"No matter what. Methinks _this_ confirms the document you denied,"

observed the Protector, whose rage had somewhat subsided. "No, not with

Hugh Dalton, as you imagine, Sir Willmott, but with a man of the name of

Jeromio, an Italian. The description answers in every respect--the dark

eye, the black hair, the sallow aspect--all."

"Indeed!" said Colonel Jones, who had been present during the

examination, leaning against one of the window-frames, and taking much

note of all that passed. "Indeed! then doth the Lord work marvellously,

and wonderful is his name! for it was to all appearance a foreign woman,

or rather fiend--one with a pale cheek and jetty locks, who interrupted

the bridal at Cecil Place, and slew the fair young maid that waited on

Mistress Cecil!"

"Why told ye not this before?" inquired Cromwell hastily, while the

Rabbi advanced towards the soldier with great eagerness as the Protector

spoke. But there was another whose blood ran icy cold as the words of

Colonel Jones were uttered. He stood for a moment as if suddenly smitten

with some cruel malady, the next touch of which would be death; then he

pushed boldly past Sir Willmott, and grasping the soldier's arm, said

in a broken husky voice, "In God's name, who was slain?"

"A modest-looking maid, whom they called Barbara,--yes, Barbara was the

name."

Robin spoke not again, nor did he move from the Colonel's side, though

his hand relaxed its grasp: he stood and looked like a creature to whom

the grave had refused rest--a being whose breath and blood were frozen

and congealed, at the moment when life and its energies were most

needed; strong passion, powerful feeling were upon his countenance, and

remained there as if the spell of some magician had converted him to

stone. The effect which this scene produced upon the Protector was

evidence that he had a heart where the milk of human kindness flowed,

and must once have flowed abundantly, however circumstances might have

chilled its generous source. Deeply anxious as he was as to the result

of the investigation, running full tilt at the difficulty he

encountered, having the means of overwhelming the Master of Burrell

within his reach, he suffered the Jew to continue a series of questions

to Colonel Jones, while he spoke to Robin--soothing and caressing him as

a father would have soothed and caressed an afflicted child. But this

unbending of his sterner nature was lost upon the unhappy Ranger; he

could not have replied if he would; all his faculties were suspended,

and he remained in silence and without motion, unconscious of the

Protector's condescending kindness.

"'Tis ever thus," ejaculated Oliver, looking upon the sad figure now by

his side. "'Tis ever thus; there never was a noble heart but the blight

fell on it; doubtless he loved the maid: the Lord be with us! He is

seized--pray the Almighty not for death." He struck his dagger on a

hand-bell that lay upon the table, ordered that his own surgeon should

attend Robin with all due speed, and then walked kindly by his side to

the opened door, where he delivered him to a favourite attendant. Those

in the ante-room who had witnessed Cromwell's gentleness to Robin Hays

were profuse in their offers of assistance to one, whom, but a little

while before, they had jested at and insulted. Courtiers are as ripe in

republics as in king-governed countries. Your sycophants bow to the

power, and not to the person. Dress but a dog in royal robes, and call

him Emperor--Protector--King, and thousands will rejoice loudly if he

but wag his tail.

Cromwell returned to his investigation, and interspersed his

questionings with much bitterness of remark--the more so as he feared

his chain of evidence was in some degree incomplete, although no moral

doubt could remain on the mind of any person as to the Master of

Burrell's guilt. Colonel Jones failed not to show how anxious Sir

Willmott had been that Zillah should escape, and the Rabbi's agitation

bordered on madness when he contemplated the new crime into which his

wretched daughter had been led.

"Brand me as you please; think of me in your good judgment as you will.

I am a free man; free to go as to come; and as your Highness cannot

detain me on legal grounds, I am at liberty to depart."

Sir Willmott had scarcely finished the sentence, when Gracious Meanwell,

having first knocked, and received permission to enter, advanced with a

small and peculiar-looking packet in his hand; it was composed of slips

of parchment, and the direction was in printed, not written letters.

"I crave your Highness's pardon; but a sailor-like lad brought this to

the great gate, and would take no denial, but that it should be given

immediately to your Highness, saying that he found it hanging in some

out-o'-the way place, betwixt heaven and earth, far off in the Isle of

Shepey, and seeing that it was directed to your Highness, he came

straightway to deliver it; he prevailed on the porters to forward it up,

which they did, knowing that your Highness wishes nothing of the sort to

be kept back."

While Meanwell spoke, Cromwell was undoing or rather tearing open the

parcel; and the man was about to withdraw with all the court observance

which the Protector would not lack.

"The manifestation of the Lord! The manifestation of his righteous

judgments! His ways are clear in Israel, and mighty is his name!--Look

here, Colonel Jones; my worthy friend Manasseh Ben Israel, behold! Is it

not wonderful! Gracious Meanwell, see that the bearer of this be well

cared for, but safely kept. We will speak with him ourselves. Of a truth

it is wonderful!"

Such were the words of Cromwell as he scanned, with a rapid but

scrutinising glance, each of the several papers contained in the

parcel;--first, a certificate of marriage between Sir Willmott Burrell

and Zillah Ben Israel, as performed by one Samuel Verdaie a monk

residing at the Benedictine Friary in the "Faubourg St. Antoine," at

Paris--next, many letters from the said Sir Willmott Burrell to the

Jewess--and lastly, a love document given before their marriage, wherein

he pledged himself to marry Zillah, and to use his influence with

Cromwell (whom he facetiously termed _vieux garcon_), to induce her

father to pardon the undutiful step she was about to take.

"This is also a counterfeit, Sir Willmott, I presume," continued the

Protector, pointing to the document; "nor is this in your

hand-writing--nor this--and this is not your seal--and there is no such

person as Samuel Verdaie--nor such place as the Benedictine Friary, or

Paris, I suppose? What! have you lost the power of speech? Shame! shame!

shame! and the curse of shame fall upon you! It is such men as you--such

crimes as yours, that bring disgrace upon England. Sad will be the day

for her, when she sinks in the estimation of the world as a moral

nation. Behold her, a small speck in the immensity of the globe; yet

great is her name among the kingdoms of the earth! A Briton carries, or

ought to carry, ten times the influence of any other man, because our

power is over the mind, over the respect, over the veneration of

mankind. Go to, sir, you are no Englishman! Behold, how ill prosper your

evil contrivances! Sir, I say again, you have robbed that old man of his

daughter.--What say _you_?"

"It was to spare that old man's feelings I denied the act," said Sir

Willmott, again rallying, yet wanting the courage that forms a

respectable villain; "it was to spare him. But the marriage is nought! a

Popish priest, a Protestant gentleman, and a Jewess! I knew not your

Highness would sanction such unholy rites. Besides, despite all this,

the Lady Constantia will wed me yet."

"By the holy heavens, she shall not!" exclaimed Cromwell, forgetting the

Puritan Protector in the soldier, the soberness of the age in the energy

of the moment; then as suddenly adding, "The Lord forgive me! the Lord

blot out mine iniquities! See what it is to have to do with sinners!"

"Shall not!" repeated Burrell, who was as much of the bully as the

coward, and still trusted his cause to the knowledge of Constantia's

filial affection, and her readiness to sacrifice all for her father;

"let the lady decide."

"So be it; though I hardly think it--there must be some hidden motive.

Yet no, Sir Willmott Burrell, I will not,--even if _she will_, _I_ will

it otherwise. Ah! think ye to control me? Didst ever hear of one Cony?

or of Maynard Twisden, and Wyndham, his counsel? What if I imprison ye,

Sir Willmott, till this Jewess be found, and compel ye to wed her again,

even here in England! What say ye now?"

"Would you have me wed a murderess?" inquired the villain, in a calm

tone.

"My child is not that," said the heart-broken father, who had been

examining the papers, with overpowering anxiety.

"What! good Manasseh?" inquired Cromwell.

"That which he did call her," replied the Jew.

"There needs no farther parley. Colonel Jones, we will ourself accompany

our worthy friend to the Isle of Shepey, and investigate more minutely

this most unhappy business. You will take all requisite care of Sir

Willmott Burrell, who goes with us--willing or unwilling--Perhaps he

would like to appeal from our decree? To-night we will set forth, so as

to arrive at King's-ferry before to-morrow's sunset; for we must stay an

hour at Whitehall, and say a word in passing to Colonel Lilburne, at

Eltham."

"How does your Highness travel?"

"As befits our state," replied the Protector. "Worthy Rabbi, be not cast

down; all may yet be well."

"Your Highness is ever kind; but justice is inflexible. My child!--that

which he called my child, rings in mine ear--pierces it! O Father

Abraham! I knew not the curse that fell upon Israel until this day!"

"All may yet be well, I say again," observed the Protector, "know ye not

what was said by the prophet of old--the prophet of the Lord--'Now thus

saith the Lord that created thee, O Jacob, and he that formed thee, O

Israel, fear not!'"

"May I return and commune with your Highness?" craved Colonel Jones, as

he escorted Burrell to the door--"there is much that I would mention,

although this is the Lord's day."

"Ay, certainly.--Gracious Meanwell! I would speak with him who brought

this parcel."

A lad was introduced; but he could tell nothing, except that passing

along the crags of the Gull's Nest, (the Protector started at the name,)

he saw the packet dangling in the air; he pulled at it, and it came

easily away in his hand; and finding it directed to his Highness, he had

been recommended to bring it forthwith--that he had ridden part of the

way in company with some who were coming as far as Gravesend, and had

'lifted' him. He looked like what he was, part oyster-dredger, part

smuggler. Cromwell saw nothing in him that would justify detention, and

dismissed him with a liberal gratuity.

"We shall solve the mysteries of this Gull's Nest Crag before we leave

the island," thought the Protector, and then proceeded to the almost

hopeless task of comforting the humbled and afflicted "Master in

Israel."

CHAPTER IV.

Where I, a prisoner chain'd, scarce freely draw

The air, imprison'd also, close and damp,

Unwholesome draught.

But here I feel amends,

The breath of heaven fresh blowing, pure and sweet,

With day-spring born.

MILTON.

My readers will, doubtless, be more interested in visiting Robin Hays

than in noting the preparations made and the order observed by the

Protector for his intended journey. When Cromwell put his state upon

him, he did it with all dignity; there was no sparing of expense, no

scant of attendants, no lack of guards--boldly and bravely were his

arrangements formed; for he wisely knew that plainness and simplicity,

although they may be understood and appreciated by the high-minded, are

held in contempt by the low and the uneducated, because imagined to be

within their own attainment. Had Cincinnatus ruled in England, he would

never have abandoned a kingdom for a ploughshare; such an act would have

been looked upon, at least by more than half the nation, as proceeding

from weakness rather than from true strength of mind. The English,

notwithstanding all their talk about equality, have not enthusiasm

enough to understand or to feel the greatness that slights, and even

scorns, magnificence! a gilded pageant wins their hearts; and a title

overturns their understandings. We will here hazard the assertion, that

if Cromwell had listened to a very powerful party, and had accepted,

instead of having declined the name, while he possessed the station of a

"King," he would have conquered all the obstacles by which he was

surrounded, and have bequeathed a throne to his son, that in all human

probability would have been continued in his family, even to our own

day. We must leave this sentence, startling though it may be, without

the arguments necessary to support it; certain it is, however, that so

thought the Protector himself, who considered that the people of

England, like the Israelites of old, would never be at rest until they

had "a king to rule over them."

It would be a vain attempt to describe the sufferings of Robin Hays,

from the moment when the news of Barbara's death fell upon him like a

thunderbolt, and he quitted the presence of the Protector without the

power of reply. He was sensible of only one feeling--awake to only one

emotion--his heart echoed but to one sensation--his eyes burned within

their sockets--all things before him were confused; and there was but a

single image present to his mind. As if in compassion to his personal

deformity, Nature had endowed him with a degree of sentiment and

refinement perfectly at war with his habits and pursuits. But in his

case, such compassion was, if we may so speak, cruelty. Had he been born

to a higher station, it might have been a blessing--in his present

sphere it was a curse--a curse which the Ranger had felt most constantly

and most acutely. He had been laughed at by such as Roupall, who exulted

in the possession of mere brute strength; and he had been sneered and

scouted at by the giddy and the vain, who, dreading his sarcasms, repaid

themselves by finding out his one vulnerable point, and probing it to

the quick. Barbara had stolen into his heart unconsciously, as a sweet

and quiet stream insinuates itself through the bosom of some rugged

mountain, softening and fertilising so gently, that its influence is

seen and acknowledged while its power is unaccounted for and its source

unknown. The belief that the young Puritan entertained an affection for

him, was a belief he hardly dared to cherish; but there were times when

he did cherish it; and it was at such times only that his turbulent and

restless mind was enabled to find repose: then the memory of her

kindness, her gentleness, her tenderness, would come upon him like sleep

to the eyes of the weary--like a fresh well in a sandy desert--like a

gentle spring after a stormy winter--in a word, like woman's love, where

it is most hoped, but least looked for. Whenever he indulged the idea of

her affection, he felt like one uplifted above the world--its base

sorrows and still baser joys;--earth had for him but one sound of

comfort--it was the name of her he loved! but one promise of happiness;

and from her it was never for a moment severed--hope, love, faith,

centred in her--she was his world, and though his wandering employments

might summon him elsewhere, it was in her presence alone that he

relished, or even felt existence. At times, when the acidity of his

nature forced him to distrust her smiles, and he upbraided her though

she deserved it not, hours of penitence could not blot out from his own

remembrance the act of weakness and injustice: he pondered upon it long

after the gentle girl had forgotten that ever unkind word had passed

between them. Beings of a gross and fettered nature cannot conceive of a

love so pure as that which Barbara felt for the mis-shapen Robin--so

perfectly devoid of earthly passion, yet so faithful--so exalted--so

devoted--so engrossing! She had looked so long on his deformities, that

she had ceased to perceive them; and often paused and wondered what

people meant by flouting at his plainness. But the excellent and gentle

girl was now to the unfortunate Ranger only as a dream of the

past--vanished from off the earth like a sweet perfume, or a sweeter

melody, with the memory of which comes the knowledge that it can be

enjoyed no more.

After he had been conveyed to another chamber, the physician ordered

restoratives and immediate bleeding;--but time did more than the leech's

art; and the first wish he formed was, that he might once more wend his

way to the Isle of Shepey, and gaze again, and for the last time, upon

the form of her he loved.

Once aroused from his torpor, the means of effecting his escape was the

first thing he considered. He had been removed to one of the lower

rooms, and his apartment could not be termed a prison, though the door

was fastened on the outer side--for the window was not more than ten

feet from the ground, and unbolted; it looked out into the garden, and

the sentinel placed beside that portion of the building had a longer

range than was usually allotted to the palace guard. Robin soon observed

that the lawn beneath was planted with rich clusters of young trees. The

hour for evening prayer had arrived; so that the household would be most

probably engaged, and the garden free from visitors. He looked from the

window; it was one of the loveliest days of summer--a day that at any

other time he would have welcomed with all the enthusiasm of a true

lover of nature; so warm the air, so sweet the flowers, so silently

flitted the small insects, as if dreading to disturb the repose of the

sunbeams that slept on the green turf. Nothing could be more unlike the

vicinity of a court; the very sentry seemed to tread it as hallowed

ground--his step was scarcely heard along the soft grass.

Robin did not attempt to assume any disguise.

"I shall walk boldly when I get out of the garden," he thought, "and if

I am taken before Cromwell, I will say why I desire liberty; I only wish

to see her once more, and then farewell to all! the red cross against my

name, in Oliver's dark book, may be dyed still redder--in my heart's

blood!"

Although his arm was stiff from the bleeding he had undergone but an

hour before, he watched till the soldier's back was turned, and dropped

from the window. He had scarcely time to conceal himself beneath a row

of evergreens when the sentinel turned on his path. Robin crept on, from

tuft to tuft--now under the shadow of a tree--now under that of a

turret, until he found himself close to a high wall which flanked the

side next the river; and then he became sorely perplexed as to the

method of his further escape. To the right was a gate which, from its

position, he judged led into one of the outer courts, and,

notwithstanding his first resolve of braving his way, habit and

consideration induced him to prefer the track least frequented or

attended with risk. At the extremity of the wall, where it turned at a

right angle to afford an opening for a gateway, grew an immense

yew-tree, solitary and alone, like some dark and malignant giant,

stretching out its arms to battle with centuries and storms; softened by

no shadow, cheered by no sunbeam, enlivened by no shower, no herb or

flower flourished beneath its ban, but there it towered, like the

spirit of evil in a smiling world. The wall, too, was overgrown with

ivy--the broad ivy, whose spreading leaves hide every little stem that

clasps the bosom of the hard stone, and, with most cunning wisdom,

extracts sustenance from all it touches. Robin's keen eye scanned well

every nook and corner, and he then mounted the tree, conceiving he

might, with little difficulty, descend on the other side, as he

perceived that the branches bent over the wall. He had hardly reached

midway, when a voice, whose tones he well remembered, fell upon his ear,

and for a moment called back his thoughts from their sad and distant

wanderings. He paused: the sound was not from the garden, nor the roof.

After much scrutiny, he discovered a small aperture of about a foot

square, that was originally a window, but latterly had been choked by

the matted ivy which overspread its bars. The voice was as of one who

has tasted the weariness of life, and would fain put away the cup that

was all bitterness. It sung, but the song was more a murmur than a lay,

sorrowful as the winter's wind that roams through the long and

clustering grass in some old churchyard, telling,--

"Of blighted hopes and prospects shaded,

Of buried hopes remember'd well,

Of ardor quench'd, and honour faded."

With a trembling hand the Ranger sought to disentangle the ivy; but this

he found it almost impossible to effect in consequence of the pain

arising from his left arm whenever he slung himself by it. At length he

in some degree succeeded, but could see nothing, except that light came

up from a chamber, which, he then believed, must be lighted from

beneath, though the window did not look into the garden. The voice still

continued; it was one of the songs of Provence that was sung--the wail

of a young girl over the body of her dead lover, the burthen of which

was that of the Psalmist of old:--

"I shall go to thee,

But thou canst never come to me."

There was no poetry in the song, but the sentiment touched the heart of

the afflicted Robin. His breast heaved and heaved, like the swell of the

troubled sea, and then tears burst in torrents from his eyes, and

relieved his burning and dizzy brain.

"I never thought to have wept again," he said, "and I bless God for the

ease it gives me; yet why should I bless that which has cursed me?" And

again his heart returned to its bitterness; the hand that so often had

attuned it to gentleness, was cold--cold in death. Alas! resignation is

the most difficult lesson in the Christian code; few there are who learn

it to perfection--it requires a long and a melancholy apprenticeship!

Again he endeavoured to withdraw the ivy, and once ventured to speak;

but he dreaded to raise his voice. "At all events," thought Robin, "I

will send him a token;" and, extending his hand, he dropped the paper

containing the lock of hair which had been given him by the blithe

landlady of the Oliver's Head. The ringlet was received, for on the

instant the singing ceased, and presently Walter De Guerre called aloud,

"In the name of God, who sends me this?"

Bitterly did Robin regret that he was totally unprovided with pencil,

tablets, or aught that could convey intelligence to Walter. At another

time his active genius would have found some means of communication, but

his faculties were only half alive, and he could but regret and listen.

It would appear, however, that, as Walter spoke, he was interrupted by

some one entering his chamber, for his voice suddenly ceased, and though

Robin heard it again, it was in converse with another. He listened

attentively for some time, but could catch nothing of the subject upon

which they spoke.

As suddenly as the interview had commenced, so suddenly did it

terminate; for, though Robin threw pieces of stick and fragments of

mortar into the aperture, to intimate that he continued there, no

answering signal was returned. The evening was drawing on, and persons

passed and repassed beneath the tree--some of them with hurried, some

with slower steps: at last the self-same page with whom he had jested

rushed forward in company with the sentinel, and Robin heard him say,--

"I tell you, his Highness will wait no forms; he commanded you instantly

to come to him. It is impossible that a cat could fall from that window

without your seeing it, unless you were asleep on your post."

"I had no caution about the window, master; and, at all events,

nothing, I am sure, could pass from it, except a spirit," replied the

soldier.

Immediately after the guard passed for the purpose of replacing the

sentinel; and about half an hour afterwards, there was a bustle in the

courts, the tramping of brave steeds, and the rolling of

carriage-wheels; then the braying trumpet sounded "to horse!" and soon

the noise of much and stately pageantry was lost in the distance. Robin

Hays cared not to move until the palace was more at rest; but his

meditations were continually disturbed by the passers-by. Had he been

disposed to listen or pay any attention to those who came and went, he

could have heard and seen things, from which much that was bitter and

much that was sweet might have been gathered. He might have observed

that a plain coat or a simple hood changes not the nature of those who

wear it; yet, on the other hand, he would have noted that the plain coat

and simple hood preserve from outward vice, however the inward thoughts

may triumph. But the watchful lynx-eyed ranger was changed, sorely,

sadly changed; in four brief hours he had lived more than treble the

number of years. He patiently lingered, till the shades of evening

closed, to effect an escape, that had now become more easy, inasmuch as

the inmates of the palace had nearly all retired to their apartments.

Through the agency of the yew-tree, he arrived at the highest portion of

the wall, and looking over, perceived that a roof descended from the

large coping-stones on which he stood, in a slanting manner, and that

the building communicated by an arched covering to the palace: the

Thames was not distant from the base of the building more than sixty

yards, so that once down, his escape was certain. Watching the movements

of a sentry, posted at some little distance from the gate, he slid along

the roof, stretching himself at full length, and without any further

mishap crawled to the river's brink, plunged in, and arrived at the

Surrey-side of the silver Thames in perfect safety. He resolved to cross

the country to Bromley with as little delay as possible, inasmuch as he

had friends there who would hasten his journey;--and as concealment was

no longer needed, he thought that a good steed would be most valuable;

he therefore availed himself of one who was enjoying its evening meal

quietly among the Surrey hills; for the credit of his honesty, however,

it is fair to record, he noted the place, so that one of his agents

could restore the animal in the course of the following night. By this

manoeuvre, and urging its utmost speed, together with the assistance he

received at Bromley, Robin arrived at King's-ferry before the morning

was far advanced. He did not now, as on former occasions, cross the

Swale to Elmley or Harty, with a view to avoid observation, but threw

himself into the boat of Jabez Tippet, the ferryman, to whom, as it may

be supposed, he was well known.

Jabez carried about him all the external distinctions of Puritanism--a

cropped head--a downcast eye--a measured step, and a stock of sighs and

religious exclamations. There was one maxim that found a ready response

within his bosom. "He was all things to all men;" could aid a smuggler,

drink with a Cavalier, pray with a Roundhead. He was, moreover, a tall,

powerful man--one who, if he found it fitting, could enforce a holy

argument with a carnal weapon; cutting a man's throat, while he

exclaimed, "It is the Lord's will! it is the Lord's will!" There was

nothing peculiar in his dress, except a huge pair of loose boots, of the

thickest untanned leather, that reached considerably above his knees,

and from frequent immersion in the tide had assumed a deep brown hue.

His hat was conical, and only distinguished by a small dirk glittering

in the band, which he carried there as a place of safety from contact

with the sea-water.

"My gay Ranger travelling in open day, when there is such wild news

abroad!" he said.

Robin made no reply; and Jabez, who was pulling at the huge cable, which

then, as well as now, towed the boats across, stopped and looked at him.

"My bonny Robin, what ails ye, man? Hast been cheated by the excise, or

plundered by the Roundheads, or does the strange trouble they say has

come upon Hugh Dalton affect ye so much?"

Robin turned his head away; his grief was too deep to covet witnesses.

"There's a guard of Ironsides at Cecil Place by this time," continued

the man, who began to think that Robin was relapsing into one of his

taciturn fits, "and Noll himself on the road, which I heard, not an hour

past, from two soldiers, who have been sent on with his own physician to

Sir Robert, who's gone mad as a March hare; and they do say that his

Highness has a plan of his own to destroy all free trade on the island

for ever: but I'm thinking Hugh has scented it, and is far enough off by

this time."

Robin looked inquiringly into the man's face, but did not speak.

"Some time or other, master," continued the ferryman, whose boat now

touched the strand, "you'll maybe condescend to unriddle me how Dalton

could have a daughter brought up by----"

Robin Hays did not wait for the conclusion of the sentence, but sprang

right on the land, with the air of a man bereft of reason, confirming

Jabez in the idea that he was again labouring under his old infirmity.

The Ranger took not the direct road to Minster, which he ought to have

passed on his way to the Gull's Nest, where he resolved to ascertain if

Barbara's body was at Cecil Place; but after crossing the downs, that

were brightening in the summer's sun and alive with multitudes of sheep,

wound round the base of the hill on which the mansion stood, and as its

mixture of ancient and modern architecture became developed, he paused

to look upon a spot so endeared by many affectionate recollections. The

trees that encircled the fairy ring were conspicuous for their height

and beauty of colour; there, too, was the casement window which he had

so often watched, knowing that Barbara must pass it in her morning and

evening attendance on her lady; there, peeping from beneath a turret,

the lattice admitting light to Barbara's own little chamber; there, the

window of Constantia's sitting-room; there---- But he could gaze no

longer, his heart sickened within him, and covering his face with his

hands, he rushed into a narrow glen that skirted the hillside, and was

completely overshadowed by trees, whose unpruned branches were matted

and twined together in most fantastic and impervious underwood. He

pursued this track, with which he was well acquainted, as leading

directly to the back entrance, where he more than once resolved to

inquire where Barbara's remains were placed; but he had scarcely

proceeded a dozen yards towards the house, when his attention was

excited by a sudden and loud rustling amongst the bushes, and on looking

towards the spot, he saw first one and then another raven mount in the

air, uttering, at short intervals, the peculiar dull and complaining

cry of rapacious birds when frightened from their prey. The creatures

evidently meditated another descent, for, instead of betaking themselves

to the neighbouring trees, they circled round and round in the air, now

higher, now lower, mingling their monotonous notes with an occasional

scream--thus inharmoniously disturbing the sweet solitude by their

unholy orgies. In the mean time, the rustling beneath was renewed, and

then as suddenly ceased; but the birds, instead of descending, whirled

still higher, as if the object they had sought was for a time hidden

from their sight. The Ranger proceeded more cautiously than before, and

peering into the bushes, descried one whom he immediately recognised as

Jack Roupall, unfastening something of considerable bulk that was

contained in a handkerchief, and had apparently lain there for some

days, as the grass from which it had been taken was completely levelled

by its pressure. Roupall's ears were nearly as quick as those of Robin,

and an exclamation of recognition escaped his lips as he turned round to

where the Ranger stood.

"Ah! our little Ranger," said the man, extending his rough hand, "it

charms me to see you! I feared you were nabbed somehow, for I knew you'd

be cursedly down in the feathers from what the whole island is talking

of.--Hast seen the Skipper?"

"Where is he?"

"That's exactly what I want to know; but no one has seen him, that I

hear of, since he seized the poor girl, dead as she was, and carried her

through the midst of the soldiers, who had too much fear or too much

nature in 'em to touch him--I don't know which it was. I'm thinking he's

off to the Fire-fly, for he said he'd bury her in the sea;--or hid,

maybe, in some o' the holes at the Gull's Nest--holes only known to a

few of the sly sort, not to us strappers."

"Good God!" exclaimed Robin.

"Ah! you may well say, good God," said Roupall, putting on a look of

great sagacity, "for I'm come to the determination that there's much

need of a good God in the world to circumvent man's wickedness. Why,

look ye here now, if here isn't the head of that infernal Italian,

Jeromio! and what I'm puzzled at is, that, first, it's wrapped in a

napkin which I swear is one of them Holland ones I had o' the Skipper,

and which he swore I could have made more of, had I took them on to

London, instead of tiffing them at Maidstone; and this, outside it, is

Sir Willmott Burrell's--here's the crest broidered in goold:--it's the

finest cambric too," he added, relieving the muslin of its disgusting

burden, and folding it with care, "and 'tis a pity it should be wasted

on filthy flesh; so I'll take care of it--ah! ah! And the napkin's a

good one: it's sinful to spoil any thing God sends--ah! ah! The fellow

used to wear ear-rings too," he continued, stooping over the festering

head, while the ravens, whose appetites had increased when they saw the

covering entirely removed, flapped the topmost branches of the trees

with their wings in their circling, and screamed more vigorously than

before.

"How came it--how happened it?" inquired Robin, perfectly aroused to the

horror of the scene, to which Roupall appeared quite indifferent.

"I know no more than you," replied the good-humoured ruffian, holding up

a jewelled ear-ring between his fingers--"I know no more than you;--Gad,

that's fit for any lady's ear in Kent!--Only I heard it was believed

among the sharks, that my friend Sir Willmott excited a mutiny aboard

the Fire-fly, which this fellow, now without a head, headed--and so, ye

understand, lost his head, as the Skipper's punishment for mutiny. How

it came here--where it may stay--I know not. There, Robin, there are a

pair of rings fit for a queen: maybe, you'll buy them; they're honestly

worth two dollars. Well, you would have bought 'em if she'd ha' lived."

"Me!--her!" exclaimed Robin, closing his teeth, and glaring on Jack

Roupall with fiendish fierceness.

"Keep off!" ejaculated Roupall, securing the ear-rings, and placing

himself in a posture of defence--"Keep off! I know ye of old, Robin

Hays, with your griping fingers and strong palms! Never quarrel with a

man because he doesn't understand ye'r delicacies, which are things each

makes in his own mind, so that no one else can taste 'em. I meant no

harm; only, mark ye, ye sha'n't throttle me for nothing the next go; so

keep off; and I'm off, for sides o' flesh and sides o' iron are astir up

there; so this is no place for me. I shall be off, and join King

Charlie: he's much in want of strong hands, I hear, and who knows but

the time is coming when 'the king shall enjoy his own again?'"

"Do but bury _that_!" said Robin: "I would stay and do it, but that I

must to the Nest at once."

"No, no," replied Roupall, striding away in an opposite direction; "let

it stay where it is, to poison ravens and the carrion-birds. It is

fitting food for them. They had nobler banquets at Naseby and at

Marston."

CHAPTER V.

Down, stormy Passions, down; no more

Let your rude waves invade the shore

Where blushing Reason sits, and hides

Her from the fury of your tides.

* * * * * * *

Fall, easy Patience, fall like rest,

Where soft spells charm a troubled breast.

HENRY KING.

We believe that even those who are anxious to learn if the Protector

travelled in safety to his place of destination, and what he did when he

arrived there, will scarcely murmur at the delay which a brief visit to

Constantia Cecil will necessarily occasion.

We must not leave her alone in her sorrow, which, of a truth, was hard

to bear. A temporary respite had been afforded her by the terrible

events of the evening; it was, however, a respite that was likely, in

her case, only to bring about a more fatal termination. What was to

prevent Sir Willmott Burrell from branding her father--from publishing

his crime, now that he was to receive no benefit by the terrible secret

of which he had become possessed? Although she might be preserved from

the dreadful and dreaded doom of marrying a man she could neither regard

nor respect, it was equally certain that an eternal barrier existed

between her and the only one she loved--a barrier which not even the

power of Cromwell could break down or remove. It has been said, and said

truly, that there are few things reason can discover with so much

certainty and ease as its own deficiency. Constantia was a reasoning

being, and she appeared ever placid in situations where her fine mind

was overwhelmed by a painful train of circumstances over which she had

no control: the sins for which she suffered were not of her own

committing.

She had often gloried in days past at the prospect of fame--the honest,

upright fame which appeared the guiding principle that influenced her

father's actions, when the seeking after glory seemed to her as a

ferment thrown into his blood to work it up to action; and though she

sometimes apprehended that he used his will with his right hand and his

reason with his left, she never imagined the possibility that his pomp

was furnished by injustice and his wealth dyed in blood. It was, in

truth, a fearful knowledge she had acquired--a knowledge she could not

communicate, and upon which she could never take advice. Her misery was

to be endured not only with patience, but in secret and without

complaint. That destiny was indeed severe which compelled her to

anticipate a meeting with Walter as the greatest evil which could befall

her; yet ardently did her soul yearn to know his fate. She sat by her

father on the first night of his affliction, and on the long, long day

that followed, guarding him through his dreadful malady with the

watchfulness of a most devoted child, and the skilfulnes of a most wise

physician. Almost every word he uttered was as a dagger to her heart;

yet she saw and knew the necessity that must soon exist for others to

hear him speak, and shuddered at the thought.

"God! God! have mercy on me!" she murmured, clasping her hands, as she

looked upon his features, which, when it was nearly morning, had been

tranquillised into forgetfulness--"God have mercy upon me--and upon him,

poor sleeper!"

"Who sleeps?" he exclaimed, starting from his couch--"_He_ will not let

me sleep!--There! Constance, Constance, the ship is under weigh--she

spreads her white sails to the breeze, the ocean breeze--the breeze that

will not cool my brow!--And there--they drag him from the hold!--Look

how he struggles on the vessel's deck!--Spare him!--But no, do not spare

him: if he returns, where am I? Hush! did you hear that?--Hush! hush!

hush!" He stretched his hand, and bent his head in an attitude of deep

attention; then seizing her arm, repeated "hush!" until at last she

again inquired what disturbed him. "'Tis your mother, child; heard you

not that she said I murdered you? Speak, Constantia,--you are not dead?

I did not murder you--speak! I fired no pistol, and you did not fall!"

The sleep she had so unintentionally broken had been but of short

continuance during those weary hours; and the day was far advanced

before she had leisure to bestow a moment's thought upon the probable

turn that might be given to her future prospects by the sudden summons

of Sir Willmott Burrell to Hampton Court. But, upon whichever side she

turned, her destiny was dark, lowering, and fearful as the

thunder-storm. How her heart fainted when the form of her favourite

Barbara was present to her imagination, as she last held it bleeding on

her bosom! How mysterious was that death! how terrible! She would have

given worlds to look upon her but once more, for she could ill reconcile

the idea of that gentle girl's having a stormy sea-bed at her father's

hands--that rude, unhallowed man, the origin and nature of whose

influence over her own parent she now understood but too well.

Lady Frances Cromwell would have soothed her affliction had she known

how to do so, but comfort cannot be given to a sorrow whose source is

unknown. She entered her friend's watching-room, but could not prevail

upon her to take either repose or food; and hoping to catch the earliest

view of the physician, whose arrival she knew must be soon, she called

one of her women to attend her, and wandered up the hill to Minster,

where the beautiful ruins of Sexburga's nunnery commanded so extensive a

view of the entire island, and a considerable portion of the adjoining

country. The day had risen to one of unclouded beauty; the marshy coast

of Essex was cleared of its hovering fogs; and its green meadows

stretched away in the distance, until they were lost in the clear blue

sky. The southern part of the island, flat and uninteresting as it is,

looked gay and cheerful in the sun-light; for every little lake mirrored

the smiling heavens, and danced in diamond measures to the music of bee

and bird.

The cliffs at East-Church towered away for nearly six miles, broken here

and there by the falling of some venerable crag, hurled, as it were,

into the ocean by the giant hand of changing nature; while, as a

sentinel, the house at Gull's Nest Crag maintained its pre-eminence in

front of the Northern Ocean. The two little islands of Elmley and Harty

slept to the south-east, quietly and silently, like huge rush-nests

floating on the waters. Beyond East-Church the lofty front of the house

of Shurland reared its stone walls and stern embattlements, and looked

proudly over its green hills and fertile valleys--while, if the eye

wandered again to the south, it could discern the Barrows, where many

hundred Danes, in the turbulent times long past, found quiet and a

grave.

Several large men-of-war, with reefed sails and floating pennons, lay at

the entrance of the Nore, while a still greater number blotted the

waters of the sluggish Medway;--still the sun shone over all; and what

is it that the sun does not deck with a portion of its own cheerfulness

and beauty?

"Mount up the tower, Maud," said Lady Frances, "the tower of the old

church; it commands a greater range than I can see; and tell me when any

cross the ferry; thy eyes, if not brighter, are quicker far than mine."

"Will ye'r ladyship sit?" replied the sapient waiting-maid; "I'll spread

a kercher on this fragment of antiquity: ye'r ladyship can sit there

free from any disturbance. I can see as well from this high mound as

from the castle, or church-steeple, my lady; it is so hard to climb."

"Maud, if you like not to mount, say so, and I will go myself. You are

dainty, young mistress."

Maud obeyed instantly, though with sundry mutterings, which, well for

her, her lady heard not; for the Lady Frances was somewhat shrewishly

given, and could scold as if she had not been a princess, the rank and

bearing of which she was most anxious to assume, and carry as highly as

the noblest born in Europe.

"See you aught?" she inquired, at last looking up to Mistress Maud,

whose head, surmounted by its black hood, overlooking the parapet wall,

showed very like a well-grown crow.

"A shepherd on yonder hill, lady, waving his arm to a dog down in the

dingle, and the beast is driving up the fold as if he were a man."

Lady Frances bent over a tombstone near her and read the inscription. It

described in quaint, but touching language, the death of a young woman,

about her own age, the day before her intended bridal. There had been a

white rose-tree planted close to the rude monument, but its growth was

impeded by a mass of long grass and wild herbage, so that there was but

one rose on its branches, and that was discoloured by a foul canker,

whose green body could be seen under the froth it cast around to conceal

its misdeeds. Lady Frances took it out, destroyed it, and began pulling

up the coarse weeds.

"Such a tomb as this I should have liked for Barbara," she said aloud,

sighing heavily as the words escaped her lips.

"She will not need it," replied a voice from under an old archway, close

beside where she sat.

Lady Frances started.

"Will you tell your friend, Mistress Cecil," continued the same

voice--Lady Frances could not see the speaker, although, as may be

readily believed, she looked around her with an anxiety not divested of

terror--"Will you tell your friend, Mistress Cecil, that old Mother

Hays, of the Gull's Nest Crag, is dying, and that she has something to

communicate which it concerns her to know, and that the sooner she comes

to the Gull's Nest the better; for the woman's spirit is only waiting to

tell her secret, and go forth."

"Methinks," replied Lady Frances, "that her own child--I know she has

one--would be a fitter depositary for her secret than a lady of gentle

blood. But why come ye not forth? I hate all jugglery."

"Her own child, Robin, is away, the Lord knows where; and those who are

not of gentle blood are as eager after secrets as other folk. Your

father has had rare hunting after the Cavaliers and their secrets,

though his blood has more beer than Rhenish in it, to my thinking."

Lady Frances stamped her little foot with rage at the insult, and

called, in no gentle tone, "Maud! Maud!" then raising her voice, which

she imagined could be heard below, as the garden of Cecil Place joined

the ruins of Minster, she shouted, in a way that would have done no

discredit to any officer in the Commonwealth service, "Below

there!--turn out the guard, and encircle the ruins!"

"Turn out the guard, and encircle the ruins!" mimicked the voice, which

was evidently receding; "the little Roundhead's in a passion!--'Turn out

the guard!' ah! ah! ah!" and the laugh appeared to die away beneath her

feet.

Maud had hastened down right joyfully at the summons, and stood beside

her mistress, whose temper had by no means cooled at the term

"Roundhead," as applied to herself; and broke forth in good earnest,

when noting a smile that elongated her woman's lip, as she said,--

"Law! daisy me, my lady! I thought you were run away with, seeing I have

just seen two ravens come out o' the glen--the Fox-glen, as we call it."

"Run away with!" repeated Lady Frances, bridling; "have the goodness to

remember to whom it is you speak--woman--Here has been a--a--voice--Why

turns not out that coward guard? we are too long peaceful, methinks, and

need a stir to keep our soldiers to their duty."

"A voice, my lady!" repeated Maud, creeping to Lady Frances, and

remembering the legends they had talked of in the hall--"Did it speak,

my lady?"

"Fool! how could I know it a voice if it had not spoken?" replied Lady

Frances, who, as her temper subsided, felt that she was making herself

ridiculous, as it would not be in keeping with her dignity to repeat the

words she had heard.

"Shall I go down and call up the guard, and the servants, my lady, to

see after this voice?" persisted Maud, with the stupid obstinacy of a

person who can only see one thing at a time.

"Go up to the steeple, and look out--But--no--follow me to the house;

and remember," she added, with all the asperity of a person who is

conscious of having permitted temper to overcome judgment, "that we are

in the house of mourning, and ought not to indulge in any thing like

jest--say nothing of my alarm--I mean of what I heard, to your

companions: it is not worth recording----"

"My lady!"

"Silence, I say!" returned Lady Frances, folding her robe round her with

the dignity of a queen. The woman certainly obeyed; but she could not

resist muttering to herself, "She never will let a body speak when she

takes to those stormy fits. Marry, come up! I wonder who she is!--Well,

she's punishing herself; for I could have told her that out by

East-Church I saw two soldiers and another, who seem to have taken the

wrong instead of the right road; and, after still staying a little at

the Cross, turned back on their steps, so as to come to Cecil Place."

How many bars and pitfalls are in the way of those who would climb

highly, even if they wish to climb honestly and holily! If they stand

as the mark for a multitude's praise, they have also to encounter a

multitude's blame--the rabble will hoot an eagle; and the higher he

soars, the louder will they mock--yet what would they not give for his

wings!

Lady Frances's woman found within her narrow bosom an echo to the sneer

of the mysterious voice; yet, could she have become as Frances Cromwell,

how great would have been her triumph! How curious are the workings of

good and evil in the human heart! How necessary to study them, that so

we may arrive at the knowledge of ourselves.

Yet Maud loved her mistress; and had not Lady Frances reproved her

harshly and unjustly, she would never have thought, "Marry, come up! I

wonder who she is!" The spirit of evil worked at the moment in both--in

the lady, as a triumphant tyrant--in the woman, as an insolent slave.

We leave it to our philosophical readers to determine which of the two

manifestations was the most dangerous: we hope their displeasure against

either will not be very violent; for we have but too frequently observed

the self-same dispositions animate bright eyes and open coral lips.

Women are frequently greater tyrants than men, because of their

weakness: they are anxious for power as the means of strength; and

therefore they more often abuse it than use it properly; and men are

better slaves than women; because an innate consciousness of their

strength, which they are apt to believe they can employ whenever a

fitting opportunity occurs, keeps them tranquil. It has been often

noted, that in popular tumults women are frequently the most busy, and

the least easy to be controlled.

No one would have supposed that Lady Frances's temper had been ruffled,

when she crept into the room where Constantia was watching her still

sleeping father, and communicated the news of the anticipated death of

Mother Hays, with her strange request, in so low a whisper, that happily

he was not disturbed.

She quitted the apartment when her father's physician was announced; but

not until he had informed her that his Highness was about to visit the

Island, inquire personally after the health of Sir Robert Cecil,

investigate the strange murder that had occurred, inspect the fortress

of Queenborough, and ascertain if useful fortifications might not be

erected at Sheerness; thus mingling public with private business.

CHAPTER VI.

This deadly night did last

But for a little space,

And heavenly day, now night is past,

Doth shew his pleasant face:

* * * * * * *

The mystie clouds that fall sometime,

And overcast the skies,

Are like to troubles of our time,

Which do but dimme our eyes;

But as such dewes are dried up quite

When Phoebus shewes his face,

So are such fancies put to flighte

Where God doth guide by grace.

GASCOIGNE.

It would be an act of positive inhumanity to leave the unfortunate

preacher any longer to his solitude, without taking some note, however

brief it may be, of his feelings and his sufferings. After consigning

his packet (which, as we have seen, was not only received, but

appreciated by--the Protector) to the rocks and breezes of the Gull's

Nest Crag, he sat him down patiently, with his Bible in his hand, to

await whatever fate was to befall him, or, as he more reverently and

more properly termed it, "whatever the Almighty might have in store for

him, whether it seemed of good or of evil." The day passed slowly and

heavily; but before its close he had the satisfaction of ascertaining

that the parcel had disappeared. Again and again he climbed to the small

opening: at one time he saw that the fierce sunbeams danced on the

waves, and at another that they were succeeded by the rich and glowing

hues of the setting sun; then came the sober grey of twilight--the

sea-birds screamed their last good-night to the waters--one by one the

stars came out, gemming the sky with brilliancy, and sparkling along

their appointed path. The preacher watched their progress and meditated

on their mysteries; though his meditations would have been more cheerful

could he have partaken of any of the "creature comforts" appertaining to

Cecil Place, and under the special jurisdiction of Solomon Grundy. It

was in vain that he had recourse to the crushed oranges--they merely

kept his lips from parching and his tongue from cleaving to the roof of

his mouth, and by the dawning of the Sabbath morn he was "verily an

hungered"--not suffering from the puny and sickly faintness of

temporary abstinence, but literally starving for want of food. He paced

his narrow cell--called loudly from the window--exhausted his strength

in fruitless endeavours to shake the door which the treacherous Burrell

had so securely fastened, until, as the day again approached to its

termination, he threw himself on the ground in an agony of despair.

"To die such a death--to die without a witness or a cause! If the Lord

had willed that I should suffer as a martyr for his holy word, Jonas

Fleetword would not have been the man to repine, but gladly would have

sacrificed his body as a proof of his exceeding faith, and as an example

to encourage others; but to be starved for Sir Willmott Burrell's

pastime--to starve in this horrid cell--to feel nature decaying within

me, while not even the ravens can bring me food! O God! O God! pass thou

this cup from me, or implant a deep spirit of patience and resignation

within my soul!"

The unfortunate man continued praying and exclaiming, until nature

became almost exhausted, and he sat opposite the aperture, his eyes

fixed on the heavens, from which the light was once more rapidly

receding.

"If the villain willed my death, why not exterminate me at once?" he

thought; and then he prayed again; and as his fervour increased, the

door opened, and, by the dim light that entered his cell, he discovered

the figure of a tall stalwart man, who was in the middle of the chamber

before he perceived that a living being occupied any portion of it.

"The Lord has heard!--the Lord has answered! the Lord has delivered!"

exclaimed the preacher, springing on his feet with astonishing agility;

then going up closely to his deliverer, he scanned his features with an

earnest eye, and continued, "It is not the chief of cunning, art, and

bloodshed, albeit one who appears skilled in the habits of warlike

people. Friend, my inward man doth greatly suffer from long abstinence,

seeing I have not tasted any thing but a fragment of bitter orange in a

state of decomposition, to which I should soon have been reduced myself

but for thy timely arrival! Behold, I have been compelled to tarry here

a prisoner for the space of thirty-six hours, computing by the rising of

the sun and the setting thereof.--Art thou a friend to Sir Willmott

Burrell?"

"D--n him!" replied the stranger with a startling earnestness that left

no doubt of his sincerity, at the same time returning to his belt the

pistol he had drawn forth at the sight of a stranger in one of the most

secret apartments of the Crag.