.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 44587
   :PG.Title: John Inglesant (Volume I of 2)
   :PG.Released: 2014-01-04
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: John Henry Shorthouse
   :DC.Title: John Inglesant (Volume I of 2)
              A Romance
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1881
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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JOHN INGLESANT (VOLUME I)
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      JOHN INGLESANT

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      A Romance

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      by

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      John Henry Shorthouse

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      [Greek: Agapetoí, nûn tékna Theoû esmen, kaì
      oúpo ephanerothe tí esómetha.]

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      VOL. I.

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      London
      MACMILLAN AND CO.
      1881 

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      *Printed by* R & R. CLARK, *Edinburgh*.

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      *TO*

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      *RAWDON LEVETT, ESQ.*

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      *MY DEAR LEVETT,*

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      *I dedicate these volumes to you, that I may have an
      opportunity of calling myself your friend.*

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      *J. HENRY SHORTHOUSE.*

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      *LANSDOWNE, EDGBASTON,*
         *May 1, 1881.*

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Memoirs of the Life

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OF

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MR. JOHN INGLESANT

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SOMETIME SERVANT TO KING CHARLES I.

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WITH

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AN ACCOUNT OF HIS BIRTH, EDUCATION, AND TRAINING BY
THE JESUITS

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AND

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A PARTICULAR RELATION OF THE SECRET SERVICES
IN WHICH HE WAS ENGAGED

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ESPECIALLY IN CONNECTION WITH THE LATE
IRISH REBELLION

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WITH

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SEVERAL OTHER REMARKABLE PASSAGES AND OCCURRENCES.

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ALSO

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A HISTORY OF HIS RELIGIOUS DOUBTS AND EXPERIENCES

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AND OF THE MOLINISTS OR QUIETISTS IN ITALY
IN WHICH COUNTRY HE RESIDED FOR MANY YEARS

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WITH AN ACCOUNT OF

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THE ELECTION OF THE LATE POPE

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AND

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MANY OTHER EVENTS AND AFFAIRS.

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.. _`INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER`:

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   JOHN INGLESANT.

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   INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER.

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During my second year at Oxford I became acquainted
with a Roman Catholic gentleman, the eldest son of a
family long resident on the borders of Shropshire towards
Wales.  My friend, whose name was Fisher, invited me to his
home, and early in my last long vacation I accepted his
invitation.  The picturesque country was seen to great advantage in
the lovely summer weather.  That part of Shropshire partakes
somewhat of the mountain characteristics of Wales, combined
with the more cultivated beauties of English rural scenery.
The ranges of hills, some of which are lofty and precipitous,
which intersect the country, form wide and fertile valleys which
are watered by pleasant streams.  The wide pastures are
bordered by extensive plantations covering the more gradual
ascents, and forming long lines along the level summits.  We
had some miles to drive even from the small station on the
diminutive branch line of railway which had slowly conveyed
us the last dozen miles or so of our journey.  At last, just at
the foot of one of the long straight hills, called Edges in that
country, we came upon my friend's house, seen over a flat
champaign of pasture land, surrounded by rows of lofty trees,
and backed by fir and other wood, reaching to the summit of
the hill behind it.  It was an old and very picturesque house,
jumbled together with the additions of many centuries, from the
round tower-like staircase with an extinguisher turret, to a
handsome addition of two or three years ago.  Close by was the
mutilated tower of a ruined priory, the chancel of which is used
as the parish church.  A handsome stone wing of one story,
built in the early Gothic style, and not long completed, formed
the entrance hall and dining-room, with a wide staircase at the
back.  The hall was profusely hung with old landscapes and
family portraits.  After a short introduction to my friend's
family, we were soon assembled in the newly finished dining-room,
with its stone walls and magnificent overhanging Gothic
fireplace.  The dinner party consisted of my friend's father
and mother, his two sisters, and a Roman Catholic clergyman,
the family chaplain and priest of a neighbouring chapel which
Mr. Fisher had erected and endowed.  The room was hung
entirely with portraits, several of them being ecclesiastics in
different religious costumes, contrasting, to my eyes, strangely
with the gay cavaliers and the beautiful ladies of the Stuarts'
Court, and the not less elaborately dressed portraits of the last
century, and with those of my host and hostess in the costume
of the Regency.  I was struck with the portrait which
happened to be opposite me, of a young man with a tonsured
head, in what appeared to me to be a very simple monk's
dress, and I asked the Priest, a beautiful and mild-looking old
man, whom it was intended to represent.

"A singular story is attached to that portrait," he said,
"which, it may surprise you to learn, is not that of a—a
member of our communion.  It is the portrait of a young
Englishman named Inglesant, a servant of King Charles the First,
who was very closely connected with the Roman Catholics of
that day, especially abroad, and was employed in some secret
negotiations between the King and the Catholic gentry; but
the chief interest connected with his story consists in some very
remarkable incidents which took place abroad, connected with
the murderer of his only brother—incidents which exhibit this
young man's character in a noble and attractive light.  He is
connected with Mr. Fisher's family solely through the relations
of his brother's wife, but, singularly, he is buried not far from
here, across the meadows.  In the latter years of his life he
purchased an estate in this neighbourhood, though it was not
his native country, and founded an almshouse or rather
hospital, for lunatics, in the chapel in which his tomb is still
standing.  That portrait, in which he appears in the dress of a
novice," he continued, turning to the one before me, "was
taken in Rome, when he was residing at the English college,
where he certainly was received, as he appears to have been
generally when abroad, into full communion with us.  As a
contrast to it, I will show you another in the drawing-room, by
Vandyke, which, though it really was intended for his brother,
yet may equally well represent himself, as, at that period, the
two brothers are said to have been so exactly alike that they
could not be known apart.  On his tomb at Monk's Lydiard,
as you may see if you incline to take the trouble to walk so
far—and it is a pleasing walk—he is represented in his gown
of bachelor of civil law, a degree which he received at Oxford
during the civil war, and he is there also represented with
tonsured head.  I have often thought," continued the Priest,
musingly, "of arranging a considerable collection of papers
referring to this gentleman's story, which is at present in the
library; or at least of writing out a plain statement of the
facts; but it would be better done, perhaps, by a layman.  I
have the authority of these young ladies," he continued, with a
smile, turning to the Miss Fishers, "that the story is a more
entertaining and even exciting one than the sensational novels
of the day, of which, I need not say, I am not a judge."

The young ladies confirmed this as far as their knowledge
went; but they had heard only fragments of the story, and
were urgent with the clergyman to set about the task.  He,
however, replied to their entreaties only by a shake of the head;
and the ladies soon after left the room.

When we went into the drawing-room, I was eager to see
the Vandyke, and was shown a magnificent picture at one end
of the room, representing a singularly handsome young man,
in a gorgeous satin court dress of the reign of Charles the
First, whose long hair and profusion of lace and ornament
would probably, in the work of another artist, have produced
an unpleasing impression, but, softened by the peculiar genius
of Vandyke, the picture possessed that combination of
splendour and pathos which we are in the habit of associating only
with his paintings.  His satin shoes and silk stockings
contrasted curiously with the grass on which the cavalier stood,
and the sylvan scene around him; and still more so with his
dogs and two horses, which were held at some little distance
by a page.  His face was high and noble, but on closely
comparing it—as I did several times—with that of the Monk in
the dining-room, I arrived at the conclusion that either the
likeness between the brothers was exaggerated, or the expression
of the survivor must have altered greatly in after years;
for no difference in dress, great as was the contrast between
the coarse serge of the novice and the satin of the cavalier,
and between the close-cropped tonsured head and the flowing
love locks, would account for the greater strength and resolve of
the portrait in the dining-room, combined, strangely, as this
expression was, with a slightly wild and abstracted look,
indicating either religious enthusiasm, or perhaps unsettlement of
the reason within; this latter expression being totally wanting
in the face of the cavalier.

The next day was Sunday, and I opened my window on a
lovely prospect of lawn and water, with the fir woods sweeping
up the hill-sides beyond.  Walking out in the avenue when I
was dressed, I met the family returning from low mass at the
chapel.  I attended high mass with them at eleven o'clock.
The Chapel was picturesquely built higher up in the wood than
the house.  It had a light and graceful interior, and the
coverings of the altar were delicate and white.  The exquisite
plaintive music, the pale glimmer of the tapers in the morning
sunlight, the soothing perfume of the incense, the sense of
pathetic pleading and of mysterious awe, as if of the possibility
of a Divine Presence, produced its effect on me, as it does, I
imagine, on most educated Churchmen; but this effect failed
in convincing me (then, as at other times) that there was more
under that gorgeous ceremonial than may be found under the
simpler Anglican ritual of the Blessed Sacrament.  After
church, my friend, who had some engagement with the Priest,
accepted my assurance that I was fond of solitary walks; and
I set off alone on my quest of the tomb of John Inglesant.

I followed a footpath which led direct from the ruined
Church near the house, across the small park-like enclosure,
into the flat meadows beyond.  The shadows of the great
trees lay on the grass, the wild roses and honeysuckle covered
the hedges, a thousand butterflies fluttered over the fields.
That Sunday stillness which is, possibly, but the echo of our
own hearts, but which we fancy marks the day, especially in
the country, soothed the sense.  The service in the morning
had not supplied the sacrament to me, but it had been far
from being without the sense of worship; and the quiet
country in the lovely summer weather, in connection with it,
seemed to me then, as often, the nearest foretaste we can
gain of what the blissful life will be.  As I went on the distant
murmur of Church bells came across the meadows, and following
a footpath for a couple of miles, I came to the Hospital or
Almshouse, standing amid rows of elms, and having a small
village attached to it, built probably since its erection.  The
bells which I had heard, and which ceased a little before I
reached the place, were in a curious turret or cupola attached
to the Chapel, which formed one side of the court.  The
buildings were of red brick, faced with stone, in the latest
style of the Stuart architecture.  The door of the Chapel was
wide open, and I entered and dropped into a seat just as the
Psalms began.  The room was fitted in a style exactly
corresponding to the outside; a circular recess at the upper end
took the place of chancel, lighted with three windows, which
were filled with innumerable small panes of glass.  The altar
was richly draped; and on it, besides vases of flowers, were
two massive candlesticks of an antique pattern, and an old
painting, apparently of the Virgin and Child.  The lower
walls of the chancel and of the whole Chapel were panelled,
and the whole had a flat ceiling of panelled oak, painted in
the centre with a sun with rays.  Partly in the chancel, and
partly in the Chapel, the surpliced choir was accommodated
in stalls or pews, and the organ and pulpit, in elaborate
carved mahogany, completed the interior.  There was a good
congregation; and from this, and from many tablets on the
walls, I gathered that the Chapel was used by the neighbourhood
as probably being nearer than the Parish Churches.
The soft afternoon light filled the place, gilding the old
brass-work, and lighting up the dark carving and the sombre narrow
pews.  The music was of a very high class, deliciously sung,
and I found afterwards that there was an endowment especially
for the choir, and that the chaplains were required to be
musical.  The service bore comparison favourably with the
morning's mass, and a short sermon followed.  When all was
over, and the people were gone out into the sunshine, I began
to look for the tomb I had come to see, and the chaplain,
having come out of the vestry, and seeming to expect it, I
went up and spoke to him.  I told him I had walked from
Lydiard—my friend's house—to see the tomb of the founder,
to which I had been directed by the Roman Catholic
gentleman who resided there.  He was well acquainted with Father
Arnold, he told me, and took me at once to the tomb, which
was in a recess by the altar, screened from view by the choir
seats.  There he lay, sure enough, just as the Priest had told me,
carved from head to foot in alabaster, in his gown of bachelor
of civil law, and his tonsured head.  The sculptor had understood
his work; the face was life-like, and the likeness to the
portrait was quite perceptible.  The inscription was curious—"sub
marmore isto Johannes Inglesant, Peccator, usque ad
judicium latet, expectans revelationem filiorum Dei."

I told the chaplain what Father Arnold had told me of
this man's story, and of the materials that existed for writing
it.  He had heard of them too, and even examined them.

"The Priest will never write it," he said.

"Why do not you?" I asked.

He laughed.  "I am a musician," he said, "not an author.
You seem more interested in it than most people; you had
better do it."

As I came back across the fields I pondered over this
advice; and after dinner I asked the Priest the story.  He
told me the outline, and the next morning took me into the
library, and showed me the papers.

The library at Lydiard is a very curious room below the
level of the ground, and in the oldest part of the house.  It
adjoins the tower with the extinguisher turret, by which there
is communication with the bed chambers, and with the leads
and garrets at the top of the house.  The room was large,
and had several closets besides a smaller room beyond, which
had no visible communication except into the library; but
the Priest showed me a secret doorway and staircase, which,
he said, descended into the cellars.  Both these rooms and
the closets were crammed with books, the accumulation of
four hundred years—most of them first editions, and clean as
when they came from the binder, but browned and mellowed
with age.  Early works of the German press, a Caxton, the
scarce literature of the sixteenth century—all the books which
had once been fashionable—Cornelius Agrippa, and Cardan,
two or three editions of the Euphues, folios of Shakespeare
and the dramatists, and choice editions of the literature of the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, down to our own day.
Besides this general literature, there was a large collection of
Roman Catholic works and pamphlets, many privately printed
at home or published abroad; biographies of Seminary Priests
who had suffered death in England, reports of trials, private
instructions, and even volumes of private letters, for Lydiard
had always been a secure hiding-place for the hunted priests,
and more than one had died there, leaving all his papers in
the library.  No fitter place could exist in which to attempt
the task I had already determined to undertake, and I
obtained leave of the Priest, promising to make nothing public
without his approval.  I had the whole vacation before me;
too idle and desultory to read for honours, I had always been
fond of literature and the classics, and was safe for my degree,
and I gave myself up unreservedly to my task.  I have
endeavoured, as Father Arnold said, to tell a plain story.  I
have no pretensions to dramatic talent, and I deprecate the
reader's criticism.  If I have caught anything of the religious
and social tone of the seventeenth century, I am more than
content.

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GEOFFREY MONK, M.A.





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.. _`CHAPTER I.`:

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   CHAPTER I.

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When Cromwell, Earl of Essex, was in the zenith of
his power, and was engaged in completing the suppression
of the smaller monasteries before commencing on the
greater,—he had in his service a young gentleman named
Richard Inglesant, the son of a knight, and descended from a
knightly family, originally of Flanders, who had come into
England with the Princess of Hainault.  This young man was
of an attractive person, a scholar, active and useful in many
ways, and therefore a favourite with his master.  One evening
in the end of June 1537, he was sent for by Cromwell into
the great gallery of his magnificent house in Throgmorton
Street, where he found his master walking up and down in
thought.

"You must be ready to depart at once, Richard," he said,
"into Wiltshire.  I have in this commission appointed you
Visitor of the Priory of Westacre, six miles south of
Malmsbury, on the way into Somerset, which they call the Priory in
the Wood.  The King's Grace is resolved on the suppression
of this house, as a priory; but note very carefully what I tell
you;—it will be for your guidance.  Great interest has been
made to his Grace's Highness on behalf of this house, both by
many of the gentry dwelling thereabout, and also by the
common people by the mouth of the Mayor of Malmsbury.  They
say the house is without any slander or evil fame; that it
stands in a waste ground, very solitary, keeping such hospitality,
that except with singular good management it could not
be maintained though it had half as much land again as it has,
such a number of the poor inhabitants nigh thereunto are daily
relieved.  The Prior is a right honest man, and well beloved
of all the inhabitants therewith adjoining, having with him, in
the house, eight religious persons, being priests of right good
conversation, and living religiously.  They spend their time in
writing books with a very fair hand, in making garments for
the poor people, in printing or graving.  Now the prayer of
these people is that the King's Highness shall translate this
priory into a college, and so continue as many of the priests
as the lands will maintain for the benefit of the neighbours;
and the King is much inclined to do this.  Now, on the other
hand, this house has a proper lodging, where the Prior lay,
with a fair garden and an orchard, very mete to be bestowed
on some friend of mine, and some faithful servant of the King's
Grace.  There is no small number of acres ready sown with
wheat, the tilthes ordered for barley; the house and grounds
are well furnished with plate, stuff, corn, cattle; the woods
well saved, and the hedgerows full of timber, as though the
Prior had looked for no alteration of his house.  I had set
mine hand on this house for a friend of mine, but the King's
Grace is determined upon this:—if the Prior will surrender the
house in a discreet and frank manner, and will moreover, on
Sunday next, which is the Feast of the most Precious Blood,
after mass, to which all the neighbouring people shall have
been called, in his sermon, make mention of the King's title of
Supreme Head, and submit himself wholly, in all matters
spiritual, to the King's Grace, under Christ, the house shall be
continued as a college, and no man therein disturbed, and
not so much as an ounce of plate taken, that they may pray
God Almighty to preserve the King's Grace with his blessed
pleasure.  Now I send you on this mission because, if things
go as I think they may, I mean this house for you; and there
is so much clamour about this business that I will have no
more hands in it than I can help.  Take two or three of the
men with you whom you can trust; but see you fail not in one
jot in the course you take with the Prior, for should it come
to the King's ears that you had deceived the Prior—and it
surely would so come to his Grace—your head would not be
your own for an hour, and I should doubt, even, of my own
favour with the King."

Richard Inglesant was on horseback before daylight the
next morning; and riding by easy stages, arrived at Malmsbury
at last, and slept a night there, making inquiries about
the way to Westacre.  At Malmsbury, and at all the villages
where he stopped, he heard nothing but what agreed with what
Cromwell had told him; and what he heard seemed to make
him loiter still more, for he slept at Malmsbury a second night,
and then did not go forward to Westacre till noonday.  In
the middle of the summer afternoon he crossed the brow of
the hilly common, and saw the roofs of the Priory beneath him
surrounded by its woods.  The country all about lay peaceful
in the soft, mellow sunlight; wide slopes of wood, intermixed
with shining water, and the quiet russet downs stretching
beyond.  Richard had sent on a man the day before to warn
the Prior, who had been expecting his coming all day.  The
house stood with a little walled court in front of it, and a
gate-house; and consisted of three buildings—a chapel, a
large hall, and another building containing the Prior's parlour
and other rooms on the ground floor, and a long gallery or
dormitory above, out of which opened other chambers; the
kitchens and stables were near the latter building, on the right
side of the court.  The Prior received Inglesant with deference,
and took him over the house and gardens, pointing out
the well-stocked fish-ponds and other conveniences, with no
apparent wish of concealing anything.  Richard was astonished
at the number of books, not only in the book-room, but also
in the Prior's own chamber; these latter the Prior seemed
anxious he should not examine.  As far as Richard could see,
they were, many of them, chemical and magical books.  He
supped with the Prior in Hall, with the rest of the household,
and retired with him to the parlour afterwards, where
cakes and spiced wine were served to them, and they
remained long together.  Inglesant delivered his commission
fairly to his host, dwelling, again and again, on every particular,
while the Prior sat silent or made but short and inconclusive
replies.  At last Inglesant betook himself to rest in the
guest-chamber, a room hung with arras, opening from the gallery
where the monks slept, towards the west; one of his servants
slept also in the dormitory near his door.  The Prior's care had
ordered a fire of wood on the great hearth that lighted up the
carved bed and the hunting scene upon the walls.  He lay
long and could not sleep.  All night long, at intervals, came
the sound of chanting along the great hall and up the stairs
into the dormitory, as the monks sung the service of matins,
lauds, and prime.  His mind was ill at ease.  A scholar, and
brought up from boyhood at the Court, he had little sympathy
with the new doctrines, and held the simple and illiterate
people who mostly followed them in small esteem.  He was
strongly influenced by that mysterious awe which the Romish
system inspires in the most careless, even when it is not strong
enough to influence their lives.  The mission he had undertaken,
and the probable destruction of this religious house, and
the expulsion of its inmates for his benefit, frightened him,
and threatened him with unknown penalties and terrors
hereafter which he dared not face.  He lay listlessly on his bed
listening to the summer wind, and when at last he fell asleep,
it was but a light fitful slumber, out of which he woke ever and
anon to hear the distant chanting of the monks, and see by
the flickering fire-light the great hounds coursing each other
over the walls of his room.

In the morning he heard mass in the chapel, after which
the Prior sent a message to explain his absence, informing him
that he was gone to Malmsbury to consult with his friends
there how he might best serve the King's Grace.  All that
morning Richard Inglesant sat in the hall receiving the
evidence of all who came before him (of whom there was no
lack)—of the neighbours, gentry, and country people.  He
evidently examined them with great care and acuteness, noting
down every answer, in a fair clerkly hand, exactly as he
received it, neither extenuating anything nor adding the least
word.  He also in the same report kept an exact account of
how he passed his time while at Westacre.  There appears—as
Cromwell had said—not to have been the least breath of
scandal against the Prior or any of the priests in the house.
The only report at all injurious to the character of the Prior
seems to have been an opinion—oftentimes hinted at by the
witnesses—that he was addicted to the study of chemistry and
magic; that, besides his occult books, he had in his closet in
his chamber a complete chemical apparatus with which he
practised alchemy, and was even said to be in possession of
the Elixir of Life.  These reports Inglesant does not appear
to have paid much attention to, probably regarding them as
not necessarily coming within the limits of his commission;
and, indeed, there is evidence of his having acted with the
most exact fairness throughout the investigation, more than
once putting questions to the witness, evidently for the purpose
of correcting misapprehensions which told against the Prior.
After dinner he rode out to the downs to a gentleman who
had courteously sent him word that he was coursing with
greyhounds: he, however, was not absent from the Priory long,
declining the gentleman's invitation to supper.  After he had
supped he spent the rest of the evening in his own chamber,
reading what he calls "Ovidii Nasonis metamorphoseos libri
moralizati," an edition of which, printed at Leipsic in 1510,
he had found in the Prior's room.

The next forenoon he spent in the same manner as the
last, the people flocking in voluntarily to give their evidence
in favour of the house.  A little after noon the Prior came
back, travelling on foot and alone.  As he came along he was
thinking of the words of the gospel which promise great things
to him who gives up houses and land for the Lord's sake.

When he reached the brow of the hill from which he could
see the three red-tiled roofs of the Priory peeping out from
among the trees, with the gardens and the green meadows,
and the cattle seen here and there, he stood long to gaze.
The air was soft and yet fresh, and the woods stretching up
the rising-grounds about the Priory were wavering and shimmering
all over with their myriad rustling leaves, instinct with
life and beauty both to the ear and eye; a perpetual change
from light to shadow, from the flight of the fleecy clouds,
would have made the landscape dazzling but for the green on
which the eye dwelt with a sense of rest to the wearied and
excited brain.  A gentle sound and murmur, as of happy and
contented beings, made itself softly felt rather than heard,
through the noontide air.  "Omnes qui relinquunt patrem,
domes, uxorem," said the Prior; but his eyes were so dim
that he stumbled as he went on down the hill.

Richard Inglesant and he were some time alone together
that evening.  Whether the Prior prepared him at all for the
course he had determined to pursue, does not appear, but
certainly he did not, to any great extent.

The next day was Sunday, being the "Feast of the most
Precious Blood"—a Sunday long remembered in that country
side.  The people, for a score of miles round, thronged to
hear the Prior's sermon.  The Mayor of Malmsbury was there;
but the clergy of the Abbey, it was noticed, were not present.
The little Chapel would not hold a tithe of the people—indeed,
few more than the gentry and their ladies, who came in great
numbers, were allowed admission.  Richard Inglesant and the
Sheriff had Fald-stools in front of the altar, where they remained
kneeling the whole of mass.  The doors and windows of the
Chapel were opened, that the people outside might assist at
the celebration.  They stood as thick as they could be packed
in the little courtyard, and up the sloping fields around the
Priory, listening in silence to the music of the mass; and at
the sound of the bell the whole multitude fell on their knees
as one man, remaining so for several minutes.  Mass being
over, the Prior came in procession from the Chapel to where a
small wooden pulpit had been set up just outside the gate-house,
in front of which seats were placed for the Sheriff and
Inglesant, and the chief gentry.  The silence was greater than
ever, when the Prior, who had changed the gorgeous vestments
in which he had celebrated mass, and appeared only as
a simple monk, ascended the pulpit and began to preach.
The Prior was a great preacher; a small and quiet man
enough to look at, when he entered the pulpit he was
transfigured.  His form grew dignified, his face lighted up with
enthusiasm, and his voice, even in the open air, was full and
clear, and possessed that magical property of reaching the
hearts of all who heard him, now melted into tenderness, and
now raised to firm resolve.  He began with the text that had
haunted his memory the day before, and the first part of his
sermon was simply an earnest and eloquent exhortation to
follow Christ in preference to anything beside on earth.
Then, warming in his subject, he answered the question
(speaking that magnificent English tongue that even now rings
in the pages of Foxe), Where was Christ? and urging the
people to follow Him as He manifested Himself in the
Church, and especially in the sacrament of the altar.  Then
suddenly throwing aside all reserve, and with a rapidity of
utterance and a torrent of eloquence that carried his hearers
with him, he rushed into the question of the day, brought
face to face the opposing powers of the State and Christ,
hurled defiance at the former, and while not absolutely naming
the King or his council, denounced his policy in the plainest
words.  Then, amid the swaying of the excited crowd, and a
half stifled cry and murmur, he suddenly dropped his voice,
pronounced the formal benediction, and shrank back, to all
appearance, into the quiet, timid monk.

It is needless to describe the excitement and astonishment
of the crowd.  The Prior and his procession with difficulty
returned to the chapel through the press.  The Sheriff and
Richard Inglesant, who with the other leading gentry had
affected perfect unconsciousness that anything unusual was
taking place, entered the hall of the Priory, and the Prior had
a message sent into the sacristy that the King's commissioner
desired to see him immediately in the parlour.

When the Prior entered, Inglesant was standing upon the
hearth; he was pale, and his manner was excited and even
fierce.

"You are a bold man, master Prior," he said almost before
the other was in the room; "do you know that you have this
day banished yourself and all your fellowship into the world
without shelter and without help?  Nay, I know not but the
King's Grace may have you up to answer for this day with your
life!  Do you know this?"

The Prior looked him steadily in the face, but he was
deadly pale, and his manner was humble and cowed.

"Yes, I know it," he said.

"Well," continued the other still more excitedly, "I call
you to witness, master Prior, as I shall before the throne of
God Almighty, that I have neither hand nor part in this day's
work; that you have brought this evil upon yourself by your
own deed and choice, by no want of warning and no suddenness
on my part, but by your own madness alone."

"It is very true," said the Prior.

"I must to horse," said Inglesant, scarcely heeding him,
"and ride post to my lord.  It is as much as my head is
worth should any rumour of this day's business reach the
King's Grace by any other tongue than mine.  You will stay
here under the Sheriff's guard; but I fear you will too soon
hear what a tragedy this day's play has been for you!  God
have you in his keeping, Prior! for you have put yourself out
of all hope of mercy from the King's Grace."

He might have said more, but an alarming noise made
him hasten into the hall.  The most lawless and poorest of
the people—of whom numbers had mingled in the crowd in
the hope of spoil, taking for granted that the house was
dissolved—had made an attack upon the Chapel and the Prior's
lodging, and it was some time before the Sheriff, assisted
by Inglesant and the other gentlemen and their servants,
all of whom were armed, could restore order.  When this
was done, and the peaceable people and women reassured,
Inglesant's horses were brought out, and he mounted and
rode off through the dispersing but still excited and lawless
crowds, leaving the Priory to a strong guard of the Sheriff's
men.  As he rode up the hill—the people shrinking back to
let him pass—he muttered, bitterly:

"A fine piece of work we have set our hands to, with all
the rascal people of the country to aid.  And why should not
the Poverty get some of the droppings, when the Gentry cuts
the purse?"

Travelling at a very different pace from that at which he
had ridden from London, he reached the city the next night,
and went at once to the Lord Cromwell, who, the next
morning, took him to the King, to whom he gave a full account of
what had occurred.  Henry—who appears to have been
induced to form his previous intention by the influence of a
gentleman at Court who probably had his private expectations
with regard to the future possession of the Priory—seems to
have really cared little about the matter.  He was, however,
highly incensed at the Prior's sermon, and made no difficulty
of immediately granting the Priory to Richard Inglesant.  A
pursuivant was sent down to bring the Prior up to London to
be examined before the Council, but it does not appear that
he ever was examined.  Probably Inglesant exerted his
influence with Cromwell in his behalf, for Cromwell examined
him himself, and appears to have informed the King that he
was harmless and mad.  At any rate, he was set at liberty;
and his troubles appear to have actually affected his reason,
for he is said to have returned to the neighbourhood of
Malmsbury, and to have wandered about the Priory at nights.
The other inmates of the Priory had been dispersed, and the
house taken possession of by Inglesant's servants; but he
himself seems to have taken but little pleasure in his new
possession, for it was more than a year before he visited it;
and when he did so, events occurred which increased his
dislike to the place.

It was late in October when his visit took place, and the
weather was wild and stormy.  He slept in the Prior's
guest-chamber, which was in the same state as when he had
occupied it before.  The wind moaned in the trees, and swept
over the roofs and among the chimneys of the old house.  In
the early part of the night he had a terrible dream, or what
was rather partly a dream and partly a feverish sense of the
objects around him.  He thought he was lying in the bed in
the room where he really was, and could not sleep; a fierce
contention of the elements and of some powers more fearful
than the elements seemed going on outside.  The room
became hateful to him, with its dark, hearse-like bed, and the
strange figures on the tapestry, which seemed to his bewildered
fancy to course each other over the walls with a rapidity and
a fantastic motion which made his senses reel.  He thought
that, unable to remain where he was, he rose and went out
into the old dormitory, now silent and deserted, from one end
of which he could look into the courtyard, while from the
other he could see a dark mass of woodland, and a lurid
distant sky.  On this side all was quiet; but the courtyard
seemed astir.  The moon shone with the brightness of day on
the mouldering, ivy-grown walls, and on the round pebble
stones between which the long grass was growing all over the
court.  The wind swept fiercely across it, and splashes of
rain, every now and then, made streaks in the moonlight like
fire; strange voices cried to him in an unknown language,
and undistinguished forms seemed passing to and fro.  The
Chapel was all alight, and low and mournful music proceeded
from it, as for the dead.  Fascinated with terror, he left the
gallery and descended into the court.  An irresistible impulse
led him to the Chapel, which was open, and he went in.  As
he did so, voices and strange forms seemed to rush forward to
enter with him, and an overwhelming horror took possession
of him.  Inside, the Chapel was hung with black; cowled
forms filled the stalls, and chanted, with hollow, shadowy
voices, a dirge for the departed.  A hooded and black form
stood before the altar, celebrating the mass.  The altar was
alight with tapers, and torches were borne by sable attendants
on either side of the choir.  The ghostly forms that entered
with him now thronged about him in the form and habit of
living men.  Voices called from without, and were answered
from within the Chapel; rushing sounds filled the air as
though the trees were being torn up, and the Chapel and
house rocked.  There was no coffin nor pall, nor any sign of
mourning; and it seemed to Inglesant that he was present at
the celebration of some obyte, or anniversary of the death of
one long departed, over whom a wild and ghostly lamentation
was made by beings no longer of the earth.  An inexpressible
dread and sorrow lay upon him—an overwhelming dread, as
if the final Reckoning were near at hand, and all hope taken
away—sorrow, as though all whom he had ever loved and
known lay before him in death, with the solemn dirge and
placebo said over them by the ghostly choir.  The strain was
too intense and painful to be borne, and with a cry, he awoke.

Utterly incapable of remaining where he was, he dressed,
and went out into the gallery, and down into the courtyard.
The court was lighted by the moonlight as brightly as in his
dream for one moment, and then was totally dark from the
passing clouds flitting over the moon.  All was calm and still.
A small door in the corner of the court near the Chapel was
open, and, surprised at this, Inglesant crossed over and passed
through it.  It led into the graveyard of the Priory outside the
Chapel, where the monks and some of the country people had
been used to bury their dead.  It was walled round, but the
wall at the farther side was old and ruinous, and had partly
fallen down.  As Inglesant reached the postern door, the
moon shone out brightly, and he saw, between himself and
the ruined wall, a wasted and cowled figure slowly traversing
the rows of graves.  For a moment he felt a terror equal to
that of his dream, but the next the thought of the Prior flashed
upon his mind, and he crossed the graveyard and followed
silently in the track of the figure.  The ghostly form reached
the opposite wall, and commenced, with some substance that
shone like fire, to draw magic figures upon the stones of one
of its most perfect parts.  Placing himself in a position
evidently indicated by these geometrical figures, he carefully
observed the precise spot where his shadow was projected on
the wall before him by the moonlight, and going to this spot,
he carefully loosened and removed a stone.  By this time
Inglesant was close upon him, and saw him take from within
the wall an antique glass or vial of a singular and occult shape.
As he raised it, some slight motion the other made caused him
to turn round, and at the sight of Inglesant he dropped the
magic glass upon the stone he had removed, and shattered it
to pieces.  When he saw what had happened, the strange and
weird creature threw his arms above his head, and with a
piercing cry that rang again and again through the chill night
air, fell backwards senseless, and lay in the pale moonlight
white and still among the graves.  Inglesant removed him
into the house, and he was restored to sense, but scarcely to
reason.  He lived for more than five years, never leaving the
Priory, where Inglesant directed that all his wants should be
attended to, wandering about the gardens, and sometimes
poring over his old books, which still remained upon his shelves.
Inglesant never saw him again; but when he died the old
man sent him his blessing, and was buried before the altar in
the Chapel, where all the Priors of the house had lain before
him; he on whom the evil days, which they perhaps had
merited but had escaped, had fallen, and had crushed.





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.. _`CHAPTER II.`:

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   CHAPTER II.

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Richard Inglesant never, till the last few years of
his life, lived at Westacre, and visited it very seldom.
He was a successful courtier; and at Cromwell's fall became
a servant of the King.  He married, and lived entirely at the
Court.  He was all his life a Catholic at heart, but conformed
outwardly to the religion of the hour.  He had one son,
named after him, who was educated at Oxford, and intended
for the bar, but his father left him so considerable a fortune
that he was independent of any profession.  That Richard
Inglesant left no more than he did, shows that he adhered
through life to the line of conduct we have seen him pursue at
Westacre—conduct which probably satisfied his conscience as
being rigidly exact and honest.  On Henry's death he still
retained one of his places about the Court; but on King
Edward's death, being a partisan of Queen Mary's and a hearty
conformer, he became a great favourite, and held a lucrative
post.  He visited Westacre more frequently, and built a stately
range of buildings on one side of the court, where formerly
the old stables and kitchen were, no doubt for his son's sake,
enlarging the garden on that side to form a terrace in front of
the new rooms.  At Queen Mary's accession service was
recommenced in the Prior's Chapel, which was repaired and
fitted up afresh, and a regular priest appointed to serve it.
Inglesant's name does not appear in the trials of the
Protestants, a circumstance which makes it appear probable that
he was true to the temporising policy of his youth, and kept
his zeal under good control.  When Elizabeth came to
the throne, the service in the Chapel underwent some
modification, King Edward's Service Book being used.  The service
then had been found so useful to the neighbours that the
parish petitioned for its continuance, and it was legally settled
as a chapelry.  The priest conformed to the new order of
things, and Richard Inglesant—who at that time resided
constantly at Westacre—attended the service regularly.  He
remained a Catholic, but during the first seven years of Queen
Elizabeth's reign, which were all he lived to see, the Catholics
generally came to their parish churches until forbidden by the
Pope's Bull.  It remained, therefore, for his son, who was
eighteen years of age at his father's death, to declare himself;
and he conformed to the usage of the English Church.  He
resided entirely at Westacre, with an occasional visit to Court,
keeping open-handed hospitality, and slightly embarrassing
the estate, though, like his father, he had only one child.
He was a favourer of the Papists, and once or twice was in
trouble on that account; but being perfectly loyal, and a very
popular man, he was rather a favourite with the Queen, who
always noticed him when he came to Court, and was wont to
say that "the dry crust Dick Inglesant gave a Papist should
never choke him while she lived."  He lived beyond the
term of years usual in his family, and died in 1629, at the age
of eighty-two, having been for the last twenty years of his life,
since the death of the Queen, entirely under the guidance of
his son, very much to his own advantage, as during those
black years for the Papists, he would most probably have
committed imprudences which might have been his ruin.
His son, whose name was Eustace, was a shrewd lawyer and
courtier.  He was—much more than his father—a Papist at
heart, but he conformed strictly to the English Church, and
possessed considerable indirect influence at Court.  He was
thought much of by the Catholics, who regarded him as one
of their most powerful friends.  He married young, in 1593,
but he had no children by his first wife, who died in 1610;
and in 1620 he married again, a Catholic lady who was his
ward.  With this lady he came to reside at Westacre; but
two years after, his wife died in giving birth to two boys; and,
disgusted with the country, he left the two infants to their
grandfather's care and returned to London, visiting Westacre,
however, regularly at intervals; where, with a small number
of servants, the old gentleman, totally forgetful of his old
hospitality, and of his friends the Papists, spent his last days
with the greatest delight, in anxiously watching over his little
grandchildren.  They were beautiful boys, so exactly alike
that it was impossible to tell them apart, and from their
earliest infancy so united in love to each other that they
became a proverb in the neighbourhood.  The eldest was
named Eustace, after his father; but the youngest, at the
entreaty of his young mother—uttered in her faint and dying
voice, as the children lay before her during the few moments
that were given her in mercy to look at them before her eyes
were closed on these dearly purchased treasures and all other
earthly things—was named John, after her brother, a Seminary
priest of Douay, executed in England for saying mass, and
refusing the oath of supremacy.

Little need be told of the infancy of these boys: traditions
remain, as in other cases, of their likeness to each other,
needing different coloured ribbons to distinguish them; and of the
old man's anxious doting care over them.  Many a pretty
group, doubtless, they made, on warm summer afternoons, on
the shady terrace; but the old grandfather died when they
were seven years old, and slept with his father beneath the
Chapel floor.  After the funeral, Eustace Inglesant had
intended taking both the children back with him to London,
but he had discovered—or fancied he had discovered—that
the youngest was sickly, and would be better for the country
air; and therefore kept him at Westacre, when he returned to
the city with his brother.  The truth appears to be that he
was a worldly, selfish man, and while fully conscious of the
advantage of an heir, he was by no means desirous of giving
himself more trouble than was necessary about either of his
children.  The old Priory, however, was, at this time, not a
bad place to bring up a child in, though it had been neglected
during the last ten or eleven years; though the woods were
overgrown, and the oaks came up, in places, close to the
house; though the Prior's fish-ponds had transformed
themselves into a large pool or lake; though the garden was a
tangled wilderness, and centaury, woodsorrel, and sour herbs
covered the ground; though the old courtyard and the
Chapel itself were mouldering and ruinous, yet the air of the
rich vales in the north of Wiltshire is more healthy than that
of the higher downs, which are often covered with fogs when
the vales are clear, and the sky is bright and serene.  It was
remarked that people lived longer in the valleys than at places
that would be supposed peculiarly healthy on the hills; that
they sang better in the churches; and that books and rooms
were not so damp and mouldy in the low situations as they
were in those which stood very high, with no river or marsh
near them.  The fogs at times, indeed, came down into the
valleys; and in the courtyard of the Priory dim forms had
been seen flitting through the mist, in reality the shadows of
the spectators thrown upon the mist itself, from the light of a
lanthorn.  Such sights as these in such a place, so haunted
by the memories of the past, gave rise to many strange
stories—to which young Inglesant listened with wonder, as he did,
also, to others of the *ignis fatuus*, which, called by the people
"Kit of the Candlestick," used, about Michaelmas, to be very
common on the downs, and to wander down to the valleys
across the low boggy grounds—stories of its leading travellers
astray, and fascinating them.  The boy grew up among such
strange stories, and lived, indeed, in the old world that was
gone for ever.  His grandfather's dimly remembered anecdotes
were again and again recalled by others, all of the same kind,
which he heard every day.  Stories of the rood in the Chapel,
of the mass wafer with its mysterious awfulness and power,
of the processions and midnight singing at the Priory.  The
country was full of the scattered spoil of the monasteries; old
and precious manuscripts were used everywhere by the
schoolboys for covering their books, and for the covers of music;
and the glovers of Malmsbury wrapped their goods in them.
In the churchyards the yew-trees stood thick and undecayed,
scarcely grown again from the last lopping to supply bows for
the archers of the King's army.  The story was common of
the Becket's path, along which he had been used to pass
when curé priest at Winterbourn, and which could be seen
through the deepest snow, or if ploughed up and sown with
corn.  Indeed the path itself could be seen within a pleasant
ride across the downs from Westacre.

The boy's first instructor was the old curate of the Chapel,
who taught him his Church Catechism and his latin grammar.
This man appears to have been one of those ministers so
despised by the Puritans as "mere grammar scholars," who
knew better how to read a homily than to make a sermon; yet
John Inglesant learnt of him more good lessons than he did,
as he himself owned, afterwards from many popular sermons;
and in his old age he acknowledged that he believed the only
thing that had kept him back in after years, and under great
temptations, from formally joining the communion of the
Church of Rome, was some faint prejudice, some lingering
dislike, grounded on the old man's teaching.  Other teachers,
of a different kind, the child had in plenty.  The old servants
who still remained in the house; the woodsmen and charcoal
burners; the village girls whom the housekeeper hired from
year to year at Malmsbury fair; the old housekeeper who had
been his mother's maid, and whom the boy looked on as his
mother, and who could coax him to her lap when he was quite
a tall boy, by telling him stories of his mother; one or two
falconers or huntsmen who lingered about the place, or watched
the woods for game for the gentry around.  When he was ten
years old, in 1632, the curate of the Chapel died; and
Mr. Inglesant did not at once replace him, for reasons which will
appear presently.  John led a broken scholastic life for a year,
going to school when it was fine enough to make a pleasant
walk attractive to ——, where the Vicar taught some boys their
grammar and latin Terence in the Church itself; and where
there was a tradition that the great antiquary, Master Camden,
Clarencieux King of Arms, coming on his survey to examine
the Church, found him, and spoke to him and his scholars.
At the end of a year, however, his father coming into the
country, arranged for him to go to school at Ashley, where he
was to stay in the house with the Vicar, a famous schoolmaster
in the west country.  This gentleman, who was a delicate and
little person, and had an easy and attractive way of teaching,
was a Greek scholar and a Platonist, a Rosicrucian and a
believer in alchemy and astrology.  He found in little Inglesant
an apt pupil, an apprehensive and inquisitive boy, mild of
spirit, and very susceptible of fascination, strongly given to
superstition and romance: of an inventive imagination though
not a retentive memory; given to day dreaming, and,—what
is more often found in children than some may think, though
perhaps they could not name it,—metaphysical speculation.
The Vicar taught his boys in the hall of his Vicarage—a large
room with a porch, and armorial bearings in the stained glass
in the windows.  Out of this opened a closet or parlour where
he kept his books, and in this he would sit after school was
over, writing his learned treatises, most of which he would
read to John Inglesant, some of them in latin.  This, with
his readings in Plato, assisted by his eager interest, gave John,
as he grew older, a considerable acquaintance with both
languages, so that he could read most books in either of them,
and turn over the remnants of the old world learning that
still remained in the Prior's Library, with that lazy facility
which always gives a meaning, though often an incorrect one—not
always a matter of regret to an imaginative reader, as
adding a charm, and, where his own thought is happy, a beauty.
Here he imbibed that mysterious Platonic philosophy, which—seen
through the reflected rays of Christianity—becomes, as
his master taught him, in some sort a foreshadowing of it, as
the innocent and heroic life of Socrates, commended and
admired by Christians as well as heathens, together with his
august death, may be thought, in some measure, to have borne
the image of Christ; and, indeed, not without some mystery
of purpose, and preparation of men for Christianity, has been
so magnified among men.  Here, too, he eagerly drank in
his master's Rosicrucian theories of spiritual existences; of
the vital congruity and three several vehicles of the soul; the
terrestrial, in which the soul should be so trained that she may
stay as short a time as possible in the second or aerial, but
proceed at once to the third, the etherial, or celestial; "that
heavenly chariot, carrying us, in triumph, to the great
happiness of the soul of man."  Of the aerial genii, and souls
separate, and of their converse with one another, and with
mankind.  Of their dress, beauty, and outward form; of their
pleasures and entertainments, from the Divinest harmony of
the higher orders, who, with voices perfectly imitating the
passionate utterance of their devout minds, melt their souls
into Divine Love, and lose themselves in joy in God; while
all nature is transformed by them to a quintessence of crystalline
beauty by the chemical power of the spirit of nature, acting
on pure essences.  Of the feastings and wild dances of
the lower and deeply lapsed, in whom some sad and fantastic
imitation of the higher orders is to be traced; and of those
aerial wanderers to whom poetical philosophers or philosophical
poets have given the rivers and springs—the mountains
and groves; with the Dii Tutelares of cities and countries;
and the Lares familiares, who love the warmth of families and
the homely converse of men.  These studies are but a part of
the course of which occult chemistry and the lore of the stars
form a part; and that mysterious Platonism which teaches
that Pindar's story of the Argo is only a secret recipe for the
philosopher's stone; and which pretends that at this distance
of time the life of Priam can be read more surely in the stars
than in history.

More than three years passed in these pursuits, when
Inglesant,—now a tall, handsome, dreamy-looking boy of
fourteen, was suddenly recalled to Westacre by his father, who
had unexpectedly arrived from London.  His master, who
was very fond of him, gave him many words of learned
advice; for he expected, as proved to be the case, that his
school-days—at least as far as he was concerned,—were
ended.  He concluded with these words:—

"I have done my best to show you those hidden truths
which the heathen divines knew as well as we; how much
more, then, ought we to follow them, who have the light of
Christ!  Do not talk of these things, but keep them in your
heart; hear what all men say, but follow no man: there is
nothing in the world of any value but the Divine Light,—follow
it.  What it is no man can tell you; but I have told
you many times, and you know very well it is not here nor
there, as men shall tell you, for all men say they have it who
are ignorant of its very nature.  It will reveal itself when the
time shall come.  If you go to the Court, as I think you will,
attach yourself wholly to the King and the Church party, the
foundations of whose power are in the Divine will.  I foresee
dark clouds overhanging the Church, but let not these affright
you; behind, the Divine Light shineth—the Light that shineth
from the hill of God.  I have taught you to clear your soul
from the mists of carnal error, but I have never told you to
act freely in this world: you are not placed here to reason (as
the sectaries and precisians do), but to obey.  Remember it
is the very seal of a gentleman—to obey: remember the Divine
words of Plato, in the Crito, when Socrates was about to suffer;
how he refused, when urged, to break those laws under which
he was falsely condemned.  Let those words ring in your ears
as they did in his; so that, like the worshippers of Cybele,
who heard only the flutes, you shall hear nothing but the
voice of God, speaking to you in that rank in which He has
placed you, through those captains whom He has ordained to
the command.  Whenever—and in whatever place—the Divine
Light shall appear to you, be assured it will never teach you
anything contrary to this."

There was no horse sent for John, but he was obliged to
ride in an uncomfortable manner before the serving man who
was sent to fetch him; children, and especially younger sons,
being treated as little better than servants, and they were
indeed often tyrannised over by the latter.  When he reached
Westacre, he was told his father was in one of the rooms in
the new wing of the house, and on entering, he found him in
company with three other persons.  One of these was the newly
appointed curate of the Church, whom Johnny had never yet
seen; the other was a fine, handsomely dressed man, with a
lofty, high-bred look, and in the window was a beautiful boy
of about John's own age, in the costly dress of a page.
Inglesant knew that this must be his brother Eustace; and
after humbly receiving his father's rather cold greeting, he
hastened to embrace him, and he returned the greeting with
warmth.  But his father immediately presented him to the
gentleman who stood by him; telling him that this gentleman
would probably spend some time at Westacre, and that it was
chiefly that he should attend him, that he had sent for him
home; charging him, at the same time, to serve and obey him
implicitly, as he would his father or the King.

"He is a mere country lad," he said, "very different from
his brother, but he is young, and may be useful in after days."

The gentleman looked at Johnny kindly, with a peculiar
expression which the boy had never before seen, penetrating
and alluring at the same time.

"He is, as you say, Esquire, a country lad, and wants the
fine clothes of my friend the page, nevertheless he is a gallant
and gentle boy, and were he attired as finely, would not shame
you, Mr. Inglesant, more than he does.  And I warrant," he
continued, "this one is good at his books."

And sitting down, he drew Johnny on his knee, and
taking from his pocket a small book, he said: "Here, my
friend, let us see how you can read in this."

It was the Phaedo of Plato, which Johnny knew nearly by
heart, and he immediately began, with almost breathless
rapidity, to construe with, here and there, considerable
freedom, till the gentleman stopped him with a laugh.
"Gently, gently, my friend.  I saw you were a scholar, but
not that you were a complete Platonist!  I fear your master
is one who looks more to the Divine sense than to the
grammar!  But never mind, you and I shall be much
together, and as you are so fond of Plato, you shall read him
with me.  You shall go to your brother, who, if he cannot
read 'In Phaedone,' can tell you many wonderful things of
the Court and the city that no doubt you will hear very
gladly;" and letting Johnny go, he turned to his father,
saying, in an undertone, which, however, the boy heard;
"The lad is apt, indeed! more so than any of us could have
dreamt; no fitter soil, I could wager, we could have found
in England!"

Johnny went to his brother, and they left the room
together.  The two boys,—as the two children had
been,—were remarkably alike; the more so as this likeness of form
and feature, which to a casual observer appeared exact, was
consistent with a very remarkable difference of expression and
manner—the difference being, as it were, contained in the
likeness without destroying it.  Their affection for each
other, which continued through life, was something of the
same nature, arising apparently from instinct and nature,
apart from inclination.  Their tastes and habits being
altogether different, they pursued their several courses quite
contentedly, without an effort to be more united, but once united,
or once recalled to each other's presence or recollection even
in the most accidental manner, they manifested a violent and
overpowering attachment to each other.  On the present
occasion they wandered through the gardens and neighbourhood
of the Priory; and as the strange gentleman had foretold,
Johnny took the greatest interest in the conversation of
his brother, whom, indeed, he both now and afterwards most
unfeignedly admired, and to whose patronage he invariably
submitted with perfect satisfaction.  Eustace, who had lately
been admitted one of the junior supernumerary pages to the
King, talked incessantly of the King's state and presence
chamber, of the yeomen of the guard, of the pageants and
masques, and of banquets, triumphs, interviews, nuptials, tilts,
and tournaments; the innumerable delights of the city; of
the stage players, tumblers, fiddlers, inn-keepers, fencers,
jugglers, dancers, mountebanks, bear-wardens; of sweet odours
and perfumes, generous wines, the most gallant young men,
the fairest ladies, the rarest beauties the world could afford,
the costly and curious attire, exquisite music, all delights and
pleasures which, to please the senses, could possibly be
devised; galleries and terraces, rowing on the Thames, with
music, on a pleasant evening, with the goodly palaces, and the
birds singing on the banks.

All this Johnny listened to with admiration, and made
little reply to his brother's disparaging remarks on the
miserable life he had led in the country, or to his sage advice to
endeavour, by some means, to come to London to the Court.

Johnny remembered his master's counsel, and was silent
on his own pleasures and pursuits.  His pleasant walks by
the brook side, pleasant shade by the sweet silver streams,
good air, and sweet smell of fine, fresh meadow flowers, his
walks among orchards, gardens, green thickets, and such-like
pleasant places, in some solitary groves between wood and
water, meditating on some delightful and pleasant subject—he
thought his brother would only ridicule these things.  It
is true the next day when they went to the Avon to see an
otter hunted, Johnny occupied the foremost place for a time;
he was known to the keepers, and to two or three gentlemen
who were at the sport, and was familiar with the terms in
tracing the mark of the otter, and following through all the
craft of the hunting, tracing the marks in the soft and moist
places to see which way the head of the chase was turned.  He
carried his otter spear as well as any of the company, while the
hounds came trailing and chanting along by the river-side,
venting every tree root, every osier bed and tuft of bulrushes,
and sometimes taking to the water, and beating it like spaniels.
But as soon as the otter, escaping from the spears, was killed
by the dogs, or, having by its wonderful sagacity and craft
avoided the dogs, was killed by the spears, Eustace assumed
his superior place, coming forward to talk to the gentlemen,
who were delighted with him, while Johnny fell back into the
quiet, dreamy boy again.

The two brothers were left together for several days, their
father, with the strange gentleman—whose name Eustace told
Johnny was Hall—having departed on horseback, on a visit
to a gentleman in Gloucestershire.  Eustace observed great
caution in speaking of Mr. Hall, telling Johnny he would know
all about him soon from himself.  The boys passed the time
happily enough.  Johnny's affection for his brother increased
every day, and withstood not only Eustace's patronage,
but—what must have been much more hard to bear—the different
way in which the servants treated the two boys.  Eustace,
who, though only a few minutes older than his brother, was
the heir, was treated with great deference and respect; which
might possibly also be owing to his being a stranger and to his
Court breeding.  Johnny, on the contrary, though he was
quite as tall as his brother, they treated like a child: the
housekeeper took him up to bed when it pleased her; the old
butler would have caned him without hesitation had he
thought he deserved it; and the maids alternately petted and
scolded him, the first of which was more disagreeable to him
than the last.  The hard condition of children, and especially
of younger brothers, is a common theme of the writers of the
period, and Johnny's experience was not different from that of
others.  His disposition, however, was not injured by it,
though it may have made him still fonder of retirement and
of day-dreaming than he would have been.  This hard
discipline made him resolve to be silent on those wonderful
secrets and the learning that his master had taught him,
and to meditate increasingly upon them in his heart.  He
delighted more and more in wandering by the river-side,
building castles in the air, and acting an infinite variety of
parts.  When his brother left him, this became still more
delightful to him, and but for other influences he might have
gone on in this fascinating habit till he realised Burton's
terrible description, and from finding these contemplations and
fantastical conceits so delightful at first, might have become
the slave of vain and unreal fancies, which may be as terrible
and dismal as pleasing and delightful.

After about a fortnight's absence, Mr. Inglesant and Mr. Hall
returned from their visit, or visits, for they appeared to
have stayed at several places; and the next day Eustace and
his father departed for London.  His father displayed more
affection than usual on leaving Johnny behind him, assuring
him of his love, and that if he heard a good account of him
from Mr. Hall, he should come up to London and see the
Court.  Eustace's grief at losing his brother again was much
lessened by his joy at returning to his congenial life in London;
but Johnny watched him from the old gatehouse in front of
the Priory with a sad heart.

While he is standing looking after his father and brother, as
they ride up the hill by the same path which the Prior came
down that fine summer morning long years before, we will take
a moment's time to explain certain events of which he was
perfectly ignorant, but which were about to close about him and
involve him in a labyrinth from which he may have been said
never to have issued during his life.  We call ourselves free
agents;—was this slight, delicate boy a free agent, with a mind
and spirit so susceptible, that the least breath affected them:
around whom the throng of national contention was about to
close; on whom the intrigue of a great religious party was
about to seize, involving him in a whirlpool and rapid
current of party strife and religious rancour?  Must not the
utmost that can be hoped,—that can be even rationally wished
for—be, that by the blessing of the Divine guidance, he may
be able to direct his path a little towards the Light?

The laws oppressing the Roman Catholics, which had been
stringently enforced during the greater part of James's reign,
had been considerably relaxed when he was negotiating with
the Spaniards for the marriage of his son, and again on King
Charles's marriage with Henrietta Maria of France.  From that
time greater and greater leniency was shown them, not only by
the exertion of Catholic influence at Court, but also through
Puritan jealousy; the juries refusing to punish Popish
recusants, because Puritan separatists were included in the lists.
Spasmodic exertions of severity were made from time to time
by the King and the Church party; but, on the whole, the
Papists enjoyed more and more liberty, especially between
1630 and 1640.  Advantage was taken by the party of this
freedom to the fullest extent; money was amassed abroad, an
army of missionary priests poured into England, agents were
sent from the Pope, and every effort made in every part of
England to gain converts, and confirm uncertain members.
Many Papists who had conformed to the authority of the
English Church beginning to entertain hopes of the ultimate
success of the old religion, fell away and became recusants—that
is, ceased to attend their Parish Church.  Mr. Inglesant,
who—through all his life—had watched the progress of affairs
with a careful and far-reaching penetration, had, from the first,
been in communication with chiefs of the popish party; but
he was far too important a friend where he was to allow of
any change in his behaviour, and he still rigidly conformed to
the Established Church.  The Roman Catholics were divided
into two parties, holding two opinions, which, under different
aspects, actuate all religious parties at the present day.  The
one viewed the English Church and its leader Archbishop
Laud with hatred, regarding him, and doubtless with great
truth, as their most formidable opponent, as occupying a place
in the country and in the allegiance of the majority of Englishmen
which otherwise could only have been filled by the older
Church: the other looking more at the resemblances between
the two Churches, held the opinion that little was needed to
bring the Established Church into communion and submission
to the Papal See, and by that means, at once, and without
trouble, restore the papal authority in England.  The efforts
of this party were of a more political nature than those of the
other; they endeavoured to win over Archbishop Laud to a
conference, and a Cardinal's hat was offered to him more than
once.  To this party Mr. Inglesant belonged.  Occupying a
neutral position himself, and possessed of the confidence of
members of both Churches, he was peculiarly fitted for such
negotiations, and was in constant communication with those
Churchmen, very numerous at Court, and among the clergy and
the country gentry, who were favourably disposed to the Papists,
though at the same time sincere members of their own Church.
The value of emissaries possessing in this way the confidence
of Church people and Papists alike was so obvious, that
Mr. Inglesant and his friends did all they could to add to their
number, especially as they were not very easy to procure, great
jealousy existing, among nearly all Church people, of any foreign
or armed interference in England on the part of the Romanists,
who were always suspected of such intentions.  Mr. Inglesant,
therefore, whom nothing escaped, had marked out his younger
son's temperament as one peculiarly fitted to be trained for
such a purpose, and had communicated this idea to his intimate
associate among the Papists, Father Sancta Clara, as he was
called, of an English family named St Clare, a Jesuit missionary
priest who travelled in England under the name of Mr. Hall.
The latter was a man of great influence, unbounded devotion
to his order, and unflinching courage; a profound scholar, and,
according to the knowledge of that day, a man of science,
trained, indeed, in every variety of human learning, and taking
advantage of every scrap of knowledge and information for
the advancement of his purpose.  Of elegant and fascinating
manners, and accustomed to courtly life abroad, he was,
perhaps, the most influential agent among the thousand mission
priests at that time scattered through England.  His time, of
course, was fully taken up with his difficult embassy, but he
was interested in the account Inglesant gave of his son; and the
idea of training him to such usefulness in three or four years'
time, when their plans might be expected to be ripe, commended
itself exceedingly to his peculiar genius and habit of mind.
He was at this time Superior over part of the south-west of
England, and was much engaged among the gentry in those
parts—a position of peculiar difficulty, as the people of the
greater part of that district were strongly Puritan, and the
gentry hostile to Rome.  So secluded and convenient a
position as Westacre Priory was exactly adapted to aid him in his
mission, and he resolved to take up his quarters there, from
whence he could, with great hopes of escaping observation,
continue his work in the adjoining country.  Mr. Inglesant,
with an eye to such a contingency, had purposely omitted to
appoint a chaplain at the Priory for some time, and now
nominated a Mr. ——, a graduate of Oxford, a man who was
"ex animo" a Papist, and who only waited a suitable time to
declare himself one.  The number of such men was very great,
and they were kept in the English Church only by the High
Church doctrines and ceremonies introduced by Archbishop
Laud; affording one out of numberless parallels between that
age and the present.  It is perhaps not necessary to say more
in this place to explain the presence of Mr. Hall (otherwise
Father Sancta Clara) at Westacre, nor the future that lay before
Johnny Inglesant as he stood by the gatehouse of the old Priory
looking after his father and Eustace as they rode up the hill.





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.. _`CHAPTER III.`:

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   CHAPTER III.

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Father Sancta Clara was obliged to remain quiet
at Westacre for some time, and devoted himself entirely
to gaining an influence over Johnny.  Of course in this he
was entirely successful.  There was a good library, for that
day, at the Priory; the Prior's old books were still on the
shelves, and Richard Inglesant, who we have seen was a
scholar, added largely to them, bringing all his books into the
country when he came to live at Westacre.  The difference
between Johnny's former master and this present one was that
between a theorist and dreamer and a statesman and man of
the world and critical student of human nature.  The Father
made Johnny read with him every day, and by his wealth of
learning and acquaintance with men and foreign countries,
made the reading interesting in the highest degree.  In this
way he read the classics, making them not dead school books,
but the most human utterances that living men ever spoke;
and while from these he drew illustrations of human life when
reading Plato—which he did every day—he led his pupil to
perceive, as he did more fully when he grew older, that wonderful
insight into the spiritual life and spiritual distinctions
which even Christianity has failed to surpass.  He led him,
step by step, through that noble resolve by which Socrates—at
frightful odds, and with all ordinary experience against
him—maintains the advantage to be derived from truth; he pointed
out to him the three different elements to be found in Plato:
the Socratic or negative argument, simply overthrowing received
opinion; the pseudo-scientific, to which Plato was liable from
the condition of knowledge in his day; and, finally, the
exalted flight of the transcendental reason, which, leaving
alike the scepticism of the negative argument and the dreams
of false science, flies aloft into the pure ether of the heavenly
life.  He read to him Aristophanes, pointing out in him the
opposing powers which were at work in the Hellenic life as in
the life of every civilised age.  He did not conceal from him
the amount of right there is on the popular side of plain
common sense, nor the soundness of that fear which hesitates
to overthrow the popular forms of truth, time-honoured and
revealed, which have become in the eyes of the majority,
however imperfect they may really be, the truth itself.  Nor did
he fail to show him the unsuitability of the Socratic argument
to the masses of the people, who will stop at the negative part,
and fail of the ethereal flight beyond; and he showed him
how it might be possible, and even the best thing for
mankind, that Socrates should die, though Socrates at that
moment was the noblest of mankind: as, afterwards, though
for a different reason, it was expedient that a nobler than
Socrates should die for the people,—nobler, that is, in that he
did what Socrates failed in doing, and carried the lowest of
the people with him to the ethereal gates.  And in this
entering into sympathy with the struggle of humanity, he prepared
his pupil to receive in after years (for it is a lesson that
cannot be fully learned until middle life is approached) that kindly
love of humanity; that sympathy with its smallest interests;
that toleration of its errors, and of its conflicting opinions;
that interest in local and familiar affairs, in which the highest
culture is at one with the unlearned rustic mind.

The boy drank in all this with the greatest aptitude, and
would have listened all day, but his tutor insisted on his taking
his full amount of exercise, and himself commanded his admiration
as much by skill in the sports of the field as by learning.
He made no effort to draw his mind away from the English
Church, farther than by giving him a crucifix and rosary, and
teaching him the use of them, and pointing out the beauties
of the Roman use; he even took pains to prevent his becoming
attached to Popery, telling him that his father would not wish
him to leave the Church of England; and though that Church
was at present in schism, it would probably soon be reunited,
and that meanwhile the difference was unimportant and slight.
He knew, indeed, that from the excitable and enthusiastic
nature of his pupil, if he once became attached strongly to
Roman theology, all his use as a mediator between the two
parties would at once be lost; and he therefore contented
himself with securing his own influence over Johnny; which
he accomplished to the most unlimited extent.

After certain preparations had been made, and some
needful precautions taken, a great change took place in the
life at Westacre Priory.  Strangers were constantly arriving,
stayed a few hours, and departed, mostly coming in the night,
and leaving, also, after sunset.  Several, however, remained a
longer time, and took great pains to conceal themselves.  They
all had long interviews with the Father.  Services were also
performed in the Chapel, frequently in Latin.  It was death
to say mass in England, except in the Queen's Chapels at
St. James's, at Somerset House, and at Woodstock, nevertheless
mass was said in all parts of England, and it was said at
Westacre.  One night, after Johnny had been asleep for some
hours, he was awakened by Father St. Clare, who told him
to dress himself and come with him, and, at the same time,
charged him never to tell any one what he might be about to
see—an injunction which the boy would have died rather than
disobey.  The long streaks of the summer dawn stretched
across the sky before them as they crossed the courtyard
towards the Chapel, and the roofs stood out sharp and distinct
in the dim, chill air.  The Chapel was lighted, and on the
white cloth of the altar were tapers and flowers.  Half awake
in the sweet fresh morning air, Johnny knelt on the cold flag
stones of the Chapel and saw the mass.  Strangers who had
come to the Priory on purpose were present, and some gentlemen
of the neighbourhood whom Johnny knew.  It is strange
that the Jesuit should have placed so much trust in the prudence
and fidelity of a boy; but he probably knew his pupil, and
certainly had no cause to repent.  This was not the only time
mass was said; for one winter night—or rather morning—an
old peasant known in the neighbourhood as Father Wade had
been to Marlborough wake, and being benighted, bethought
himself of asking a lodging at the Priory, and approached it
by a pathway from the east, which, crossing the meadows beyond
the Chapel, came round to the gatehouse at the front.  He,
however, never reached the gate, and being found at home the
next day, and questioned as to where he passed the night, he
was at first evasive in his replies, but on being pressed, told
a mysterious story of strange lights and shapes of men he had
seen about the Priory; and approaching—he said—fearfully
along the path, there, sure enough! were the old monks passing
up in procession from the graveyard through the wall into the
Chapel, as through a door; and he heard the long-remembered
chanting of the mass, and saw the tapers shining through the
east window, as he had seen them when a little boy.

This manner of life went on for about a year, at the end
of which time Father St. Clare's absences became more
frequent, and Johnny was left much alone.  The Father's
mission in the west of England was not prospering, for the
very simple reason that he was too good for the work.  As
far as the duties of a Superior went, everything was satisfactory.
The country was mapped out in districts, and emissaries
were appointed to each; but for the peculiar mission of Father
St. Clare—that of personal influence—there was no scope.
It was the habit of the Jesuits, by the charms of their
conversation and learning, by their philosophical theories, and in
some cases by their original systems of science, to gain the
confidence and intimacy of the highest both in station and
intellect.  And for this seed to spring up, there must be first
a suitable soil for it to be sown in, and this soil was particularly
scarce in Wiltshire.  All the refinement and learning of
Father St. Clare was thrown away upon the country squires;
any boon companion would have influenced them quite as
well.  Becoming conscious of this, the Jesuit rode frequently
to London, where work which required the highest skill and
talent was going on; and in his absence Johnny was left very
much to his own devices.  During one of these absences a
priest who had remained concealed several days at the
Priory, and who had taken a fancy to the boy, gave him at
parting, a little book, telling him to read it carefully, and it
would be of use to him through life.  It was entitled, "The
Flaming Heart, or the Life of St. Theresa," of which a later
edition, printed in 1642, was dedicated to Henrietta Maria.
It opened a new world of thought to Johnny, who was now
sixteen years of age, and he read it many times from beginning
to end.  A great deal of it was so strange to Inglesant,
that he was repelled by it.  The exaggeration of the duty of
self-denial, the grotesque humility, the self-denunciation for
the most trifling faults,—most of the details indeed appeared
to him either absurd or untrue; but, running through all the
book, the great doctrine of Divine Illumination fascinated
him.  The sublime but mysterious way of devotion pointed
out in it, while quite different from anything he had previously
heard of, was still sufficiently in accordance with the romantic
habit of his mind, and with the mystic philosophy in which
his old master had trained him, to cause him to follow it
with an eager sympathy.  The natural and inspired writings
of the great mystics, indeed, breathe a celestial purity, entirely
distinct from those of their inferior disciples, who brought
down their spiritual system to earth and earthly purposes.
The rest from individual effort, the calm after long striving,
the secret joy in God, the acquiescing in His will, in which
the true elevation of devotion lies, and which is not the effect
of lively imaginations or of fruitful inventions—of these, all
men are not capable, but all may reach the silent and humble
adoration of God which arises out of a pure and quiet mind,
just as when a man enters into an entire friendship with
another; then the single thought of his friend affects him more
tenderly than all that variety of reflections which may arise
in his mind where this union is not felt.  This inward calm
and quiet in which men may in silence form acts of faith and
feel those inward motions and directions which, as this book
taught, follow all those who rise up to this elevation, and
which lead them onward through the devious paths of this
life,—what must this be but the Divine Light of which his old
master had so often told him he was ignorant, but whose
certain coming he had led him constantly to expect?
Enticed by such thoughts as these, he passed the days, hardly
knowing what he did; and wandered in this perplexed
labyrinth without a guide.  Without a guide! but this book
of his told him of a guide—a spiritual guide!—nay, even
recommended obedience and entire submission to this
director; and dissuaded from self-confidence.  Where, then, was
this guide, to whom, in the midst of such spiritual light and
life, and after such ecstatic visions, he should turn?  The
book said it was the priest—any priest would do—but still it
was the priest.  This seemed to John Inglesant, whose
perceptions the Jesuit had sharpened, but whose unrestrained
romance he had not crushed, to be very different from that
Divine Light of which his master spoke, from that transcendental
voice of the Platonic Reason speaking in the silence
of the soul; nay, it seemed to him to be a fall even from the
teaching of the book itself.  Meditating on these things,
Johnny thought he would visit his old master, to see what he
had to say about this new doctrine.

It was a fine summer morning when he made the visit;
he had a horse of his own now, and a servant if he chose,
but he preferred to-day to go alone.  He found Mr. ——
had discontinued his school, and was entirely buried in his
books; only reading morning and evening prayers, and a
homily, or one of his old sermons in the Church on Sundays.
He never left his study on other days, except for a turn in his
little garden.  His house was by the wayside, with a small
paved court before the hall; and by the side of this court, the
garden, into which the window of the study, in a gabled
wing adjoining the hall, looked towards the road.  He was
pleased to see Inglesant, though he very dimly remembered
him, and questioned him of his studies.  Johnny read him
some Plato with the Jesuit's comments, of which the old
gentleman took notes eagerly, and afterwards incorporated
them in his book.  The book he was writing was upon Talismanic
figures, but he was not particular what he put into it;
anything of an occult and romantic character being welcome,
and introduced with not a little ingenuity.  He had no sense
nor understanding of anything else in the world but such
subjects and his books; and being exceedingly infirm, he could
scarcely lift some of the larger folios which lay heaped about
him within reach.  He blessed God that his eyesight was so
good, and that he could still read Greek—the contracted
Greek type of that day.  After some conversation, Inglesant
opened his mind to him, told him what he had been reading, and
asked his opinion.  The old scholar pricked up his ears, and
set to work with great delight, taking notes all the time; and
Johnny found, years afterwards, when he happened to read his
book in London, that all he told him was introduced into it.

"I find nothing, my dear pupil," he said, "in the Christian
Church, very old, concerning this doctrine—for that
author who goes by the name of Dionysius the Areopagite is
of far later date—but I will discover to you some mysteries
concerning it, which, so far as I know, have never been
brought to light by any man.  I find the germ of this doctrine
in those fragments of metaphysics which go under Theophrastus,
his name; who was a disciple of Aristotle, and succeeded
him in his school; and was an excellent philosopher,
certainly, by the works by him which remain to this day.
Here he says that the understanding joined to the body, can
do nothing without the senses, which help it as far as they
can to distinguish sensible things from their first causes, but
that all knowledge and contemplation of the first causes must
be by very touching and feeling of the mind and soul; which
knowledge, thus gained, is not liable to error.  Synesius, a
man well known amongst scholars, being vexed that this new
divinity began in his day to be in request amongst Christians;
and some illiterate monks and others taking advantage of it
to magnify ignorance, to bring themselves into repute—Synesius,
I say, wrote that exquisite treatise, which he inscribed
'Dio,' to prove the necessity of human learning and
philosophy to all who will contemplate high things with
sobriety and good success.  'God forbid,' he says, 'that we
should think that if God dwell in us, He should dwell in any
other part of us than that which is rational, which is His own
proper temple.'

"Now whether the writings of some ancient and later
Platonists, Greeks and Arabs, Heathens and Mahometans be
a sufficient ground and warrant for them that profess to
ascribe more to the Scriptures, by which sobriety of sense is so
much commended unto us, than to the opinions of heathen
philosophers, I leave you to consider."

Then Inglesant left him, for he seemed more desirous to
put ideas into his book than to impart them, and rode home
across the downs.  As he went, he overtook a gentleman riding
an easy-going palfrey, whom he found to be one whom he
knew; one, indeed, of those who had attended the early
morning mass in the Chapel.  This gentleman, who was one of
those called Church Papists, that is, Papists who saved
themselves from the charge of recusancy by sometimes attending
their Parish Church, knowing Johnny, and placing faith in him,
began at once to relate his troubles.  He dwelt sadly on the
fines he had to pay, and his difficulties in avoiding the
communion at Easter; but his greatest troubles were caused by
his wife, who was much more zealous than he was, and refused
to go to Church once a month to keep off the Church-wardens.
Her religion, indeed, was so costly to him, that he had rather
have had a city lady with her extravagant dress.  He was very
particular in inquiring after Father St. Clare, and whether
Inglesant knew of anything he was engaged in; but John could
give him no information, not knowing anything of the Jesuit's
plans.  They were hard times, he said, for a good quiet
subject who wished to live at peace with his King and with his
clergyman; but what with the fear of the apparitor on one
hand, and of his wife and her advisers among the Catholics on
the other—he had a hard time of it.  He was a cheerful man
naturally, however, and leaving this discourse, which he thought
would tire his companion, he entertained him for some time
with the news of the country, of which he gathered great
abundance in his rides.  Among other things, he told him of
a clergyman at a parish not far off, who, he said, must be a
Catholic in his heart, for his piety was so great and his
punctuality in reading common prayer, morning and evening in the
Church alone in his surplice so regular, that—so the common
report ran—he had brought down an angel from heaven, who
appeared to him in the Church one evening, in the glow of the
setting sun, and told him many wonderful and heavenly things.
When the gentleman had related this, they came to the point
where their roads parted, and he invited Johnny—for he was
very courteous—to come on to his house, and sup with him.
To this Inglesant consented, visits being a rare pleasure to him,
and they rode together to the gentleman's house, which stood
on the edge of the downs, with a courtyard and gatehouse
before it, and at the back a fair hall and parlour, having a wide
prospect over the valley and the distant view.  Johnny was
courteously received by the popish lady and her sister, who
was devout and very pretty.  The supper would have been
very plain—the day being a fast—but the gentleman insisted
on waiting while a rabbit was cooked for his friend; and when
it came, he partook of it himself, in spite of his wife's
remonstrances—out of courtesy to his guest, he said, and also to
enable him to get over his next fine, which, he said, it ought
to do.  The ladies asked John Inglesant many questions about
the Father, and what took place at the Priory; also about his
brother the Page.  This made him leave early, for though he
knew nothing of any plots or treason, he was constantly afraid
of saying something he ought not to do; nothing was said,
however, about the morning mass, which was too serious a
matter to be lightly spoken of.

As he rode away through the soft evening light, he thought
so much of the story the gentleman had told him, that he made
up his mind to ride to the village and see the clergyman whose
goodness was so manifest and so rewarded.  He, surely—if no
one else could—would show him the true path of Devotion.

Two or three days afterwards he took the ride, and arrived
at the small old Church at a very opportune moment, for the
clergyman in his surplice was just going into it to read the
evening prayers.  Inglesant attended devoutly, being the only
person present; for the sexton's wife, who rang the bell, did
not consider that her duty extended farther.  Prayers being
over, the parson invited Johnny to supper—a much better one
than he had had at the Papist's—and Inglesant stated his
difficulties to him, and asked his advice.  The Parson showed him
several small books which he had written; one on bowing and
taking off the hat at the name of Jesus; another on the cross
in baptism, and kneeling at the communion; a third on turning
to the east, which last appeared to be mostly quotations and
enlargements from Dr. Donne; a fourth on the use of the
surplice.  He repudiated being popishly inclined; having
disproved, he said, that any of these practices were popish, in
all his books, all of which, as far as Johnny could see, displayed
considerable ingenuity; and while he inserted many trivial and
weak passages, he seemed to have been well read in the Fathers
and other old authors, and to have been a loyal, honest, and
zealous advocate, according to his capacity, of the Church of
England.  He evidently looked on forms and ceremonies with
the greatest reverence, and was totally incapable of telling his
visitor anything of that mystical life he was so anxious to
realise.  Johnny inquired about the angel, but his host, while
not appearing displeased at the reports being spread abroad,
professed to deny all knowledge of it, but in such a way as to
make Inglesant think he would like to have acknowledged it,
had he dared.  He rode away disappointed, and began to think
he must consult Father St. Clare; which, for some reason or
other he had felt a disinclination to do.

While he was in this perplexity, he bethought himself of his
first schoolmaster, the man who taught in the Church where
Camden visited him.  He had forgotten all about this man,
except that he was of a mild and kind nature; but he was so
anxious for direction that he went to him at once.  This man
had been very poor, and brought up a large family, all of whom,
however, he had put forward in life, some at the University and
the Church, and some among the clothiers and glove-makers at
Malmsbury and the other towns of Wiltshire.  Johnny found
him living alone—for his wife was dead—in a small cottage
no better than a countryman's, with a few books, which with
his garden were all the wealth he possessed.  He was a great
herbalist, and famous in the country for his cures and for his
sermons, though no two people could agree why they admired
the latter; all uniting in considering him a simple and rather
poor preacher.  This Inglesant learnt from a countryman who
walked at his horse's side as he came near the village; but
when he found the old gentleman sitting on a bench before his
study window, and he rose and met his look, Inglesant saw at
once—thanks to the cultivation of his perception by the
Jesuit's teaching—what it was that gained him the people's love.
He had large and melting eyes that looked straight into the
hearts of those who met him, as though eager to help them and
do them good.  He received Johnny with great kindness,
though he had quite forgotten him, and did not even remember
when he told him who he was.  But when Inglesant, who found
it very easy to speak to him of what had brought him there,
told him of his difficulties, he listened with the greatest interest
and sympathy.  When he had finished speaking, he remained
some minutes silent, looking across the garden where the hot
mid-day air was playing above the flowers.

"You have been speaking," he said at length, "of very
high and wonderful things, into which, it would seem, even
the angels dare not look; for we are, as would appear, taught
in Scripture that it is in man's history that they see the
workings of Divine Glory.  And indeed, worthy Mr. Inglesant,
when you have lived to the limit of my many years, you will
not stumble at this; nor think this life a low and poor place
in which to seek the Divine Master walking to and fro.  These
high matters of which you speak, and this heavenly life, is
not to be disbelieved, only it seems to me—more and more—that
the soul or spirit of every man in passing through life
among familiar things is among supernatural things always,
and many things seem to me miraculous, which men think
nothing of, such as memory, by which we live again in place
and time—and of which, if I remember rightly, for I am a
very poor scholar, you doubtless know, St. Augustine says
many pertinent things—and the love of one another, by which
we are led out of ourselves, and made to act against our own
nature by that of another, or, rather, by a higher nature than
that of any of us; and a thousand fancies and feelings which
have no adequate cause among outward things.  Here, in this
book which I was reading when you so kindly came to see
me, are withered flowers, which I have gathered in my rambles,
and keep as friends and companions of pleasant places, streams
and meadows, and of some who have been with me, and now
are not.  There is one, this single yellow flower—it is a
tormentilla, which is good against the plague—what is it, that,
as I hold it, makes me think of it as I do?  Faded flowers
have something, to me, miraculous and supernatural about
them; though, in fact, it is nothing wonderful that the texture
of a flower being dried survives.  It is not in the flower, but in
our immortal spirit that the miracle is.  All these delightful
thoughts that come into my mind when I look at this
flower—thoughts, and fancies, and memories—what are they but the
result of the alchemy of the immortal spirit, which takes all
the pleasant, fragile things of life, and transmutes them into
immortality in our own nature!  And if the poor spirit and
intellect of man can do this, how much more may the supreme
creative intellect mould and form all things, and bring the
presence of the supernatural face to face with us in our daily
walk!  Earth becomes to us, if we thus think, nothing but
the garden of the Lord, and every fellow-being we meet and
see in it, a beautiful and invited guest; and, as I think I
remember, many of the heathen poets, after their manner, have
said very fine things about this; that we should rise cheerfully
from this life, as a grateful guest rises from an abundant feast;
and though doubtless they were very dark and mistaken, yet
I confess they always seemed to me to have something of a
close and entire fellowship with the wants of men, which I
think the Saviour would have approved.  If you, sir, can
receive this mystery, and go through the honourable path of
life which lies before you, looking upon yourself as an immortal
spirit walking among supernatural things—for the natural
things of this life would be nothing were they not moved and
animated by the efficacy of that which is above nature—I
think you may find this doctrine a light which will guide your
feet in dark places; and it would seem, unless I am mistaken,
that this habit of mind is very likely to lead to the blessedness
of the Beatific Vision of God, on the quest of which you have
happily entered so young: for surely it should lead to that
state to which this vision is promised—the state of those who
are Pure in Heart.  For if it be true, that the reason we see
not God is the grossness of this tabernacle wherein the soul
is encased, then the more and the oftener we recognise the
supernatural in our ordinary life, and not only expect and find
it in those rare and short moments of devotion and prayer,
the more, surely, the rays of the Divine Light will shine through
the dark glass of this outward form of life, and the more our
own spirit will be enlightened and purified by it, until we
come to that likeness to the Divine Nature, and that purity
of heart to which a share of the Beatific Vision is promised,
and which, as some teach, can be attained by being abstract
from the body and the bodily life.  As we see every day that
the supernatural in some men gives a particular brightness of
air to the countenance, and makes the face to shine with an
inimitable lustre, and if it be true that in the life to come we
shall have to see through a body and a glass however
transparent, we may well practise our eyes by making this life
spiritual, as we shall have also to strive to do in that to which
we go.  My predecessor in this living, doubtless a very worthy
man (for I knew him not), has left it recorded on his
tombstone—as I will show you if you will come into the Church—that
he was 'full of cares and full of years, of neither weary,
but full of hope and of heaven.'  I should desire that it may
be faithfully recorded of me that I was the same!"

John went with him into the Church, and read the old
vicar's epitaph, and several more—for he was very much taken
with the old gentleman's talk, and indeed stayed with him the
whole day: his host adding a dish of eggs and a glass of small
beer to his daily very frugal meal.  Johnny invited him to
come to the Priory, and so left him, more pleased and satisfied
with this than with any of his other visits.  As he rode back
through the darkening valley, and through the oak wood before
the Priory gate, he little thought that not only should he not
see the old Parson again, but that his quiet contemplative life
was come to an end, and his speculations would now be chased
away by a life of action; and for the future the decision, often
to be made at once, as to what he ought to do, would appear
of more consequence than that other decision, which had
seemed to him, sometimes, the only important one, as to what
it was right to think.

When he reached the Priory, he found the Jesuit had
returned, and when at supper he inquired of Johnny if his
ride had been a pleasant one, as the servant had told him he
had been out since the morning, Johnny began at once, and
told him all that had been passing in his mind since the priest
had given him the book, and of all the directors he had sought
for his guidance.  Father St. Clare listened (though it may be
doubted whether the recital was altogether agreeable to him)
with great attention, and seemed pleased and amused at the
boy's descriptions, which showed his pupil's fine perception of
character.

"You have taken a wise course," he said, "which has led
you to see much of the workings of the minds of men: this is
the most useful study you can follow, and the most harmless
to yourself, if you keep your own counsel, and gain knowledge
without imparting it.  I am glad you have told me all this,
because it shows me I have not been deceived in you, but
that the time is fully ripe for you to play the part your father
and I have destined for you, and to play it—to great
extent—alone.  The day after to-morrow we shall go up to London;
on the way, I will open to you the position of parties, the
crisis of affairs—a position and a crisis such as never was
before in this or any other country!  You are very young, but
you are years older in mind than most of your age, and your
youth renders you all the more fit for the work I have for you
to do.  I trust you without reserve; I shall commit to your
keeping secrets which would, if revealed, bring the highest
heads in England, not to speak of my own, to the block.  I
have no fear of you."

Inglesant listened breathlessly and with open eyes to this
address.  It made his heart beat high with delight and
excitement.  Death—nay, the bitterest torture—would be nothing
to him, if only he could win this man's approval, and be not
only true but successful in his trust.  His entire devotion to
the Jesuit cannot be looked upon as anything wonderful, for
the whole mental power of the latter, directed by the nicest
art—a power and an art at that time not surpassed in
Europe—had been directed to this end upon the boy's susceptible
nature, and the result could not be doubtful.

The Jesuit might well say that the crisis was imminent,
and the position of affairs peculiar.  Plotters were at work in
all directions, and for different ends; but the schemes of all
miscarried, and the expectations of all proved to be
miscalculations: those of the Roman Catholics—with whom St. Clare
was associated—more than all.  Their expectations were at
the highest pitch.  The Court influence was with them to a
large extent.  The Church of England was at its highest
summit of glory and power, and its standing-point was almost
their own.  Laud was partly gained.  He had refused a
cardinal's hat; but in such a way that the offer was
immediately renewed, and remained open.  It seemed, indeed, as
though little more remained to do, when this goodly edifice
began to crumble, slowly, indeed, but surely, and with accelerating
speed.  A new power appeared in the country; hostile,
indeed, to Catholicism, but, what was much worse, also slightly
contemptuous of it, directing its full force against the Church
and the Crown.  The Church collapsed with wonderful
suddenness; and the Crown was compelled to seek its own
preservation, extending what little aid it might be able to render
to the Church; neither had the least power or time to give to
the assistance of their former allies.  All this had not happened
when the Jesuit and Johnny rode up to London, but it was
foreshadowed clearly in the immediate future.





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.. _`CHAPTER IV.`:

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   CHAPTER IV.

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Father St. Clare and Johnny set out the next day,
accompanied by two servants on horseback.  The road
was quite new to Inglesant after they left Malmsbury; and he
was greatly delighted and amused with all he saw.  The fair
landscapes, the prospects of goodly cities with the towers and
spires of their Churches rising into the clear smokeless air; the
stately houses and gardens, the life of the country villages, the
fairs and markets, strolling players, the morris dancing, the
drinking and smoking parties, the conjurors and mountebanks,
peasants quarrelling "together by the ears," and buying and
selling; wandering beggars, and half-witted people called
"Tom o' Bedlams" who were a recognised order of
mendicants—everything amused and delighted him, especially with
his companion's witty and penetrating comments upon all they
met with.

At Windsor they walked on the terrace, from which
Johnny saw the view, which was then considered only second
to that of Greenwich, of the river and many pleasant hills and
valleys, villages and fair houses, far and near.  As they rode
along, at every suitable opportunity, and at night after supper
at the inns, the Jesuit explained to Johnny the position of
public affairs.  He told him that though the power of the
King and the Archbishop was apparently at its greatest height,
as the trial and condemnation of Laud's traducers, Prynne,
Baswick, and Burton had just been decided, and the trial of
Hampden for refusal to pay ship-money was about to commence,
yet nevertheless, the impossibility of governing without
a Parliament was becoming so evident, and the violent and
aggressive temper of the people was so marked, that he, and
those like him, who possessed the best information of what
was passing throughout all classes, and among all parties,
however secret, considered that changes of a very remarkable
character were imminent.  The temper of the people, he said,
was the more remarkable, because in the one case, libellers
like Prynne would have been put to death without mercy in
either of the preceding reigns, and no notice taken by the
people; and the tax, called ship's money, was so light and so
fairly levied, as to be scarcely felt.  The Archbishop, he said,
was determined to force the service book upon the Scots; a
most unwise and perilous proceeding at the present moment,
and he was informed by the emissary priests then in the north
of England and Scotland, that the resistance to it would be
determined, and that the Scottish malcontents were supported
by the Puritan party in the English Parliament.  Under these
circumstances, he explained to Johnny, that a change had
taken place in the policy of some of the Roman Catholic
party, who had formerly acted with Mr. Inglesant and Father
St. Clare, and they had arrived at the conclusion that the
Church of England was no longer worth the pains of humouring
and conciliating.  The Queen had been advised to attempt
the perversion of the Parliamentary leaders, and several of the
Catholic plotters had undertaken a similar enterprise.  Father
St. Clare told Johnny candidly, that he neither sympathised
entirely with these views nor altogether with those of the party
to which he had hitherto belonged.  On the one hand, he had
arrived at the conclusion that Laud was a true servant of the
Church of England, and would never consent to submission
to Rome, except on terms which could not be granted, but on
the other, he had so long regarded the Church as the natural
ally of Rome, and the uselessness of attempting to win over
the Puritans was so apparent, that he had not entered warmly
into these new schemes.  He, however, was inclined to think
that were a change to take place, and the Puritan party to
gain the supreme power in the State, the re-action among the
upper classes would be so great, that the Romish faith would
gain numberless converts.  He finally pressed upon Johnny
the necessity of great prudence, telling him that he should be
immediately placed about the person of the Queen as one of
her pages; and, as soon as possible, transferred to the King's
service in as high a post as the influence to be exerted could
command, in order that he should possess as much influence
as possible: that in the meantime his business would be simply
to become acquainted with as many of all parties as he
possibly could, and to gain their confidence, opportunities for
doing which should be given him both in the assemblies he
would meet at his father's house, and in other company into
which he should be introduced.  He warned him against
crediting anything he heard, unless assured of its truth by
himself—the most exaggerated reports upon every subject, he
said, prevailing in the Court and city.  The conversions to
Romanism, he told him, though numerous, were nothing like
so many as were reported, as might be supposed when the
reputed ones included such men as Mr. Endymion Porter, the
most faithful servant of the King and a firm Church of England
man, though, like many others, entertaining very friendly
opinions of the Papists.

Conversing in this way, they entered London one afternoon
at the beginning of August 1637.  Johnny, as may be
supposed, was all eyes as they entered London, which they did
by Kensington and St. James's Park.  The beautiful buildings
at Kensington, and the throng of gentry and carriages in the
park astonished him beyond measure.  As they passed through
the park many persons recognised Father St. Clare, but they
passed on without stopping, through the gateway by the side
of the beautiful banqueting-house into the narrow street that
led by Charing Cross and the Strand.  The crowds were now
of a different kind to those they had passed in the park.  They
passed several groups assembled round quack doctors and
itinerant speakers, one of whom was relating how the congregation
of a Parish Church the Sunday before had been alarmed
by an insurrection of armed Papists—stories of this kind being
then a common invention to excite and stir up the people.  At
one of these groups they were startled by hearing a man who
was selling books, announce the name as "Jesus' Worship
Confuted;" as the thing was new to the Jesuit, he stopped and
ordered one of his men to dismount and bring him one, when
it was found to be a tract against ceremonies, and especially
against bowing at the name of Jesus.  They resumed their
passage down the Strand, Father St. Clare remarking on the
strange ideas a stranger would attach to the state of religion
in England if he listened only to the opposing cries.  All down
the Strand the Jesuit pointed out the beautiful houses of the
nobility, and the glimpses of the river between them.  They
stopped at last at Somerset House, then a large rambling
series of buildings extending round several courts with gardens
and walks on the river banks, and a handsome water-gate
leading to the river.  They went to the lodgings of Father Cory,
the Queen's confessor, who was at home, and received them
hospitably.  Johnny was so taken up with all the astonishing
sights around him, especially with the wonderful view up and
down the river, with the innumerable boats and barges, the
palaces and gardens, and churches and steeples on the banks,
that it was a day or two before he could talk or think calmly
of anything.  The next morning the Jesuit took him to his
father's house on the north side of the Strand, where he saw
both his father and brother, it not being the latter's turn in
waiting at the Court.  Mr. Inglesant was not more affectionate
to his son than usual; he appeared anxious and worn, but he
told him he was pleased at his arrival, that he must obey
Father St. Clare in all things, and that he would become a
useful and successful man.  Father St. Clare had sent for a
Court tailor, and ordered a proper dress and accoutrements
for Johnny, who was astonished at his own appearance when
attired in lace and satin, and his long hair combed and dressed.
The Jesuit regarded him with satisfaction, and told him they
were going at once to the Queen.  Mr. Inglesant's coach was
sent for them, and was waiting in one of the courts; and
entering, they were driven through London to Whitehall.

It was the third of August, and the Archbishop was
marrying the Duke of Lennox to the Lady Mary Villiers, the
daughter of the great Duke of Buckingham, in his Chapel at
Lambeth.  The King was expected to go to Lambeth to be
present at the ceremony, but this was of no consequence to the
Jesuit, who wished to introduce his protégé to the Queen alone.
When they reached Whitehall, however, they found that both
their Majesties had gone to the wedding, and the day being
very rainy, news had been sent from Lambeth immediately
after the ceremony that the Queen was returning, and she was
then on the water.  The Jesuit and Johnny left their carriage
and went down to the water-gate.  The Jesuit was evidently
well known at the Court, and way was made for him everywhere.
At that time the greatest laxity was allowed to the Catholics,
and other priests besides the Queen's confessors were tolerated
openly in London.  As they reached the water-gate, the rain
had ceased for a time, and a gleam of sunlight shone upon the
river, and rested on the Queen's barge as it approached.
Johnny's heart beat with excitement, as it reached the steps
amid a flourish of trumpets, and the guard presented arms.
The Queen, splendidly dressed, came from under the awning
and up the steps, accompanied by her gentlemen and the ladies
of her Court.  Johnny never forgot the sight to his dying day,
and it was doubtless one to be long remembered by those who
saw it for the first time.  When the Queen was near the top of
the stairs and saw St. Clare, she stopped, and extending her
hand she welcomed him to the Court.  She seemed to remember
something, and spoke to him rapidly in French, to which
he replied with the utmost deference, in the same language.
Then falling back, he indicated Johnny to the Queen, saying—"This
is young John Inglesant, your Majesty, of whom I spoke
to your Grace concerning the business you wot of."

The Queen looked kindly at the boy, who indeed was
handsome enough to incline any woman in his favour.

"They are a handsome race," she said, still speaking
French; "this one, I think, still more so than his brother."

"This is a refined spirit, your Majesty," said the Jesuit, in
a low voice, "of whom I hope great things, if your Majesty
will aid."

"You wish to be one of my servants, my pretty boy," said
the Queen, extending her hand to Johnny, who kissed it on
one knee; "Father Hall will tell you what to do."

And she passed on, followed by her train, who looked at
St. Clare and the boy with curiosity, several nodding and
speaking to the Jesuit as they proceeded.

Johnny was duly entered the next day as one of the supernumerary
pages without salary, and entered upon his duties at
once, which consisted simply of waiting in anterooms and
following the Queen at a distance in her walks.  This life,
however, was beyond measure interesting to Johnny: the beautiful
rooms and galleries in the palace, with their wonderful
contents were an inexhaustible source of delight to him; especially
the King's collection of paintings which was kept in a single
apartment, and was admired over Europe.  Father Hall took
him also to many gentlemen's virtuoso collections of paintings
and curiosities, where his intelligence and delight attracted the
interest and kindness of all his hosts.  Father St. Clare also
gave him from time to time, small editions of the classics and
other books which he could keep in his pocket, and read in
the anterooms and galleries when he was in waiting.  He would
have been astonished, if the Jesuit had not told him it would
be so, at the number of persons of all ranks and opinions in
the Court who spoke to him and endeavoured to make his
acquaintance, that they might remember him at a future time,
evidently at the request of the priest.

Shortly after he came to London he was present at the
Chapel Royal, at Whitehall, when the King took the sacrament
and presented the gold pieces coined especially for this
purpose.  The sight impressed Johnny very much.  The beautiful
Chapel, the high altar on which candles were burning, the
Bishops and the Dean of the Chapel in their copes, the
brilliant crowd of courtiers, the King—devout and stately—alone
before the altar, the exquisite music, and the singing of the
King's choir, which was not surpassed in Rome itself.  As the
sunlight from the stained windows fell on this wonderful scene,
it is not surprising that young Inglesant was affected by it, nor
that this young spirit looking out for the first time on the world
and its surprising scenes, and pageants, and symbols, realised
the truth of what the old Parson had told him, and converted
all these sights into spiritual visions; this one in particular,
which led back his thoughts, as it was meant, to the three kings
of old, who knelt and offered gifts before the mysterious Child.

Johnny saw his brother frequently, as the latter had grown
out of his page-hood, and held another post about the Court,
which gave him much leisure.  The two young courtiers were
at this time more alike than ever, and were much admired at
Court as a pair.  At one of the Queen's Masques, about this
time, they acted parts somewhat similar to the brothers in
Comus, but requiring greater resemblance, as in Shakespeare's
Comedy of Errors, and both their acting and appearance was
applauded by the King himself, who began to take notice of
Johnny.  Mr. Inglesant, the elder, had never been a favourite
with the King, who was aware of his leaning to Popery, and
indeed, at this time, both he and his friend the Jesuit were
very much discouraged at the aspect of affairs.  The position
of the Papists had never been so good as at present, but this
very circumstance was the ruin of their party.  All restraints
and reproaches of former times seemed forgotten; a public
agent from Rome resided openly at the Court, and was
magnificently fêted and caressed; the priests, though to avow
popish orders was by law punishable with death, went about
and preached openly without fear; and it was related as a sign
of the times, that a Jesuit at Paris who was coming into
England, coolly called on the English ambassador there, who
knew his profession, offering his services in London, as though
there were no penal law to condemn him the moment he
landed!  High Mass at Somerset House was attended at
noon-day by great numbers of the Papists, who returned together
from it through the streets as openly as the congregation of
the Savoy, and the neighbouring churches.  Their priests
succeeded in converting several ladies of some of the greatest
families, thereby provoking the anger of their relations, and
causing them to long for their suppression.  They held large
political conferences openly, and ostentatiously subscribed a
large sum of money to assist the King against the Scots.
Clarendon, indeed, says that they acted as though they had
been suborned by these latter to root out their own religion.

It would seem, indeed, that the English mind is not habituated
to plotting, and that the majority of any party are not
equal to a sustained and concealed effort.  The Jesuit,
Mr. Inglesant, and the other astute members of their party
perceived with sorrow the course things were taking without
being able to remedy it.  The former desisted from all active
efforts, contenting himself with assisting the Queen in her
attempts to win over members of the Parliament to her interest,
and in opposing and counteracting the intrigues of a small and
fanatical section of the Papists who were attempting a wild
and insane plot against the King and the Archbishop, which
was said to extend to even the attempting their death.  As
neither of these occupations was very arduous, he had little
need of Johnny's assistance, and left him very much to
himself.  Inglesant, therefore, continued the cultivation of his
acquaintance with both parties pretty much in his own way.
He had several friends whose society he much valued among
the Papists, and he frequently attended mass when not obliged
to by his attendance upon the Queen; but he was rather more
inclined to attach himself to the members of the Laudian
and High Church party, who presented many qualities which
interested and attracted him.  He read with delight the books
of this party, Dr. Donne's and Herbert's Poems, and the
writings of Andrews and Bishop Cosin's Devotions, which last was
much disliked by the Puritans, and, indeed, the course he
took could not have been more in accordance with the Jesuit's
plan of preparing him for future service, should the time ever
arrive when such usefulness should be required.  In his mind
he was still devoted, though in a halting and imperfect
manner, to that pursuit of the spiritual life and purity which had
attracted him when so young, and he lost no opportunity of
consulting any on these mysterious subjects who he thought
would sympathise with his ideas.  In this he had no assistance
from his brother, who was devoted to the pursuit of
pleasure—of worldly pleasure, it is true, in its most refined
aspect—but still of such pleasures as are entirely apart from
those of the soul.

One of his friends had presented Inglesant with a little
book, "Divine Considerations of those things most profitable
in our Christian profession," written in Spanish by John
Valdesso, a Papist, and translated by a gentleman of whom
Johnny heard a great deal, and was exceedingly interested in
what he heard.  In this book the author says several very
high and beautiful things concerning the Spiritual life, and of
the gradual illumination of the Divine Light shed upon the
mind, as the sun breaks by degrees upon the eyes of a
traveller in the dark.  But though Johnny was attracted to the
book itself, he was principally interested in it by what he heard
of the translator.  This was Mr. Nicholas Ferrar, who had
founded a religious house at Little Gidding, in Huntingdonshire,
or, as it was called in the world, the "Protestant Nunnery,"
in which he lived with his mother and several nephews
and nieces, in the practice of good works and the worship of
God.  Extraordinary attention had been attracted to this
establishment by the accounts of the strange and holy life of
its inmates; and still more by the notice which the King had
condescended to take of it, not only visiting it on his journey
to Scotland, in 1633, but also requesting and accepting
presents of devotional books, which it was part of the
occupation of the family to prepare.

The accounts of this religious house, and of the family
within it, so excited Johnny's imagination that he became
exceedingly desirous to see it, especially as it was said that
Mr. Ferrar was very infirm, and was not expected to survive
very long.

It was late in the autumn when he made this visit, about
two months before Mr. Ferrar's death.  The rich autumn
foliage was lighted by the low sun as he rode through the
woods and meadows, and across the sluggish streams of
Bedford and Huntingdon.  He slept at a village a few miles
south of Little Gidding, and reached that place early in the
day.  It was a solitary, wooded place, with a large manor
house, and a little Church close by.  It had been for some
time depopulated, and there were no cottages nor houses near.
The manor house and Church had been restored to perfect
order by Mr. Ferrar, and Inglesant reached it through a grove
of trees planted in walks, with latticed paths and gardens on
both sides.  A brook crossed the road at the foot of the
gentle ascent on which the house was built.  He asked to see
Mr. Ferrar, and was shown by a man-servant into a fair
spacious parlour, where Mr. Ferrar presently came to him.
Inglesant was disappointed at his appearance, which was plain
and not striking in any way, but his speech was able and
attractive.  Johnny apologised for his bold visit, telling him
how much taken he had been by his book, and by what he
had heard of him and his family; and that what he had heard
did not interest him merely out of curiosity, as he feared it
might have done many, but out of sincere desire to learn
something of the holy life which doubtless that family led.
To this Mr. Ferrar replied that he was thankful to see any
one who came in such a spirit, and that several, not only of his
own friends, as Mr. Crashaw the poet, but many young students
from the University at Cambridge came to see him in a like
spirit, to the benefit, he hoped, of both themselves and of him.
He said with great humility, that although on the one hand very
much evil had been spoken of him which was not true, he had
no doubt that, on the other, many things had been said about
their holiness and the good that they did which went far
beyond the truth.  For his own part, he said he had adopted
that manner of life through having long seen enough of the
manners and vanities of the world; and holding them in low
esteem, was resolved to spend the best of his life in mortifications
and devotion, in charity, and in constant preparation for
death.  That his mother, his elder brother, his sisters, his
nephews and nieces, being content to lead this mortified life,
they spent their time in acts of devotion and by doing such
good works as were within their power, such as keeping a
school for the children of the next parishes, for teaching of
whom he provided three masters who lived constantly in the
house.  That for ten years they had lived this harmless life,
under the care of his mother, who had trained her daughters
and grand-daughters to every good work; but two years ago
they had lost her by death, and as his health was very feeble
he did not expect long to be separated from her, but looked
forward to his departure with joy, being afraid of the evil times
he saw approaching.

When he had said this, he led Inglesant into a large
handsome room upstairs, where he introduced him to his sister,
Mrs. Collet, and her daughters, who were engaged in making
those curious books of Scripture Harmonies which had so
pleased King Charles.  These seven young ladies, who formed
the junior part of the Society of the house, and were called
by the names of the chief virtues, the Patient, the Cheerful,
the Affectionate, the Submiss, the Obedient, the Moderate,
the Charitable, were engaged at that moment in cutting out
passages from two Testaments, which they pasted together so
neatly as to seem one book, and in such a manner as to
enable the reader to follow the narrative in all its particulars
from beginning to end without a break, and also to see which
of the sacred authors had contributed any particular part.

Inglesant told the ladies what fame reported of the nuns
of Gidding, of two watching and praying all night, of their
canonical hours, of their crosses on the outside and inside of
their Chapel, of an altar there richly decked with plate, tapestry,
and tapers, of their adoration and genuflexions at their entering.
He told Mr. Ferrar that his object in visiting him was
chiefly to know his opinion of the Papists and their religion,
as, having been bred among them himself, and being very
nearly one of them, he was anxious to know the opinions of
one who was said to hold many of their doctrines without
joining them or approving them.  Mr. Ferrar appeared at
first shy of speaking, but being apparently convinced of the
young man's sincerity, and that he was not an enemy in
disguise, he conversed very freely with him for some time,
speaking much of the love of God, and of the vanity of
worldly things; of his dear friend Mr. George Herbert, and
of his saintly life; of the confused and troublesome life he
had formerly led, and of the great peace and satisfaction which
he had found since he had left the world and betaken himself
to that retired and religious life.  That, as regards the Papists,
his translating Valdessa's book was a proof that he knew that
among them, as among all people, there were many true
worshippers of Jesus, being drawn by the blessed Sacrament
to follow Him in the spiritual and divine life, and that there
were many things in that book similar to the mystical religion
of which Inglesant spoke, which his dear friend Mr. George
Herbert had disapproved, as exalting the inward spiritual life
above the foundation of holy Scripture: that it was not for
him, who was only a deacon in the Church, to pronounce any
opinion on so difficult a point, and that he had printed all
Mr. Herbert's notes in his book, without comment of his own:
that though he was thus unwilling to give his own judgment,
he certainly believed that this inward spiritual life was open
to all men, and recommended Inglesant to continue his
endeavours after it, seeking it chiefly in the holy Sacrament
accompanied with mortification and confession.

While they were thus talking, the hour of evening prayer
arrived, and Mr. Ferrar invited Johnny to accompany him to
the Church; which he gladly did, being very much attracted
by the evident holiness which pervaded Mr. Ferrar's talk and
manner.  The family proceeded to Church in procession,
Mr. Ferrar and Inglesant walking first.  The Church was kept in
great order, the altar being placed upon a raised platform
at the east end, and covered with tapestry stretching over
the floor all round it, and adorned with plate and tapers.
Mr. Ferrar bowed with great reverence several times on
approaching the altar, and directed Inglesant to sit in a stalled
seat opposite the reading pew, from which he said the
evening prayer.  The men of the family knelt on the raised step
before the altar, the ladies and servants sitting in the body of
the Church.  The Church was very sweet, being decked with
flowers and herbs; and the soft autumn light rested over it.
From the seat where Inglesant knelt, he could see the faces
of the girls as they bent over their books at prayers.  They
were all in black, except one, who wore a friar's grey gown;
this was the one who was called the Patient, as Inglesant had
been told in the house, and the singularity of her dress
attracted his eye towards her during the prayers.  The whole
scene, strange and romantic as it appeared to him, the devout
and serious manner of the worshippers—very different from
much that was common in churches at that day—and the
abstracted and devout look upon the faces of the girls, struck
his fancy, so liable to such influences, and so long trained to
welcome them; and he could not keep his eyes from this one
face from which the grey hood was partly thrown back.  It
was a passive face, with well-cut delicate features, and large
and quiet eyes.

Prayers being over, the ladies saluted Inglesant from a
distance, and left the Church with the rest, in the same order
as they had come, leaving Mr. Ferrar and Johnny alone.
They remained some time discoursing on worship and Church
ceremonies, and then returned to the house.  It was now
late, and Mr. Ferrar, who was evidently much pleased with
his guest, invited him to stay the night, and even extended
his hospitality by asking him to stay over the next, which was
Saturday, and the Sunday, upon which, as it was the first
Sunday in the month, the holy Sacrament would be administered,
and several of Mr. Ferrar's friends from Cambridge
would come over and partake of it, and to pass the night and
day in prayer and acts of devotion.  To this proposition
Inglesant gladly consented, the whole proceeding appearing
to him full of interest and attraction.  Soon after they
returned to the house supper was served, all the family sitting
down together at a long table in the hall.  During supper
some portion of the book of the Martyrs was read aloud.
Afterwards two hours were permitted for diversion, during
which all were allowed to do as they pleased.

The young ladies having found out that Inglesant was a
Queen's page, were very curious to hear of the Court and
royal family from him, which innocent request Mr. Ferrar
encouraged, and joined in himself.  One reason of the success
with which his mother and he had ruled this household
appears to have been his skill in interesting and attracting all
its inmates by the variety and pleasant character of their
occupations.  He was also much interested himself in what
Johnny told him, for in this secluded family, themselves
accustomed to prudence, Inglesant felt he might safely speak
of many things upon which he was generally silent; and after
prayers, when the family were retired to their several rooms,
Mr. Ferrar remained with him some time, while Johnny
related to him the aspect of religious parties at the moment,
and particularly all that he could tell, without violating
confidence, of the Papists and of his friend the Jesuit.

The next morning they rose at four, though two of the
family had been at prayer all night, and did not go to rest till
the others rose.  They went into the oratory in the house
itself to prayers, for they kept six times of prayer during the day.
At six they said the psalms of the hour, for every hour had its
appropriate psalms, and at half-past six went to Church for
matins.  When they returned at seven o'clock they said the
psalms of the hour, sang a short hymn, and went to breakfast.
After breakfast, when the younger members of the family were
at their studies, Mr. Ferrar took Inglesant to the school, where
all the children in the neighbourhood were permitted to come.
At eleven they went to dinner, and after dinner there was no
settled occupation till one, every one being allowed to amuse
himself as he chose.  The young ladies had been trained not
only to superintend the house, but to wait on any sick persons
in the neighbourhood who came to the house at certain times
for assistance, and to dress the wounds of those who were hurt,
in order to give them readiness and skill in this employment,
and to habituate them to the virtues of humility and tenderness
of heart.  A large room was set apart for this purpose,
where Mr. Ferrar had instructed them in the necessary skill,
having been himself Physic Fellow at Clare Hall, in Cambridge,
and under the celebrated Professors at Padua, in Italy.  This
room Inglesant requested to see, thinking that he should in
this way also see something of and be able to speak to the
young ladies whose acquaintance he had hitherto not had
much opportunity of cultivating.  Mr. Ferrar told his nephew
to show it him—young Nicholas Ferrar, a young man of
extraordinary skill in languages, who was afterwards introduced
to the King and Prince Charles, some time before his early
death.  When they entered the room Inglesant was delighted
to find that the only member of the family there was the young
lady in the Grey Friar's habit, whose face had attracted him so
much in Church.  She was listening to the long tiresome tale
of an old woman, following the example of George Herbert,
who thought on a similar occasion, that "it was some relief to
a poor body to be heard with patience."

Johnny, who in spite of his Jesuitical and Court training
was naturally modest, and whose sense of religion made him
perfectly well-bred, accosted the young lady very seriously, and
expressed his gratitude at having been permitted to stay and
see so many excellent and improving things as that family had
to show.  The liking which the head of the house had
evidently taken for Inglesant disposed the younger members in
his favour, and the young lady answered him simply and
unaffectedly, but with manifest pleasure.

Inglesant inquired concerning the assumed names of the
sisters and how they sustained their respective qualities, and
what exercises suited to these qualities they had to perform.
She replied that they had exercises, or discourses, which they
performed at the great festivals of the year, Christmas and
Easter; and which were composed with reference to their
several qualities.  All of these, except her own, were enlivened
by hymns and odes composed by Mr. Ferrar, and set to music
by the music master of the family, who accompanied the voices
with the viol or the lute.  But her own, she said, had never
any music or poetry connected with it; it was always of a
very serious turn, and much longer than any other, and had
not any historical anecdote or fable interwoven with it, the
contrivance being to exercise that virtue to which she was
devoted.  Inglesant asked her with pity if this was not very
hard treatment, and she only replied, with a smile, that she
had the enjoyment of all the lively performances of the others.
He asked her whether they looked forward to passing all their
lives in this manner, or whether they allowed the possibility of
any change, and if she had entirely lost her own name in her
assumed one, or whether he might presume to ask it, that he
might have wherewithal to remember her by, as he surely
should as long as he had life.  She said her name was Mary
Collet; and that as to his former question, two of her sisters
had had, at one time, a great desire to become veiled virgins,
to take upon them a vow of perpetual chastity, with the
solemnity of a Bishop's blessing and ratification, but on going
to Bishop Williams he had discouraged, and at last, dissuaded
them from it.

Inglesant and the young lady remained talking in this way
for some time, young Nicholas Ferrar having left them; but
at last she excused herself from staying any longer, and he
was obliged to let her go.  He ventured to say that he hoped
they would remember him, that he was utterly ignorant of the
future that lay before him, but that whatever fate awaited him,
he should never forget the "Nuns of Gidding" and their
religious life.  She replied that they would certainly remember
him, as they did all their acquaintance, in their daily prayer,
especially as she had seldom seen her uncle so pleased with a
stranger as he had been with him.  With these compliments
they parted, and Inglesant returned to the drawing-room, where
more visitors had arrived.

In the afternoon there came from Cambridge Mr. Crashaw
the poet, of Peterhouse, who afterwards went over to the
Papists and died Canon of Loretto, and several gentlemen,
undergraduates of Cambridge, to spend the Sunday at Gidding,
being the first Sunday of the month.  Mr. Crashaw, when
Inglesant was introduced to him as one of the Queen's pages,
finding that he was acquainted with many Roman Catholics,
was very friendly and conversed with him apart.  He said he
conceived a great admiration for the devout lives of the
Catholic saints, and of the government and discipline of the
Catholic Church, and that he feared that the English Church
had not sufficient authority to resist the spread of
Presbyterianism, in which case he saw no safety except in returning
to the communion of Rome.  Walking up and down the
garden paths, after evening prayers in Church, he spoke a great
deal on this subject, and on the beauty of a retired religious
life, saying that here at Little Gidding and at Little St. Marie's
Church, near to Peterhouse, he had passed the most blissful
moments of his life, watching at midnight in prayer and
meditation.

That night Mr. Crashaw, Inglesant, and one or two others
remained in the Church from nine till twelve, during which
time they said over the whole Book of Psalms in the way of
antiphony, one repeating one verse and the rest the other.
The time of their watch being ended they returned to the
house, went to Mr. Ferrar's door and bade him good-morrow,
leaving a lighted candle for him.  They then went to bed, but
Mr. Ferrar arose according to the passage of Scripture "at
midnight I will arise and give thanks," and went into the
Church, where he betook himself to religious meditation.

Early on the Sunday morning the family were astir and
said prayers in the oratory.  After breakfast many people from
the country around and more than a hundred children came
in.  These children were called the Psalm children, and were
regularly trained to repeat the Psalter, and the best voices
among them to assist in the service on Sundays.  They came
in every Sunday, and according to the proficiency of each were
presented with a small piece of money, and the whole number
entertained with a dinner after Church.  The Church was
crowded at the morning service before the Sacrament.  The
service was beautifully sung, the whole family taking the
greatest delight in Church music, and many of the gentlemen
from Cambridge being amateurs.  The Sacrament was administered
with the greatest devotion and solemnity.  Impressed
as he had been with the occupation of the preceding day and
night, and his mind excited with watching and want of sleep
and with the exquisite strains of the music, the effect upon
Inglesant's imaginative nature was excessive.  Above the altar,
which was profusely bedecked with flowers, the antique glass
of the East window, which had been carefully repaired,
contained a figure of the Saviour of an early and severe type.
The form was gracious and yet commanding, having a brilliant
halo round the head, and being clothed in a long and
apparently seamless coat; the two fore-fingers of the right hand
were held up to bless.  Kneeling upon the half-pace, as he
received the sacred bread and tasted the holy wine, this
gracious figure entered into Inglesant's soul, and stillness and
peace unspeakable, and life, and light, and sweetness, filled
his mind.  He was lost in a sense of rapture, and earth and
all that surrounded him faded away.  When he returned a
little to himself, kneeling in his seat in the Church, he thought
that at no period of his life, however extended, should he ever
forget that morning or lose the sense and feeling of that touching
scene, of that gracious figure over the altar, of the bowed
and kneeling figures, of the misty autumn sunlight and the
sweeping autumn wind.  Heaven itself seemed to have opened
to him and one fairer than the fairest of the angelic hosts to
have come down to earth.

After the service, the family and all the visitors returned to
the mansion house in the order in which they had come, and
the Psalm children were entertained with a dinner in the great
hall; all the family and visitors came in to see them served,
and Mrs. Collet, as her mother had always done, placed the
first dish on the table herself to give an example of humility.
Grace having been said, the bell rang for the dinner of the
family, who, together with the visitors, repaired to the great
dining-room, and stood in order round the table.  While the
dinner was being served they sang a hymn to the organ at the
upper end of the room.  Then grace was said by the Priest
who had celebrated the communion, and they sat down.  All
the servants who had received the Sacrament that day sat at
table with the rest.  During dinner one of the young people
whose turn it was, read a chapter from the Bible, and when
that was finished conversation was allowed; Mr. Ferrar and
some of the other gentlemen endeavouring to make it of a
character suitable to the day, and to the service they had just
taken part in.  After dinner they went to Church again for
evening prayer; between which service and supper Inglesant
had some talk with Mr. Ferrar concerning the Papists and
Mr. Crashaw's opinion of them.

"I ought to be a fit person to advise you," said Mr. Ferrar
with a melancholy smile, "for I am myself, as it were, crushed
between the upper and nether millstone of contrary reports,
for I suffer equal obloquy—and no martyrdom is worse than
that of continual obloquy—both for being a Papist and a
Puritan.  You will suppose there must be some strong reason
why I, who value so many things among the Papists so much,
have not joined them myself.  I should probably have escaped
much violent invective if I had done so.  You are very young,
and are placed where you can see and judge of both parties.
You possess sufficient insight to try the spirits whether they
be of God.  Be not hasty to decide, and before you decide to
join the Romish communion, make a tour abroad, and if you
can, go to Rome itself.  When I was in Italy and Spain, I
made all the inquiries and researches I could.  I bought many
scarce and valuable books in the languages of those countries,
in collecting which I had a principal eye to those which treated
on the subjects of spiritual life, devotion, and religious
retirement, but the result of all was that I am now, and I shall die,
as I believe and hope shortly, in the Communion of the English
Church.  This day, as I believe, the blessed Sacrament
has been in the Church before our eyes, and what can you or
I desire more?"

The next morning before Inglesant left, Mr. Ferrar showed
him his foreign collections, his great treasure of rarities and of
prints of the best masters of that time, mostly relative to
historical passages of the Old and New Testaments.  Inglesant
dined with the family, of whom he took leave with a full heart,
saluting the ladies with the pleasant familiarity which the
manners of the time permitted.  Mr. Ferrar went with him
to the borders of the parish, and gave him his blessing.  They
never saw each other again, for two months afterwards Nicholas
Ferrar was in his grave.





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.. _`CHAPTER V.`:

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   CHAPTER V.

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The next year of Inglesant's life contained several
incidents which had very important results.  The first
of these was the illness and death of his father, which occurred
shortly after Johnny's return to London.  His end was doubtless
hastened by the perplexity and disappointment of many of
his political projects, for his life in many respects was a failure.
Though a rich man he had spent large sums in his political
intrigues, and the property he left was not large.  His lands
and all his money he left to his eldest son, but he left Johnny
some houses in the city, which Inglesant was advised to sell.
He therefore disposed of them to a Parliament man, and
deposited the money with a goldsmith to be ready in case of
need.  The possession of this money made him an important
person, and he was advised to purchase a place about the
Court, which, with his interest with the Queen's advisers,
would secure his success in life.  He endeavoured to act on
this advice, but it was some time before he was successful.

After his return to London Inglesant saw Mr. Crashaw two
or three times, when that gentleman was in London, and his
conversation led him to think more of the Roman Catholics
than he had hitherto done, and inclined him more and more
to join them.  Nothing would have recommended him so
much to the Queen as such a step, and his feelings and
sympathies all led him the same way.  He was exceedingly
disgusted with the conduct and conversation of the Puritans, and
the extreme lengths to which it was evident they were
endeavouring to drive the people.  Most of his friends, even those
who were themselves sound Churchmen, looked favourably on
the Papists, and it was thought the height of ill breeding to
speak against them at Court.  It is probable, therefore, that
Inglesant would have joined them openly but for two very
opposite causes.  The one was his remembrance of the
Sacrament at Little Gidding, the other was the influence of his
friend the Jesuit.  The first of these prevented that craving
after the sacrifice of the Mass, which doubtless is the strongest
of all the motives which lead men to Rome; the other was
exerted several ways.

It was one of the political maxims of this man that he
never, if possible, allowed anything he had gained or any
mode of influence he had acquired to be lost or neglected,
even though circumstances had rendered it useless for the
particular purpose for which he had at first intended it.  In the
present case he had no intention of permitting all the care and
pains he had been at in Inglesant's education to be thrown
away.  It is true the exact use to which he had intended to
devote the talents he had thus trained no longer existed, but
this did not prevent his appreciating the exquisite fitness of
the instrument he had prepared for such or similar use.
Circumstances had occurred which in his far-seeing policy
made the Church of England scarcely worth gaining to the
Catholic side, but in proportion as the Church might cease to
be one of the great powers in the country, the Papists would
step into its place: and in the confused political struggles
which he foresaw, the Jesuit anticipated ample occupation for
the peculiar properties of his pupil.  In the event of a struggle,
the termination of which none could foresee, a qualified agent
would be required as much between the Papists and the popular
leaders as between the Catholics and the Royal and Church
Party.  Acting on these principles, therefore, the Jesuit was
far from losing sight of Inglesant, or even neglecting him.  So
far indeed was he from doing so, that he was acquainted with
most that passed through his mind, and was well aware of his
increased attraction towards the Church to which he himself
belonged.  Now for Inglesant to have become actively and
enthusiastically a Papist would at once have defeated all his
plans for him, and rendered him useless for the peculiar needs
for which he had been prepared.  He would doubtless have
gone abroad, and even if he had not remained buried in some
college on the Continent, he would have returned merely as
one of those mission priests (for doubtless he would have
taken orders) of whom the Jesuit had already more than he
required.  It was even not desirable that he should associate
exclusively with Papists.  He was already sufficiently known
and his position understood among them for the purposes of any
future mission on which he might be engaged; and it would
be more to the purpose for him to extend his acquaintance
among Church of England people, and gain their confidence.
To this end the Jesuit thought proper to remove him from
the immediate attendance on the Queen, where he saw few
except Papists, and to assist in his endeavours to purchase a
place about the King's person.  In this he was successful, and
about the end of 1639 Inglesant purchased the place of one
of the Esquires of the Body who relinquished his place on
account of ill health.  This post, which followed immediately
after that of the gentlemen of the Privy Chamber, was looked
upon as a very important and influential one, and cost
Inglesant a large sum of money before he obtained it.  He was,
as we have seen, rather a favourite with the King, who had
noticed him more than once, and he began to be regarded as
a rising courtier whose friendship it would be well to keep.

When the Jesuit had seen him settled in his new post, he
put in motion another and still more powerful engine which
he had prepared for preventing his pupil from joining the
Romish Church.  He had himself inculcated as much as
possible a broad and philosophical method of thought upon his
pupil, but he was necessarily confined and obstructed in this
direction by his own position and supposed orthodoxy, and he
was therefore anxious to infuse into Inglesant's mind a larger
element of rational inquiry than in his sacred character it was
possible for him to accomplish without shocking his pupil's
moral sense.  If I have not failed altogether in representing
that pupil's character, it will have been noticed that it was one
of those which combine activity of thought with great faculty of
reverence and of submission to those powers to which its fancy
and taste are subordinated.  These natures are enthusiastic,
though generally not supposed to be so, and though little sign
of it appears in their outward conduct; for the objects of their
enthusiasm being generally different from those which attract
most men, they are conscious that they have little sympathy
to expect in their pursuit of them, and this gives their
enthusiasm a reserved and cautious demeanour.  They are not,
however, blindly enthusiastic, but are never satisfied till they have
found some theory by which they are able to reconcile in their
own minds the widest results to which their activity of thought
has led them, with the submission and service which it is their
delight and choice to pay to such outward systems and authorities
as have pleased and attracted their taste.  This theory
consists generally in some, at times half-formed, conception of
the imperfect dispensation in which men live, which makes
obedience to authority, with which the most exalted reason
cannot entirely sympathise, becoming and even necessary.
This feeling more than anything else, gives to persons of this
nature a demeanour quite different from that of the ordinary
religious or political enthusiast, a demeanour seemingly cold
and indifferent, though courteous and even to some extent
sympathetic, and which causes the true fanatic to esteem them
as little better than the mere man of the world, or the minion
of courtly power.  The enthusiastic part of his character had
been fully cultivated in Inglesant, the reasoning and
philosophic part had been wakened and trained to some extent by
his readings in Plato under the direction of the Jesuit; it
remained now to be still more developed, whether to the
ultimate improvement of his character it would be hard to say.

The Jesuit took him one day into the city to Devonshire
House, where, inquiring for Mr. Hobbes, they were shown
into a large handsome room full of books, where a gentleman
was sitting whose appearance struck Inglesant very much.
He was tall and very erect, with a square mallet-shaped head
and ample forehead.  He wore a small red moustache, that
curled upward, and a small tuft of hair upon his chin.  His
eyes were hazel and full of life and spirit, and when he spoke
they shone with lively light; when he was witty and laughed
the lids closed over them so that they could scarcely be seen,
but when he was serious and in earnest they expanded to their
full orb, and penetrated, as it seemed, to the farthest limit of
thought.  He was dressed in a coat of black velvet lined with
fur, and wore long boots of Spanish leather laced with ribbon.
When the first compliments were over, the Jesuit introduced
Inglesant to him as a young gentleman of promise, who
would derive great benefit from his acquaintance, and whose
friendship he hoped might not prove unacceptable to Mr. Hobbes.

Inglesant came often to Mr. Hobbes, whose conversation
delighted him.  It frequently referred to the occurrences of
the day, in which Mr. Hobbes sided with the Government,
having a great regard for the King personally, as had Harrington
afterwards, and most of the philosophers—all their sympathies
and theories being on the side of law and strong
government; but their discourse frequently went beyond this,
and embraced those questions of human existence which
interest thinking men.  He soon found out Inglesant's tendency
towards Catholicism, and strongly dissuaded him from it.

"Your idea of the Catholic system," he said, "is a dream,
and has no real existence among the Papists.  Your ideal is
an exalted Platonic manifestation of the divine existence
diffused among men: the reality is a system of mean trivial
details, wearisome and disgusting to such men as you are.
Instead of the perfect communion with the Divine Light, such
as you seek, you will have before you and above you nothing
but the narrow conceptions of some ignorant priest to whom
you must submit your intellect.  What freedom of thought or
existence will remain to you when you have fully accepted the
article of transubstantiation, and truly believe that the priest
is able of a piece of bread to make absolutely and unconditionally
our Saviour's body, and thereby at the hour of death
to save your soul?  Will it not have an effect upon you to make
you think him a god, and to stand in awe of him as of God
Himself if He were visibly present?"

"I suppose it would," said Inglesant.

"One of our divines of the English Church, writing much
above their wont—for they are much stronger in their lives than
in their writings—puts this very plainly in the matter of the
judgment of the priest in confession.  'Yet this extorted
confession on Pain of Damnation is not the stripping a man to
his naked body, but the stripping him of his body, that they
may see his naked heart, and so, by the force of this
superstition, break into those secrets which it is the only due
privilege of Almighty God to be acquainted with, who is the only
rightful Searcher of hearts.'  These men may well pretend to
be followers of Aristotle, who reason only from the names of
things, according to the scale of the Categories; but of those
of the better sort, as you and I take ourselves to be, who
follow Plato, and found our doctrine on the conceptions and
ideas of things, we must ever submit to be called heretics by
them as a reproach, though we, doubtless, and not they, are the
true sacramentalists, that is, the seekers for the hidden and
the divine truth.  It is for this reason that I take the
Sacrament in the English Church, which I call in England the
Holy Church, and believe that its statutes are the true
Christian Faith."

"There seems to me," he went on after a pause, "something
frightfully grotesque about the Romish Church as a reality.
Showing us on the one side a mass of fooleries and ridiculous
conceits and practices, at which, but for the use of them, all
men must needs stand amazed; such rabble of impossible relics,—the
hay that was in the manger, and more than one tail of the
ass on which Christ rode into Jerusalem, besides hundreds
which for common decency no man in any other case would so
much as name.  To look on these, I say, on one side, and on
the other to see those frightful and intolerable cruelties, so
detestable that they cannot be named, by which thousands
have been tormented by this holy and pure Church, has
something about it so grotesque and fantastic that it seems to me
sometimes more like some masque or dance of satyrs or devils
than the followers of our Saviour Christ."

"All this," said Inglesant, "I partly believe, yet I imagine
that something may be said upon the other side of the
argument, and I should suppose that there is not one of these
doctrines and practices but what has some shadow of truth in
it, and sprang at first from the wellspring of truth."

"Doubtless," said the philosopher, "there is nothing but
has had its origin in some conception of the truth, but are we
'for this cause,' as that same divine says, 'also to forsake the
Truth itself, and devotionally prostrate ourselves to every
evanescent and far-cast show of Him—shadows of shadows—in
infinite myriads of degenerations from Him?'  Surely not."

"What is truth?" said Inglesant; "who shall show us any good?"

"Truth," said the philosopher, "is that which we have
been taught, that which the civil government under which we
live instructs us in and directs us to believe.  Our Saviour
Christ came as the Messiah to establish His kingdom on earth,
and after Him the Apostles and Christian Princes and
Commonwealths have handed down His truth to us.  This is our
only safe method of belief."

"But should we believe nothing of Christianity," said
Inglesant, "unless the civil government had taught it us?"

"How can you believe anything," said Hobbes, "unless
you have first been taught it? and in a Christian Commonwealth
the civil government is the vicar of Christ.  I know the
Jesuits," said Hobbes, "and they me; when I was in France,
some of them came to trouble me about something I had said.
I quieted them by promising to write a book upon them if
they did not let me be: what they seek is influence over the
minds of men; to gain this they will allow every vice of which
man is capable.  I could prove it from their books.  It is not
for me, whom you scarcely know, to say anything against a
friend whom you have known so long; but, as I understand
you, your friend does not advise you to become a Papist.  I
do not suppose, though possibly you may do so, that he has
no other object in view than your welfare.  He has doubtless
far-reaching reasons of which we know nothing; nevertheless,
be not distrustful of him, but in this especially follow his advice.
Shakespeare, the play-writer, says 'there's a divinity that shapes
our ends,' or, I should say, the ends that others work out for
us, to His higher purpose.  Let us have faith in this beneficent
Artist, and let Him accomplish His will on us."

"But this," said Inglesant, "is very different from what my
reading and experience in mystical religion has taught me.  Is
there then no medium between the Divine Life and ourselves
than that of the civil government?  This would seem to me
most repulsive and contrary to experience."

"If you pretend to a direct revelation," said Hobbes with
a smile, "I have nothing to allege against it, but, to the rest
of us, Christian sovereigns are the supreme pastors and the
only persons we now hear speak from God.  But because God
giveth faith by means of teachers, therefore I call hearing the
immediate cause of faith.  In a school where many are taught,
some profit, others profit not; the cause of learning in them that
profit is the Master, yet it cannot be thence inferred that
learning is not the gift of God.  All good things proceed from
God, yet cannot all that have them say that they are inspired,
for that implies a gift supernatural and the immediate hand of
God, which he that pretends to, pretends to be a prophet."

"I am loth to believe what you say," said Inglesant; "I am
no prophet, yet I would willingly believe that God is speaking
to me with an immediate voice, nay, more, that I may enter
into the very life that God is leading, and partake of His nature.
Also, what you now say seems to me to contradict what you
said before, that we should endeavour to found our doctrine on
the conceptions and ideas of things, which I take to mean a
following after divine truth: nor do I see why you take the
sacrament, as you say you do, except you expect some
immediate communication from God in it."

The philosopher smiled.  "One may see you have been
taught in the Jesuits' college," he said, "and are a forward
pupil and a close reasoner.  But what I have said concerning
faith coming by hearing need not prevent that afterwards God
may convey other gifts to men by other means.  Yet I confess
I am not a proficient in this divine knowledge or life of which
you speak; nor do I follow your master Plato very far into the
same conclusions which many profess to find in him.  One
disputant grounds his knowledge upon the infallibility of the
Church, and the other on the testimony of the private spirit.
The first we need not discuss, but how do you know that your
private spirit, that this divine life within you, is any other than
a belief grounded on the authority and arguments of your
teachers?"

Inglesant made no reply, which the philosopher perceiving,
began to talk of something else, and the other soon after took
his leave.  Hobbes's doctrine was new to him, as it was to
every one in that day, indeed, the particular form it took was
peculiar to Hobbes, and perished with him; but the underlying
materialism which in some form or other has presented itself to
the thinkers of every age, and which now for the first time
came before Inglesant's mind, was not without its effect.
"How do I know indeed," he said, "that this divine life within
me is anything but an opinion formed by what I have heard
and read?  How do I know that there is any such thing as a
divine life at all?"

Such thoughts as these, if they produced no other effect,
yet gradually lessened that eagerness in his mind towards
divine things which had been so strong since his visit to Little
Gidding, and quite satisfied him to defer at any rate any
thoughts of joining the Church of Rome.  But his thoughts
were turned into other channels by the events which were
occurring in the political world, and which began now to
assume a very exciting character.





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.. _`CHAPTER VI.`:

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   CHAPTER VI.

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On the 20th of August 1640 the King set out for York
on his way to Scotland, in some haste, and Inglesant
accompanied or rather preceded him, his duty being to
provide apartments for the King.  The King advanced no farther
than North Allerton, Lord Strafford being at Darlington, and
a large part of the army at Newburn-upon-Tyne, from whence
they retreated before the Scots almost without fighting.  It
was at this time that Inglesant began to see more of the real
state of affairs among the leaders of the royal party, and
became aware of the real weakness of their position.  He
appears to have formed the opinion that Lord Strafford, in
spite of his great qualities, had failed altogether in establishing
himself on a firm and lasting footing of power, and was
deficient in those qualities of a statesman that ensure success,
and incapable of realising the necessities of the times.  His
army, on which he relied, was disorganised, and totally
without devotion or enthusiasm.  It melted away before the Scots,
or fraternised with them, and the trained bands and gentry
who came in to the King's standard and to the Earl, prefaced
all their offers of service with petitions for the redress of
grievances and the calling together a Parliament.  Inglesant
had already formed the opinion that the Archbishop, who
was now left at the head of affairs in London with the Privy
Council, and was vainly endeavouring to prevent the citizens
from sending up monster petitions to the King, was even
more at variance with the inevitable course of events, and
more powerless to withstand them than the Earl; and he
appears to have written to his friend the Jesuit, for his
guidance, careful explanations of his own views on these subjects.
Father Hall, however, was not a man hastily to change his
course.  He had belonged from the beginning to that section
of the popish party whose policy had been to support the
High Church party rather than to oppose it, and this policy
was strengthened now that the royal power itself began to be
attacked.  Whatever others of the popish party might think,
those with whom the Jesuit acted, and the party at Rome
which directed their conduct, were undeviating supporters of
the King, and were convinced that all advantage which the
Papists might in future achieve was dependent upon him.  It
is not apparent what action the Jesuit was taking at this
moment, probably he was contented to watch the course of
events; but this much is certain, that his efforts to induce
Churchmen to work with him were increased rather than
diminished.

While the King was at York, the Marquis of Montrose,
who was in the Covenanters' army, carried on a correspondence
with him, and copies of his letters were believed to be
stolen from the King's pockets at night by one of the gentlemen
of the bed-chamber, and sent to the leader of the Scots'
army.  Montrose retired into Scotland, and as the King was
desirous of continuing a correspondence which promised so
much, he decided upon sending a special messenger to the
Marquis.  Inglesant was fixed upon for this mission, as being
known by the Royalists as a confidential agent of the Court,
but at the same time almost entirely unknown to the opposite
party.  He found Montrose at Edinburgh, at a time when
the Marquis was endeavouring to form a party among the
nobility of Scotland, in opposition to the Covenant.
Inglesant was probably little more in this negotiation than an
accredited letter-carrier; but a circumstance occurred in
connection with his stay in Scotland which is not without interest
with reference to his future character.  Among the gentlemen
with whom Montrose was in connection were some of the
Highland chiefs, and to one of these the Marquis sent
Inglesant as a safe agent, being perfectly unknown in Scotland.
This gentleman, understanding that the messenger of Montrose
was coming to meet him, travelled down from the Highlands
with a great retinue of servants, and sent on one of his
gentlemen, with a few attendants, to meet the young Englishman on
the borders of Perthshire.  Inglesant had ridden from Stirling,
and the night being stormy and dark, he had stopped at a
gentleman's house in a lonely situation at the foot of the
Badenoch Hills.  Here, late in the evening, his entertainers
met him, and they passed the night in company.  After supper,
as they were sitting in front of the fire with the master of the
house and several more, the conversation turned upon the
faculty of second sight, and the numberless instances of its
certainty with which the Highland gentlemen were acquainted.
While they were thus discoursing, the attention of the
gentleman who had come to meet Inglesant was attracted by an old
Highlander who sat in the large chimney, and he inquired
whether he saw anything unusual in the Englishman, that
made him regard him with such attention.  He said no, he
saw nothing: in him fatal or remarkable more than this, that
he was much mistaken if that young man was not a seer
himself, or, at any rate, would be able before many months were
over to see apparitions and spirits.  Inglesant thought little
of this at the time, but he remembered it afterwards when an
event occurred on his return to London which recalled it to
his recollection.

The treaty having been settled with the Scots, and the writs
issued for a new Parliament, the King returned to London.

One day in September, Inglesant received a visit from one
of the servants of the Archbishop of Canterbury, who brought
a message from Laud expressing a wish to see Mr. Inglesant
at his dinner at Lambeth Palace on any day that would suit
his convenience.  He went the next day by water at the
proper hour, and was ushered into the great hall of the palace,
where dinner was laid, and many gentlemen and clergymen
standing about in the windows and round the tables, waiting
the Archbishop.  Inglesant's entrance was remarked at once,
his dress and appearance rendering him conspicuous, and his
person being well known, and occasioned some surprise; for
the Archbishop had not been latterly on friendly terms with
the Queen, whom he had opposed on some questions relating
to Papists, to whose party, even since his being in the King's
household, Inglesant was considered to belong.  The servants
had evidently received orders concerning him, for he was
placed very high at table and waited upon with great
attention.  On the Archbishop's entrance he noticed Inglesant
particularly, and expressed his pleasure at seeing him there.
The conversation at dinner turned entirely on the Scotch
rebellion, and the failure of the Earl of Strafford to repress it;
and on the King's return to London, which had not long taken
place.  Several gentlemen present had been with the army,
and spoke of the insubordination among the officers, especially
such as had been Parliament men.  The elections for the new
Parliament were expected shortly to take place, and many of
the officers were deserting from the army, and coming up to
London and other places to secure their return.  The utmost
dissatisfaction and insubordination prevailed over the whole
country, for Laud and Strafford, after exciting the animosity
of the people, had proved themselves weak, and the people
began to despise as well as hate them—not perceiving that
this probably proved that they were not the finished tyrants
they were supposed to be.  Strafford's army, raised by
himself, having proved powerless against the Scots and
insubordinate against its master, the popular party was encouraged
to attack him, whom they hated as much as ever, though they
began to fear him less.  The violent excitement of the popular
party against the High Churchmen and against ceremonies was
also a subject of conversation.  The wildest rumours were
prevalent as to the probable conduct of the new Parliament,
but all agreed that the Lord Lieutenant and the Archbishop,
and probably the Lord Keeper, would be impeached.  After
dinner the Archbishop rose from table, and retired into one of
the windows at the upper end of the hall, overlooking the
river, requesting Inglesant, to whom he pointed out the beauties
of the view, to follow him.  Having done this, he said a few
words to him in a low voice, explaining his regret at the
difference which had arisen between himself and the Queen, whose
most faithful servant he protested he had ever been, and whom
he was most desirous to please.  He then went on to say that
he both could and intended to inform Her Majesty of this
through other channels than Mr. Inglesant, though he bespoke
his good offices therein; but he wished principally to speak to
him of another matter, which would require privacy to explain
fully to him; but thus far he would say, that although he had
always been a true servant of the Church of England, and had
never entertained any thoughts inconsistent with such fidelity,
yet he believed the Roman Catholics were aware that he had
always behaved with great toleration to them, and had always
entertained a great respect for their religion, refusing to allow
it to be abused or described as Antichrist in the English pulpits;
that it was notorious that he had excited the enmity of the
popular party by this conduct; and that whatever he might
suffer under the new Parliament would be in consequence of
it.  He was aware that Mr. Inglesant was in the confidence of
that party, and especially the particular friend of Father Hall,
the leader of the most powerful section of it; and he entreated
his services to bring the Jesuit and himself to some
understanding and concerted action, whereby, at least, they might
ward off some of the blows that would be aimed at them.
The Archbishop said that many of the wisest politicians
considered that the two parties who would divide the stage
between them would be the popular party and the Papists; and
if this were really the case (though he himself thought that the
loyal Church party would prove stronger than was thought),
it was evident that Mr. Inglesant's friend would be well able
to return any kindness that the Archbishop had shown the
Romanists.

Inglesant went to the Jesuit as soon as possible, and related
his interview with the Archbishop.  Father Hall listened to it
with great interest.

"He has been like a true ecclesiastic," he said, "blind to
facts while he was in the course of his power, astonished and
confounded when the natural results arrive.  Nevertheless, I
fancy he will make a good fight, or at least a good ending.
The people know not what they want, and might have been
led easily, but it is too late.  What was the real amount of
tyranny and persecution the people suffered?  The Church
officers were blamed on the one hand for not putting the laws
in force against the Papists, and on the other, for putting them
in force against the Puritans.  However, he has a right view
of the power of the Church party, in which I join him.  We
shall see the good fight they will make for the King yet.  The
gentry and chivalry of England are rather rusty for want of
use, but we shall see the metal they are made of before long.
However, the Catholics will be ready first, are ready in fact
now, and I have great hopes of the use that we shall make of
these opportunities.  I am much mistaken if such a chance as
we shall have before many months are over will not be greater
than we have had for a century.  I shall count on you.  We
have been long delayed, and you must have thought all our
pains would come to nothing; but we must have long patience
if we enter on the road of politics.

"You are now," said the Jesuit, "embracing the cause full
of enthusiasm and zeal, and this is very well; how else could
we run out the race, unless we began with some little fire?
But this will not last, and unless you are warned, you may be
offended and fall away.  When you have lived longer in this
world and outlived the enthusiastic and pleasing illusions of
youth, you will find your love and pity for the race increase
tenfold, your admiration and attachment to any particular party
or opinion fall away altogether.  You will not find the royal
cause perfect any more than any other, nor those embarked in
it free from mean and sordid motives, though you think now
that all of them act from the noblest.  This is the most
important lesson that a man can learn—that all men are really
alike; that all creeds and opinions are nothing but the mere
result of chance and temperament; that no party is on the
whole better than another; that no creed does more than
shadow imperfectly forth some one side of truth; and it is
only when you begin to see this that you can feel that pity for
mankind, that sympathy with its disappointments and follies,
and its natural human hopes, which have such a little time of
growth, and such a sure season of decay.

"I have seen nothing more pathetic than touches in the
life of some of these Puritans—men who have, as they thought
in obedience to the will of the Deity, denied themselves
pleasure—human pleasure—through their lives, and now and then
some old song, some pleasant natural tale of love flashes across
their path, and the true human instinct of the sons of Adam
lights up within them.

"Nothing but the Infinite pity is sufficient for the infinite
pathos of human life.

"As you know, we have many parties in our Church, nay,
in our own order: different members may be sent on opposing
missions; but it is no matter, they are all alike.  Hereafter it
will be of little importance which of these new names, Cavalier
or Roundhead, you are called by, whether you turn Papist or
Puritan, Jesuit or Jansenist, but it will matter very much
whether you acted as became a man, and did not flinch
ignobly at the moment of trial.  Choose your part from the
instinct of your order, from your birth, or from habit or what
not; but having chosen it, follow it to the end.  Stand by your
party or your order, and especially in the hour of trial or
danger be sure you never falter; for, be certain of this, that no
misery can be equal to that which a man feels who is conscious
that he has proved unequal to his part, who has deserted the
post his captain set him, and who, when men said 'such and
such a one is there on guard, there is no need to take further
heed,' has left his watch or quailed before the foeman, to the
loss, perhaps the total ruin, of the cause he had made his
choice.  I pray God that such misery as this may never be yours."

The elections being over, London became very full.  The
new members hastened up.  The nobility and country gentry
came crowding in, and all the new houses in the Strand and
Charing Cross were occupied, and a throng of young Cavaliers
filled the courts and precincts of the palace.  As soon as the
King arrived, Inglesant went into waiting in his new post, in
which great responsibility in the keeping of the royal household,
especially at night, devolved upon him.  His post came
immediately after that of the gentlemen of the privy chamber, with
whom the immediate attendance on the person of the King
stopped, but the charge of the King's rooms brought him
continually into the royal presence.

As soon as the Parliament met, the impeachment of
Strafford began; and as it proceeded, the excitement grew
more and more intense.  It was not safe for the courtiers
to go into the city, except in numbers together, and a court
of guard was kept by the Cavaliers before Whitehall towards
Charing Cross.

One day Inglesant received a letter from the Jesuit, whom
he seldom saw, as follows:—

"Jack, tell your friend, the Archbishop, that Lambeth
House will be attacked two nights from this, by a rabble of
the populace.  The Parliament leaders will not be seen in this,
but they can be felt.  Burn this, but let the Archbishop know
the hand from which it comes."

On receiving this warning the Archbishop fortified his
house, and crossed the water to his chamber in Whitehall,
where he slept that night and two others following.  His
house was attacked by a mob of five hundred men; one of
them was wounded and afterwards executed; not much
damage was done.

History can furnish few events so startling and remarkable
as the trial and death of Lord Strafford—events which, the more
they are studied, the more wonderful they appear.  It is not
easy to find words to express the miserable weakness and want
of statesmanship which led to, and made possible, such an
event; and one is almost equally surprised at the comparatively
few traces of the sensation and consternation that such
an event must have produced.  I am not speaking of the
justice or the injustice of the sentence, nor of the crime or
innocence of the accused,—I speak only of a great minister and
servant of the Crown, in whose policy and support the whole
of the royal power, the whole strength of the national
establishment, was involved and pledged.  That such a man, by the
simple clamour of popular opinion, should have been arrested,
tried, and executed in a few days, with no effort but the most
degrading and puny one made on his behalf by his royal
master and friend, certainly must have produced a terror and
excitement, one would think, unequalled in history.  That the
King never recovered from it is not surprising; one would have
thought he would never have held up his head again.  That the
royal party was amazed and confounded is not wonderful; one
would have thought it would have been impossible ever to
have formed a royal party afterwards.  What considerations
were powerful enough in the King's mind to induce him to
consent to an act of such wretched folly and meanness we
shall never know.

It was two nights after the execution.  The guard was set
at Whitehall and the "all night" served up.  The word for
the night was given, and the whole palace was considered as
under the sole command of Inglesant, as the esquire in waiting.
He had been round to the several gates, and seen that the
courts and anterooms were quiet and clear of idlers, and then
came up into the anteroom outside the privy chamber, and sat
down alone before the fire.  In the room beyond him were
two gentlemen of the privy chamber, who slept in small beds
drawn across the door opening into the royal bedchamber
beyond.  The King was in his room, in bed, but not asleep;
Lord Abergavenny, the gentleman of the bedchamber in waiting,
was reading Shakespeare to him before he slept.  Inglesant
took out a little volume of the classics, of the series printed
in Holland, which it was the custom of the gentlemen of the
Court, and those attached to great nobles, to carry with them
to read in antechambers while in waiting.  The night was
perfectly still, and the whole palace wrapped in a profound quiet
that was almost oppressive to one who happened to be awake.
Inglesant could not read; the event that had just occurred,
the popular tumults, the shock of feeling which the royal party
had sustained, the fear and uncertainty of the future, filled his
thoughts.  The responsibility of his post sat on him to-night
like a nightmare, and with very unusual force; a sense of
approaching terror in the midst of the intense silence
fascinated him and became almost insupportable.  His fancy filled
his mind with images of some possible oversight and of some
unseen danger which might be lurking even then in the
precincts of the vast rambling palace.  Gradually, however, all
these images became confused and the sense of terror dulled,
and he was on the point of falling asleep when he was startled
by the ringing sound of arms and the challenge of the yeoman
of the guard, on the landing outside the door.  The next
instant a voice, calm and haughty, which sent a tremor through
every nerve, gave back the word "Christ."  Inglesant started
up and grasped the back of his chair in terror.

Gracious Heaven! who was this that knew the word?  In
another moment the hangings across the door were drawn
sharply back, and with a quick step, as one who went straight
to where he was expected and had a right to be, the intruder
entered the antechamber.  It wore the form and appearance
of Strafford—it was Strafford—in dress, and mien, and step.
Taking no heed of Inglesant, crouched back in terror against
the carved chimney-piece, the apparition crossed the room
with a quick step, drew the hangings that screened the door of
the privy chamber, and disappeared.  Inglesant recovered in a
moment, sprang across the room, and followed the figure through
the door.  He saw nothing; but the two gentlemen raised
themselves from their couches, startled by his sudden appearance
and white, scared look, and said, "What is it, Mr. Esquire?"

Before Inglesant, who stood with eyes and mouth open, the
picture of terror, could recover himself, the curtain of the
bed-chamber was drawn hastily back, and the Lord Abergavenny
suddenly appeared, saying in a hurried, startled voice:—

"Send for Mayern; send for Dr. Mayern, the King is
taken very ill!"

Inglesant, who by this time was recovered sufficiently to
act, seized the opportunity to escape, and, hurrying through
the antechamber and down the staircase to the guard-room,
he found one of the pages, and despatched him for the Court
physician.  He then returned to the guard at the top of the
staircase.

"Has any one passed?" he asked.

"No," the man said; "he had seen no one."

"Did you challenge no one a moment ago?"

The man looked scared, but finally acknowledged what
he feared at first to confess, lest it should be thought he had
been sleeping at his post, that he had become suddenly
conscious of, as it seemed to him, some presence in the room, and
found himself the next moment, to his confusion, challenging
the empty space.

Failing to make anything of the man, Inglesant returned
to the privy chamber, where Lord Abergavenny was relating
what had occurred.

"I was reading to the King," he repeated, "and His
Majesty was very still, and I began to think he was falling
asleep, when he suddenly started upright in bed, grasped the
book on my knee with one hand, and with the other pointed
across the chamber to some object upon which his gaze was
fixed with a wild and horror-stricken look, while he faintly tried
to cry out.  In a second the terror of the sight, whatever it was,
overcame him, and he fell back on the bed with a sharp cry."

"Mr. Inglesant saw something," said both the gentlemen
at once; "he came in here as you gave the alarm."

"I saw nothing," said Inglesant; "whatever frightened me
I must tell the King."

Dr. Mayern, who lodged in the palace, soon arrived; and
as the King was sensible when he came, he merely prescribed
some soothing drink, and soon left.  The moment he was
gone the King called Abergavenny into the room alone to
him, and questioned him as to what had occurred.  Abergavenny
told him all he knew, adding that the esquire in waiting,
Mr. Inglesant, was believed to have seen something by
the gentlemen of the privy chamber, whom he had aroused.
Inglesant was sent for, and found the King and Abergavenny
alone.  He declined to speak before the latter, until the King
positively commanded him to do so.  Deadly pale, with his
eyes on the ground, and speaking with the greatest difficulty,
he then told his story; of the deep silence, his restlessness,
the sentry's challenge, and the apparition that appeared.
Here he stopped.

"And this figure," said Abergavenny in a startled whisper,
"did you know who it was?"

"Yes, I knew him," said the young man; "would to God
I had not."

"Who was it?"

Paler, if possible, than before, and with a violent effort,
Inglesant forced himself to look at the King.

A contortion of pain, short but terrible to see, passed over
the King's face, but he rose from the chair in which he sat (for
he had risen from the bed and even dressed himself) and,
with that commanding dignity which none ever assumed better
than he, he said,—

"Who was it?  Mr. Esquire."

"My Lord Stafford."

Abergavenny stepped back several paces, and covered his
face with his hands.  No one spoke.  Inglesant dared not
stir, but remained opposite to the King, trembling in every
limb, and his eyes upon the ground like a culprit.  The King
continued to stand with his commanding air, but stiff and
rigid as a statue; it seemed as though he had strength to
command his outward demeanour, but no power besides.

The silence grew terrible.  At last the King was able to
make a slight motion with his hand.  Inglesant seized the
opportunity, and, bowing to the ground, retired backward to
the door.  As he closed the door the King turned towards
Abergavenny, but the room was empty.  The King was left alone.





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   CHAPTER VII.

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In the beginning of 1642 the King left Whitehall finally,
and retired with the Queen to Hampton Court, from
which he went to the south to see Her Majesty embark, and
without returning to London proceeded to the north.  Very
few attendants accompanied him, and Inglesant was left at
liberty to go where he pleased.  His brother was in France,
and he was at the moment ignorant where the Jesuit was.
Several motives led him to go to Gidding, where he felt sure of
a welcome, though Mr. Ferrar was dead, and he accordingly
rode there in the end of March.  Mr. Nicholas Ferrar jun. had
been dead nearly a year, having not long survived his
uncle, and the household was governed by Mr. John Ferrar,
Mr. Nicholas Ferrar's brother.  Their usual quiet and holy
life seemed quieter and more holy; a placid melancholy and
a sort of contented sorrow seemed to fill the place, which was
not disturbed even by those expectations of approaching
trouble and danger which all felt.  They received Inglesant
with kindness and even affection, and begged him to remain
as long as he pleased.  Mary Collet, who, secretly he acknowledged
to himself, was the principal reason of his coming down,
met him frankly, and seemed more attractive and beautiful
than before.  He felt awed and quieted in her presence, yet
nothing was so delightful to him as to be in the room or
garden with her, and hear her speak.  He endeavoured to assist
her in her work of attending to the poor and sick, and in
tending the garden, and became like a brother to her, without
saying or desiring to say one word of gallantry or of love.
The Puritans of the neighbouring towns, who had always disliked
the Ferrars, came more frequently into their neighbourhood,
and endeavoured to set the country people against them,
and even to stir them up to acts of violence; but the Ferrars
remarked that these annoyances were lessened by the efforts
of a Puritan gentleman, who was possessed of considerable
property in Peterborough, and who had latterly taken
advantage of several excuses to come to Little Gidding.

Inglesant saw this gentleman once or twice, and became
rather attracted towards him in a strange way.  He appeared
to him to be a man in whom a perpetual struggle was going on
between his real nature and the system of religion which he
had adopted, but in whom the original nature had been
subdued and nearly extinguished, until some event, apparently of
recent occurrence, had renewed this conflict, and excited the
conquered human nature once more to rebellion.  This alone
would have afforded sufficient interest and attraction to a man
of Inglesant's temperament; but this interest was increased
tenfold when he perceived, as he did very soon, that this
disturbing event and the reason which brought Mr. Thorne to
Gidding, were in fact one and the same, the same indeed
which brought himself there—attraction to Mary Collet.  The
peaceful half-religious devotion with which he regarded his
friend prevented him from being incited to any feeling of
jealousy by this discovery, and indeed would have made the
idea of such a sentiment and opposition almost ridiculous.
He treated Mr. Thorne, when they met at table or elsewhere,
with the most marked courtesy—a courtesy which the other
very imperfectly returned; at first ignoring Inglesant altogether,
and when this was no longer possible, taking every opportunity
to reprove and lecture him in the way the Puritans took upon
them to do, all of which Inglesant bore good-humouredly.
Things had gone on this way for several weeks, and
Mr. Thorne's visits had grown less frequent, when one summer
afternoon he rode over, and after seeing Mr. John Ferrar,
came to seek Mary Collet.  He found her and Inglesant
alone in one of the small reading parlours looking on the
garden.  Inglesant had been reading aloud in Mr. Crashaw's
poems; but on the other's entering the room, he rose and stood
behind Mary Collet's chair, his hand resting on the high back.
His attitude probably annoyed Mr. Thorne, whose manner was
more severe and stern than usual.  He made the lady a formal
greeting, and took slight heed of Inglesant, who wished him
Good-day.

"The days are far from good, sir," he said severely, "and
the night of the soul is dark; nevertheless, there is a path
open to the saints of God, which will lead to a brighter time."

He looked hard at Mary Collet as he spoke.

"I should hope, sir," said Inglesant, with a conciliatory
smile, "that you and I may one day stand together in a
brighter dawn."

The other's face slightly softened, for indeed the indescribable
charm of Inglesant's manner few could resist, but he
hardened himself instantly, and replied,—

"It is a fond hope, sir.  How can two walk together
unless they are agreed?  What fellowship is there between
the saints (however unworthy) and the followers of the
pleasures of this world?  And how may you, on whom the Prince
of this world has bestowed every brilliant gift and power, stand
at the resurrection amongst the poor and despised saints of God?"

Mary Collet moved slightly, and put her hand back upon
the chair elbow, so that it partly and slightly touched
Inglesant's hand, at which movement, a spasm, as of pain, passed
over Mr. Thorne's features, and he drew himself up more
sternly than before.

"But I am idling my time vainly and sinfully here," he
said, "in chambering and wantonness, when I should be buckling
on my armour.  Mistress Collet, I came here to wish you
farewell.  I am going to London in the good cause, and I
shall in all human probability never see you more.  I intreat
you to listen to the bridegroom's voice, and from my heart I
wish you God-speed."

As she rose, he pressed her hand lightly, and raised his
eyes to heaven, as the Puritans were ridiculed for doing; then
he bowed stiffly to Inglesant, and was gone.

Inglesant followed him to the courtyard, where his horses
were standing, but he took no further notice of him, and rode
off through the gate.  Johnny stood looking after him down
the alley, between the latticed walks of the garden.  At last
he stopped and looked back.  When he saw Inglesant still
there, he seemed to hesitate, but finally dismounted and led
his horse back.  Inglesant hastened to meet him, with his
plumed hat in his hand.

"Mr. Inglesant," said the Puritan, speaking slowly and
with evident hesitation, "I am going to say something which
will probably make you regard with increased contempt not
only myself, which you may well do, but the religion which I
profess to serve, but which I betray, in which last you will
commit a fatal sin.  But before I say it, I beg of you, if a few
moments ago I said anything that was unnecessarily severe
and more than my Master would warrant, that you will forgive
it.  Woe be to us if we falter in the truth, and speak pleasant
things when we should set our face as a flint; nevertheless,
there is no need for us to go beyond the letter of the Spirit,
and I almost feel that the Lord has disowned my speech,
seeing that so soon after I fear I myself am fallen from Grace."

He stopped, and Inglesant wondered what this long
preamble might mean.

He assured him that he bore no ill-feeling, but very much
the contrary; but the Puritan scarcely allowed him to finish
before he began again to speak, with still greater difficulty and
hesitation.

"I came here to-day, sir, with the intention, at which I
have arrived not without long wrestling in prayer, of proposing
in the Lord's name a treaty of marriage with Mrs. Mary Collet.
In this I have sought direction, as I say, for a long time before
addressing her.  At length, yesterday, sitting all alone, I felt
a word sweetly arise in me as if I heard a voice, which said,
'Go and prevail!' and faith springing in my heart with the
word, I immediately arose and went, nothing doubting.  But
when I came into her presence, and found her with you, upon
whom I have ofttimes apprehended that her affections were
fixed; when I thought of the disadvantage at which doubtless,
in the world's eye at least, I should be thought to stand with
regard to you; when I considered her breeding and education
in every sort of prelatical and papistical superstition—which
latter has all through been a great stumbling-block to me, and
to some others of the godly to whom I have opened this
matter;—when I thought of these things, I, wretched man
that I am!  I mistrusted the Lord's power.  I was deaf to the
voice that spoke within me, and I left my message unsaid.
What my sin is in this cannot be told.  It may be that I have
frustrated the Lord's will and purpose with regard to her, not
only as regards calling her out of that empty show and
profession in which she is, but, which doubtless will seem of more
force to you, of providing her with some refuge from the storm
which assuredly is not far from this household.  I have
already, if you will believe me, done something in warding off
the first advances of that storm, and think I do not deceive
myself that I have power sufficient to continue to do so.  I
entreat you, Mr. Inglesant, to think of this, if you have not
yet done so, for her sake, and not for mine."  He spoke these
last words in a different manner, and with an altered voice, as
though they were not part of what he had originally intended
to say, but had been forced from him by the spectacle his
mind presented of danger to her whom it was evident he
unselfishly loved.  "I am not so ignorant in the world's
ways," he went on, "as not to know how absurd such an
appeal to you must seem; probably it will afford amusement
to your friends in after days.  Nevertheless, I cannot refrain
myself.  I am distracted between two opinions, and as I rode
away it came into my mind, that I might after all be flying
away from a shadow, and that there might be no such relation
between you as that which I have supposed—no other than
that of a free and fair friendship; in which case I entreat you,
Mr. Inglesant, though I confess I have no right nor claim upon
you even for the commonest courtesy, to let me know it."

Inglesant had listened to this singular confession at first
with surprise, but as the man went on, he became profoundly
touched.  There was something extremely pathetic in the
sight of the human nature in this man struggling within him
beneath the force of his Puritanism, the one now urging him
to conciliate, and the next moment the old habit breaking out
in insult and denunciation; the one opening to him glimpses
of human happiness which the other immediately closed.
And what he said was doubtless very true, and pointed plainly
to Inglesant what men would say was his duty.  What ground
had he to oppose himself to this man—he, with scarcely any
formed purpose of his own?  If the lofty Strafford had fallen,
and the Archbishop had proved powerless to protect himself,
how was he to protect any who might trust to him?  Even if
he had thought nothing of this, it would have been impossible
to have been angry with the distracted man before him,
untrained to conceal his thoughts, nay, taught by his religion
that self-restraint or concealment is a sin, and that to keep
back a word or a thought is a frustration of the will of
God—a training that would lay him open at every point before the
polished pupil of the Jesuit and the Court.

These reflections gave to his ordinary courtesy an additional
charm, which plainly commanded the confidence of his
rival, and he said,—

"What do you wish me to do, Mr. Thorne?  I am willing
to leave everything to Mrs. Collet's decision."

"I will take nothing on myself again," said the other; "I
will leave everything in the Lord's hands.  If it is His will
that we be brought together, we shall be so brought.  I will
not stay now—indeed I am in no fit state of mind—but in a
few days I will come again, and whatever the Lord shall do
in the meanwhile, His will be done."

The inconsistency of this last resolution with the denunciation
of the Ferrar family, and especially of Inglesant, which
he had before expressed, struck Inglesant as so extraordinary
that he began to doubt the sanity of his companion; but
finding that Mr. Thorne was determined to go, he parted from
him with mutual courtesy, and returned at once into the house.

As he entered the room where Mary Collet was still
sitting alone, she looked up with a smile, and was about to
speak, no doubt to palliate the rudeness of their guest; but
seeing from his manner that something extraordinary had
occurred, she stopped, and Inglesant, who had resolved to tell
her all that the Puritan had said, began at once and related
simply, and, as closely as he could, word for word, what had
happened.  As he went on, the sympathy which the strange
conflict he had witnessed in the other's breast had excited in
his own, and the feeling he had of the truth of the other's
power to protect, inspired his manner so that he spoke well
and eloquently of his rival's nature, and of the advantages
that alliance with him would bestow; but honest as his
purpose was, no course more fatal to his rival's chance could
probably have been taken, while at the same time he seriously,
if he had any cause himself, jeopardised that also.

Mary Collet listened with ever-increasing surprise, and
the light in her eyes died away to coldness as she continued
to look at Inglesant.  Her calm look suffered no other change;
but that acute perception which Inglesant's training had given
him—perception which the purest love does not always give—showed
him what was passing in his friend's mind: he stopped
suddenly in his pleading, and knew that he had said too much
not to say more.  He sank on the ground before the chair,
and rested his hands upon the carved elbow, with his face, to
which excitement gave increased beauty, raised to Mary
Collet's eyes.

"It is all true, Mary," he said.  It was the first time he had
called her by her name, and it sounded so sweetly that he said
it again.  "It is all true, Mary; I might have spoken to you
of another, would many times have spoken, if all this had not
been true.  As he said to me, dark days are coming on, the
State is shaken to its base, the highest in the realm are
disgraced and ruined, and even harried to death; what will
happen the wisest heads cannot think; the King is a fugitive;
I am all but penniless, should be homeless but for you.  This
even is not all; if it had been I might have spoken, but there
is more which must be told.  I am not my own.  I am but
the agent of a mighty will, of a system which commands
unhesitating obedience—obedience which is part of my very being.
I cannot even form the thought of violating it.  This is why,
often, when I tried to speak, my tongue refused its office, my
conscience roused itself to keep me still.  But if, happily for
me, I have been wrong; if, even for me, the gates of heaven
may still open,—the gates that I have thought were inexorably
closed,—I dare not face the radiance that even now issues
through the opening space.  Mary, you know me better than
I know myself; I am ignorant and sinful and worldly; you are
holy as a saint of God.  Do with me what you will, if there
is anything in me worthy of you, take me and make it more
worthy; if not, let me go: either way I am yours—my life
belongs to you—neither life nor death is anything to me except
as it may advantage you."

The light shone full on Mary Collet's face, looking down
on him as he spoke.  The odour of the garden flowers filled
the room.  The stillness of the late afternoon was unbroken,
save by the murmur of insect life.  Her eyes—those wonderful
eyes that had first attracted him in the Church—grew larger
and more soft as they looked down on him with a love and
tenderness which he had never seen before, and saw only once
again.  For some seconds she did not—perhaps could not—speak,
for the great lustrous eyes were moist with tears.  He
would have lain there for ever with no thought but of those
kindly eyes.  At last she spoke, and her voice was tender, but
low and calm; "Johnny,"—it was the first time she had called
him so, and she said it twice,—"Johnny, you were right, I know
you better than you know yourself.  Your first instinct was
right; but it was not your poverty, nor the distraction of the
time, nor yet this mysterious fate that governs you, which kept
you silent; poverty and the troubles of the times we might
have suffered together; this mysterious fate we might have
borne together, or have broken through.  No," she continued
with a radiant smile, "cavalier and courtier as you are, you
also, in spite of Mr. Thorne, have heard a voice behind you
saying, 'This is the way, walk in it.'  That way, Johnny, you
will never leave for me.  As this voice told you, this is not a
time for us to spend our moments like two lovers in a play;
we have both of us other work to do, work laid out for us,
from which we may not shrink; a path to walk in where there
is neither marrying nor giving in marriage.  As for me, if I
can follow in any degree in the holy path my uncle walked in,
growing more into the life of Jesus as he grew into it, it is
enough for me; as for you, you will go on through the dark
days that are at hand, as your way shall lead you, and as the
divine voice shall call; and when I hear your name, as I
shall hear it, Johnny, following as the divine call shall lead,
you may be sure that my heart will beat delightedly at the
name of a very noble gentleman who loves me, and whom—I love."

The evening sun that lighted all the place went down
suddenly behind the hedges of the garden, and the room grew
dark.





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   CHAPTER VIII.

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The manner of life at Gidding went on after this without
the least alteration, and Inglesant's position in the
family remained the same.  Two or three days after,
Mr. Thorne returned, and had an interview with Mary Collet alone.
She told him she had not thought of marriage with any one,
but had dedicated her life to other work.  He attempted a
flowing discourse upon the evils of celibacy, and managed to
destroy by his manner much of the kindly feeling which Mary
had conceived for him.  He met John Ferrar and Inglesant
coming from the Church, and Inglesant tried to exchange
some kindly words with him; but he avoided conversation with
him, and soon left.  Inglesant passed most of his time (for he
was not quite so much with Mary Collet as before) in reading,
especially in Greek, and in assisting some of the family in
preparing that great book, which was afterwards presented to
Prince Charles.  The influence of Mr. Hobbes's conversation
wore off in the peaceful religious talk and way of life of this
family.  It was here that he had first obtained glimpses of
what the divine life might be, and it was here alone that he
felt any power of approach to it in his own heart.  His love
for Mary Collet, which was increased tenfold by the
acknowledgment she had made to him, and which grew more and
more every day that he spent at Gidding, associated as it was
with all the teachings and incidents of these quiet holy days,
made this life of devotion more delightful than can be told,
and, indeed, made that life more like to heaven than any other
that Inglesant ever lived.  As he knelt in Church during the
calm hours of prayer, and now and again looked up into Mary
Collet's face from where he knelt, he often felt as though he
had found the Beatific Vision already, and need seek no more,
so closely was her beauty connected with all that was pure and
holy in his heart.  In these happy days all pride and trouble
seemed to have left him, and he felt free in heart from all
self-will and sin.  It was a dream and unreal, doubtless; but it
was allowed him not altogether without design, perhaps, in the
divine counsel, and it could not be without fruit in his
spiritual life.

The long summer days that passed so quietly at Gidding
were days of disturbance all over England, the King's friends
and those of the Parliament endeavouring to secure the counties
for one or other of the contending parties.  Nearly the whole
of the eastern counties were so strong for the Parliament that
the King's friends had little chance, and those gentlemen who
attempted to raise men or provide arms for the King were
crushed in the beginning.  But Huntingdonshire was more
loyal, and considerable preparation had been made by several
gentlemen, among others Sir Capel Beedel and Richard Stone,
the High Sheriff, to repair to the King's quarters when the
standard should be set up.  Inglesant was waiting to hear
from his brother, who had returned from France, and was in
Wiltshire with the Lord Pembroke, who had set in force the
commission of array in that county.  Inglesant would have
joined him but for the close neighbourhood of the King, who
might be expected in those parts every day.  Accordingly, one
afternoon, the King, accompanied by the Prince, afterwards
Charles the Second, and the Duke of Lennox, and by Prince
Rupert, whom some called the Palsgrave after his father, came
to Huntingdon.  Inglesant rode into Huntingdon that evening,
and found the King playing at cards with the Palsgrave.  The
King received him graciously, and spoke to him privately of
Father St. Clare, who had latterly, he said, been very active
among the Catholics of Shropshire and Staffordshire, from
whom he soon expected to receive large sums of money.  He
said the Jesuit had told him where Inglesant was, and that he
intended on the next day to come by Little Gidding on his
way, and should spend some hours there, as he was very
desirous again to see a place which had so pleased him, and
of whose inmates he had formed so high an opinion from
what he had seen of them.  Inglesant slept that night in
Huntingdon, but very early on the fine summer morning he
rode out to Little Gidding to warn the family of the honour
that was intended them.  Accordingly, about noon, they saw
from the windows of the house the royal party approaching at
the bottom of the hill.  The whole family went out to meet
them to the boundary of the lordship at a little bridge that
spans the brook.

When the King approached foremost of all, they went to
meet him, and kneeling down, prayed God to bless and preserve
His Majesty, and keep him safe from his enemy's malice.
The King rode up the hill at a foot pace, and alighted at the
Chapel, which he examined carefully, and was then shown over
the whole house, being particularly pleased with the almshouses,
for whose inmates he left five pieces of gold, saying it was all
he had.  He had won them from the Palsgrave the night
before at cards.

When he was come into the house, the great book that
was being prepared for the Prince was brought him, and he
spent some time in examining it and admiring the prints of
which it was full, pointing out to the Palsgrave, who appeared
to understand such things, the different style of each engraver.
When he had sufficiently admired the book and walked about
the house, admiring the pleasant situation upon a little hill,
the sun beginning to go down, the horses were brought to the
door, and the King and the rest mounted.  The whole family,
men and women, knelt down as the King mounted, and prayed
God to bless and defend him from his enemies, and give him
a long and happy reign.  "Ah!" said the King, raising his
hat, "pray for my safe and speedy return again," and so rode
away, not knowing that he should return there again once
more, in the very dead of night, a fugitive, and almost alone.

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When John Inglesant had said to Mary Collet that he
was almost penniless, he had used rather a strong hyperbole,
for at that time the sum of money his father had left him was
almost untouched.  Upon leaving London, he had managed
to get it transferred from the goldsmith with whom he had
deposited it to another at Oxford, by a bill of exchange on
the latter, as was the custom in transmitting sums of money in
those days.  This bill being now due, Inglesant decided on
going to Oxford to secure possession of the money.  He
lodged at first at Mr. Martin Lippiard's, a famous apothecary;
but after a few days he entered himself at Wadham College,
where he got rooms which were of great use to him afterwards,
when the Court came to Oxford.

No place could have been found which offered more to
interest and delight a man of Inglesant's temperament than
Oxford did at this time.  It was still at the height of that
prosperity which it had enjoyed under the King and Laud for
so many years, but which was soon to be so sadly overcast.
The colleges were full of men versed and intelligent in all
branches of learning and science, as they were then taught.
The halls and chapels were full of pictures and of rich plate
soon to be melted down; the gardens and groves were in
beautiful order, and the bowling greens well kept.  The utmost
loyalty to Church and State existed.  Many old customs of the
Papists' times, soon to be discontinued, still survived.  One of
the scholars sang the Gospel for the day in Hall at the latter
end of dinner.  The musical services in the Chapels on
Sundays, Holy Days, and Holy Day Eves, were much admired,
and the subject of great care.  Music was studied deeply as a
science, antiquity and every foreign country being ransacked
for good music, and every gentleman pretending to some
knowledge of it.  The High Church party, which reigned
supreme, were on excellent terms with the Papists, and indeed
they were so much alike that they mixed together without
restraint.  No people in England were more loyal, orthodox,
and observant of the ceremonies of the Church of England
than the scholars and generality of the inhabitants.

Every kind of curious knowledge was eagerly pursued;
many of the Fellows' rooms were curious museums of antiquities
and relics, and scarce books and manuscripts.  Alchemy
and astrology were openly practised, and more than one Fellow
had the reputation of being able to raise Spirits.  The niceties
of algebra and the depths of metaphysics were inquired into
and conversed upon with eagerness, and strange inquiries upon
religion welcomed.  Dr. Cressy, of Merton, was the first who
read Socinus's books in England, and is said to have converted
Lord Falkland, who saw them in his rooms.  A violent
controversy was going on among the physicians, and new schools
had risen up who practised in chemical remedies instead of
the old-fashioned vegetable medicines.

The members of the University had put themselves into
array and a posture of defence, for as yet there was no garrison
at Oxford, and divers parties of soldiers were passing through
the country, sent by the Parliament to secure Banbury and
Warwick.  The deputy Vice-Chancellor called before him in
the public schools every one who had arms, and the recruits
were trained in the quadrangles of the colleges and other places.
Matters being in this state, late in October, in the middle of the
week, news reached Oxford that the King had left Shrewsbury
with his army, and was marching through Warwickshire on his
way to London.  The Parliamentary army was following from
Worcester, and, as was thought, the two armies would soon
engage.  Numbers of volunteers immediately started to meet
the King's army; many of the undergraduates stealing out of
Oxford secretly, and setting forth on foot.  Inglesant joined
himself to a company of gentlemen who had horses, and who,
with their servants, made quite a troop.

Some way out of Oxford he overtook a young undergraduate,
the elder brother of Anthony Wood, afterwards the famous
antiquary (who had stolen out of Oxford as above), and made
one of his servants take him up behind him.  They went by
Woodstock and Chipping Norton, and slept the Friday night
at Shipston-upon-Stour, and early the next morning obtained
news of the royal army, which arrived under the Wormleighton
Hills in the evening of Saturday.  The King lodged that night
at Sir William Chauncy's, at Ratoll Bridge, some distance from
the army, where Inglesant went late in the evening.  These
quiet woodland places, some of the most secluded in England,
both then and now—so much so, that it was said in those days
that wolves even were found there—were disturbed by unwonted
bustle these dark October nights, parties marching and
counter-marching, recruits and provisions arriving.  It was not known
where Lord Essex's army was, but after it was dark it was
discovered by the Prince of Wales's regiment, which had been
quartered in two or three villages under Wormleighton Hills.
The whole regiment was drawn out into the fields, and
remained there all night, provisions being brought to them
from the villages, and news was sent to the King and Prince
Rupert.

At Sir William Chauncy's Inglesant found the Jesuit and
some other Catholic gentlemen whom he knew; for the number
of Papists in the royal army was very great.  Father Hall was
dissatisfied at seeing Inglesant, and tried hard to persuade him
to keep out of the battle, saying he had different and more
useful work for him to do; but Inglesant would not consent,
though he agreed not to expose himself unnecessarily.  The
Jesuit told him that his brother was with the Prince's regiment,
but counselled him not to join him, but stay in the King's
bodyguard, which his place at Court might well account for his
doing.  He enlarged so much upon the coming danger, that
Inglesant, who had never seen a battle, became quite timid,
and was glad when the Jesuit was sent for to the King.
Inglesant slept in a farm house, not far from Sir William's, with
several other gentlemen,—for those were fortunate who had half
a bed,—and on the morning rode with the King's pensioners
to the top of Edgehill.  The Church bells were ringing for
morning service as they rode along.  The King was that day
in a black velvet coat lined with ermine, and a steel cap,
covered with velvet.  He rode to every brigade of horse and to
all the tertias of foot, and spoke to them with great courage and
cheerfulness, to which the army responded with loud huzzahs.
An intense feeling of excitement prevailed as this battle—the
first fought in England for more than a century—was joined.
Numbers of country people crowded the heights, and the army
was full of volunteers who had only just joined, and had no
idea of war.  The King was persuaded with difficulty to remain
on a rising-ground at some little distance, with his guard of
pensioners on horseback; but Inglesant did not remain with
him, but joined his brother in the Prince's regiment under the
Palsgrave, and rode in the charge against the enemy's horse,
whom the Prince completely routed and chased off the field.
Inglesant, however, did not share in the glory of this victory, for
his horse was killed under him at the first shock of the
encounter, and he went down with him, and received more than
one kick from the horses' hoofs as they passed over him,
rendering him for some time senseless.  On recovering himself
he managed to get on his feet, and crossed the field to the
royal foot, but unfortunately joined the foot guards at the
moment they were attacked and routed by the Parliamentary
horse and foot.  The Earl of Lindsay and his son were taken
prisoners, and the royal Standard was taken.  At this moment
the King was in great danger, being with fewer than a hundred
horse within half a musket shot of the enemy.  The two
regiments of his reserve, however, came up, and Charles was
desirous of charging the enemy himself.  Inglesant remained
with the broken regiment of the guard who retreated up the
road over the hill, along which the enemy's horse advanced,
but, the early October evening setting in, the enemy desisted
and fell back upon their reserves.  It was a hard frost that
night, and very cold.  The King's army marched up the hills
which they had come down so gallantly in the morning.
Inglesant remained with the broken foot guards and the rest
of the foot, which were confusedly mixed together, all night.
The men made fires all along the hill top to warm themselves,
and gathered round them in strange and motley groups.  Many
of the foot were very badly armed, the Welshmen, especially,
having only pitchforks and many only clubs; but Prince
Rupert the next day made a descent upon Keinton, and
carried off several waggon loads of arms, which were very useful.
The officers and men were mixed up together round the fires
without distinction.  As Inglesant was standing by one of them
stiff and stunned with the blows he had received, and weak from
a sabre cut he had received on the arm, he heard some one who
had come up to the fire inquiring for him by name.  It was
the Jesuit, who had given him up for dead, as he had met
his brother who had returned with Prince Rupert when he
rejoined the King, and had learnt from him that Inglesant had
fallen in the first charge.  He told him that Eustace had gone
down into the plain to endeavour to find him, which surprised
and touched Inglesant very much, as he suspected his brother
of caring very little for him.  Father St. Clare stayed with
Inglesant at the fire all night, for the latter was too stiff to
move, and made himself quite at home with the soldiers, as he
could with people of every sort, telling them stories and
encouraging them with hopes of high pay and rewards when the
King had once marched to London and turned out the
Parliament.  Inglesant dozed off to sleep and woke up again
several times during this strange night, with a confused
consciousness of the flaring fire lighting up the wild figures, and
the Jesuit still talking and still unwearied all through the
night.

One of the first men he saw in the morning was Edward
Wood, whom he had helped on his way from Oxford.  This
young man had been much more fortunate than Inglesant, for
he had come on foot without arms, and he had succeeded in
getting a good horse and accoutrements.

"You are much more lucky than I am," said Inglesant; "I
have lost my horses and servants and all my arms, and am
beaten and wounded, as you see, till I can scarcely stand,
while you seem to have made your fortune."

"I shall certainly get a commission," said the young man,
who was only eighteen, and certainly was very much pleased
with himself; "but never mind, Mr. Inglesant," he continued
patronizingly, "it is your first battle, as it is mine, and you have
no doubt learnt much from it that will be useful to you."

It had been one of the principal parts of Inglesant's training
to avoid assumption himself, and to be amused with it in
others, so he took his patronage meekly, and wished him success
on his return, to Oxford, where he really was made an officer
in the King's service soon after.

Soon after he was gone Inglesant found his brother, and
with him his own servants, with an additional horse they had
managed to secure, with which he replaced the one he had
lost; and the next morning he rode with the Palsgrave into
Keinton, where they surprised the rear of the Parliamentary
army, and took much spoil of the arms and ammunition, and
many wounded officers and other prisoners; but his wound
being very painful, and being sick and weary of the sight of
fighting, and especially of plundering, he left the Prince in
Keinton and returned to Oxford, where he was very glad to
get back to his pleasant rooms in Wadham.  After the King
had wasted his time in taking Banbury and Broughton Castle,
he marched to Oxford with his army, where he was received
with demonstrations of joy, and stayed some days.

After the King had rested a short time at Oxford, he
proceeded to march to London; but Inglesant did not accompany
him.  The blows he had received about the head, together
with his wound and the excitement he had gone through,
brought on a fever which kept him in his rooms for some time.
The Jesuit stayed with him as long as he could, but many other
of Inglesant's friends at Oxford showed him great kindness.
When he recovered he found himself, to his great surprise,
something of a hero.  Though, as we have seen, few men could
have done less at Edgehill than Inglesant did, or have had less
influence on the event of the day, yet, as he had been in the
charge of the Prince's horse, and also in the rout of the foot
guards, and had been wounded in both, and above all was,
especially with the ladies, something of a favourite, of whom
no one objected to say a good word, he gained a decided
reputation as a soldier.  It was indeed reported and believed
at Little Gidding that he had performed prodigies of valour, had
saved the King's life several times, and retrieved the fortunes
of the day when they were desperate.  In some respects this
reputation was decidedly inconvenient to him; he was looked
upon as a likely man to be in all foraging parties and in
expeditions of observation sent out to trace the marchings and
countermarchings of the enemy.  Now, as he was pledged to
the Jesuit not to expose himself to unnecessary danger, these
expeditions were very troublesome to him, besides taking him
away from the studies to which he was anxious to apply
himself, and from the company of the leaders of both the
Churchmen and Papists, to obtain the acquaintance and confidence of
whom he still applied himself, both from inclination and in
accordance with the Jesuit's wish.  It is true, however, that in
these expeditions about the country he formed several
friendships of this kind, which might afterwards be useful.





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.. _`CHAPTER IX.`:

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   CHAPTER IX.

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The King returned to Oxford in December, and the Court
was established at Christ Church College.  There has
perhaps never existed so curious a spectacle as Oxford
presented during the residence of the King at the time of the
civil war.  A city unique in itself became the resort of a Court
under unique circumstances, and of an innumerable throng of
people of every rank, disposition, and taste, under
circumstances the most extraordinary and romantic.  The ancient
colleges and halls were thronged with ladies and courtiers;
noblemen lodged in small attics over baker's shops in the
streets; soldiers were quartered in the college gates and in the
kitchens; yet, with all this confusion, there was maintained both
something of a courtly pomp, and something of a learned and
religious society.  The King dined and supped in public, and
walked in state in Christ Church meadow and Merton Gardens
and the Grove of Trinity, which the wits called Daphne.  A
Parliament sat from day to day; service was sung daily in all
the Chapels; books both of learning and poetry were printed
in the city; and the distinctions which the colleges had to offer
were conferred with pomp on the royal followers, as almost the
only rewards the King had to bestow.  Men of every opinion
flocked to Oxford, and many foreigners came to visit the King.
There existed in the country a large and highly intelligent
body of moderate men, who hovered between the two parties,
and numbers of these were constantly in Oxford,—Harrington,
the philosopher, the King's friend, Hobbes, Lord Falkland,
Lord Paget, the Lord Keeper, and many others.

Mixed up with these grave and studious persons, gay
courtiers and gayer ladies jostled old and severe divines and
college heads, and crusty tutors used the sarcasms they had
been wont to hurl at their pupils to reprove ladies whose
conduct appeared to them at least far from decorous.  Christmas
interludes were enacted in Hall, and Shakespeare's plays
performed by the King's players, assisted by amateur performers;
and it would have been difficult to say whether the play was
performed before the curtain or behind it, or whether the
actors left their parts behind them when the performance was
over, or then in fact resumed them.  The groves and walks of
the colleges, and especially Christ Church meadow and the
Grove at Trinity, were the resort of this gay and brilliant
throng; the woods were vocal with song and music, and love
and gallantry sported themselves along the pleasant river banks.
The poets and wits vied with each other in classic conceits and
parodies, wherein the events of the day and every individual
incident were pourtrayed and satirized.  Wit, learning, and
religion joined hand in hand as in some grotesque and
brilliant masque.  The most admired poets and players and the
most profound mathematicians became "Romancists" and
monks, and exhausted all their wit and poetry and learning in
furthering their divine mission, and finally, as the last scenes
of this strange drama came on, fell fighting on some
hardly-contested grassy slope, and were buried on the spot, or in the
next village churchyard, in the dress in which they played
Philaster, or the Court garb in which they wooed their mistress,
or the doctor's gown in which they preached before the King,
or read Greek in the schools.

This gaiety was much increased the next year, when the
Queen came to Oxford, and the last happy days of the ill-fated
monarch glided by.  It was really no inapt hyberbole of
the classic wits which compared this motley scene to the
marriage of Jupiter and Juno of old, when all the Gods were
invited to the feast, and many noble personages besides, but
to which also came a motley company of mummers, maskers,
fantastic phantoms, whifflers, thieves, rufflers, gulls, wizards,
and monsters, and among the rest Crysalus, a Persian Prince,
bravely attended, clad in rich and gay attire, and of majestic
presence, but otherwise an ass; whom the Gods at first,
seeing him enter in such pomp, rose and saluted, taking
him for one worthy of honour and high place; and whom
Jupiter, perceiving what he was, turned with his retinue into
butterflies, who continued in pied coats roving about among
the Gods and the wiser sort of men.  Something of this kind
here happened, when wisdom and folly, vice and piety, learning
and gaiety, terribly earnest even to death and light frivolity,
jostled each other in the stately precincts of Parnassus and
Olympus.

With every variety and shade of this strange life Inglesant
had some acquaintance; the philosophers knew him, the Papists
confided in him; Cave, the writer of news-letters for the Papists,
sought him for information; the Church party, who knew his
connection with the Archbishop, and the services he had
rendered him, sought his company; the ladies made use of
his handsome person and talents for acting, as they did also
that of his brother.  He had the entrée to the King at all
times, and was supposed to be a favourite with Charles, though
in reality the King's feelings towards him were of a mixed
nature.  No man certainly was better known at Oxford, and
no man certainly knew more of what was going on in England
than Inglesant did.

Among the chief beauties of the Court the Lady Isabella
Thynne was the most conspicuous and the most enterprizing:
the poet Waller sang her praise, music was played before her
as she walked, and she affected the garb and manner of an
angel.  She was most beautiful, courteous, and charitable; but
she allowed her gaiety and love of intrigue to lead her into
very equivocal positions.  She was intimately acquainted with
Eustace Inglesant, who was one of her devoted servants, and
assisted her in many of her gaieties and gallant festivals and
sports; but she was shy of Johnny, and told Eustace that his
brother was too much of a monk for her taste.  She had a
bevy of ladies, who were her intimate friends, and were
generally with her, some of whom she did not improve by her
friendship.

There was in Oxford a gentleman, a Mr. Richard Fentham,
who was afterwards knighted, a member of the Prince's council,
and a person of great trust with the King.  This gentleman
had been at school with Eustace Inglesant at that famous
schoolmaster's, Mr. Farnabie, in Cripplegate Parish in London,—a
school at one time frequented by more than three hundred
young noblemen and gentlemen, for whose accommodation he
had handsome houses and large gardens.  One day Fentham
took Eustace Inglesant to call on two young ladies, the
daughters of Sir John Harris, who had lately come to Oxford
to join their father, who had suffered heavy losses in the royal
cause, and had been made a baronet.  They found these two
young ladies, to the eldest of whom Fentham was engaged, in
a baker's house in an obscure street, ill-furnished and
mean-looking.  They were both, especially the eldest, extremely
beautiful, and had been brought up in a way equal to any
gentlemen's daughters in England, so that the gentlemen could
not help condoling with them on this lamentable change of
fortune, to which they were reduced by their father's devotion
to the royal cause.  The eldest young lady, Ann, a spirited,
lively girl, confessed it was "a great change from a large
well-furnished house to a very bad bed in a garret, and from a
plentiful table to one dish of meat—and that not the best
ordered,—with no money, for they were as poor as Job, and had
no clothes," she said, "but what a man or two had brought in
the cloak bags."  Eustace Inglesant pursued the acquaintance
thus begun; and both he and his brother were at Wolvercot
Church some time afterwards, when Richard Fentham and
Mistress Ann were married in the presence of Sir Edward
Hyde, afterwards the Lord Chancellor, and Geoffry Palmer,
the King's attorney.  Lady Fentham was much admired and
sought after, and became one of Lady Isabella's intimate
friends.  She was a lively, active girl, and fond of all kinds of
stirring exercise and excitement, and was peculiarly liable to
be led into scrapes in such society.  Besides Lady Isabella, she
was also exposed to other temptations from political ladies, who
endeavoured to persuade her that a woman of her talent and
energy should take some active part in public affairs, and get
her husband to trust to her the secrets of the Prince's Council.
They succeeded so far as to cause her to press her husband on
this matter, and to cause some unpleasant feeling on her part,
which, but for his kind and forgiving conduct, might have led
to a serious breach.  This danger passed over, but those
springing from the acquaintance with Lady Isabella were much
more serious.  Sir Richard was much away at Bristol with the
Prince, and during his absence Lady Isabella promoted an
intimacy between Lord H——, afterwards the Duke of
P——, and her young friend.  In this she was assisted by
Eustace Inglesant, who appeared to be actuated by some very
strange personal motive, which Johnny, who saw a great deal
of what was going on, could not penetrate.

Matters were in this state when one day Shakespeare's play
of "The Comedy of Errors," or an adaptation of it, was given
by the gentlemen of the Court, assisted by the King's players,
in the Hall at Christ Church.  The parts of the brothers
Antipholus were taken by the two Inglesants, who were still said
to be so exactly alike that mistakes were continually being
made between them.  The play was over early, and the
brilliant company streamed out into the long walk at Christ
Church, which was already occupied by a motley throng.  The
players mingled with the crowd, and solicited compliments on
their several performances.  The long avenue presented a
singular and lively scene—ladies, courtiers, soldiers in buff coats,
clergymen in their gowns and bands, doctors of law and
medicine in their hoods, heads of houses, beggars, mountebanks,
jugglers and musicians, popish priests, college servants,
country gentlemen, Parliament men, and townspeople, all
confusedly intermixed; with the afternoon sun shining across the
broad meadow, under the rustling leaves, and lighting up the
windows of the Colleges and the windings of the placid river
beyond.

John Inglesant, in the modern Court dress in which,
according to the fashion of the day, he had played Antipholus of
Ephesus, was speaking to Lord Falkland, who had not been at
the play, but who, grave and melancholy, with his dress
neglected and in disorder, was speaking of the death of
Hampden, which had just occurred, when a page spoke to Inglesant,
telling him that Lady Isabella desired his presence instantly.
Rather surprised, Inglesant followed him to where the lady was
walking, a little apart from the crowd, in a path across the
meadows leading from the main walk.  She smiled as
Inglesant came up.

"I see, Mr. Esquire Inglesant," she said, "that the play is
not over.  It was your brother I sent for, whom this stupid
boy seemingly has sought in Ephesus and not in England."

"I am happy for once to have supplanted my brother,
madam," said Johnny, adapting from his part.  "I have run
hither to your grace, whom only to see now gives me ample
satisfaction for these deep shames and great indignities."

"I am afraid of you, Mr. Inglesant," said the lady; "you
have so high a reputation with grave and religious people, and
yet you are a better cavalier than your brother, when you
condescend that way.  That is how you please the Nuns of
Gidding so well."

"Spare the poor Nuns of Gidding your raillery, madam,"
said Inglesant; "surely Venus Aphrodite is not jealous of the
gentle dove."

"I will not talk with you, Mr. Inglesant," said the lady
pettishly; "find your brother, I beseech you; his wit is duller
than yours, but it is more to my taste."

Inglesant went to seek his brother, but before he found
him his attention was arrested from behind, and turning round
he found his scarf held by Lord H——, who said at once,
"Is the day fixed, and the place? have you seen the lady?"

"My lord," said Inglesant, "the play really is over, though
no one will believe it.  'I think you all have drunk of Circe's
Cup.'  I am afraid as many mishaps wait me here as at
Ephesus."

Lord H—— saw his mistake.  "I beg your pardon,"
he said; "I took you for your brother, who has some business
of mine in hand.  I wish you good day."

"I must get to the bottom of the mischief that is brewing,"
said Inglesant; "there is some mystery which I cannot fathom.
The lady no doubt is pretty Lady Fentham, but Eustace surely
can never mean to betray his friend in so foul a way as this."

That evening he sought his brother, and telling him all he
had noticed, and what he had overheard, he begged him to tell
him the plain facts of what was going on, lest he might add
to the confusion in his ignorance.  Eustace hesitated a little,
but at last he told him all.

"There is no real harm intended, except by Lord
H——," he said; "Lady Isabella simply wants to make
mischief and confusion all around her.  She has persuaded
Ann Fentham to encourage Lord H—— a little, to lead
him into a snare in which he is to be exposed to ridicule.
There is a lady in Oxford, whom you no doubt know, Lady
Cardiff, whom, if you know her, you know to be one of the
most fantastic women now living, to bring whom into
connection with Lord H—— Mrs. Fentham has conceived would
be great sport; now, to tell you a secret, this lady, who
entered into this affair merely for excitement and sport, is
gradually becoming attached to me.  I intend to marry her
with Lady Isabella's help.  She has an immense fortune and
large parks and houses, and has connections on both sides in
this war, so that her property is safe whatever befalls.  This
is a profound secret between me and the Lady Isabella, who
is under obligations to me.  Mrs. Fentham knows nothing of
it, and is occupied solely with bringing Lord H—— and
Lady Cardiff together.  The ladies are going down to
Newnham to-morrow.  I meet them there, and Lord H—— is
to be allowed to come.  I intend to press my suit to Lady
Cardiff, and certainly by this I shall spoil Lady Fentham's
plot; but this is all the harm I intend.  What will happen
besides I really cannot say, but nothing beyond a little honest
gallantry, doubtless."

"But is not such sport very dangerous?" said John.
"Suppose this intimacy came to Richard Fentham's ears, what
would he say to it?  You told me there had already been
some mischief made by some of the women between them."

"If he hears of it," said Eustace, carelessly, "it can be
explained to him easily enough; he is no fool, and is not the
man to misunderstand an innocent joke."

Inglesant was not satisfied, but he had nothing more to
say, and changed the subject by inquiring about Lady Cardiff,
of whom he knew little.

This lady was a peeress in her own right, having inherited
the title and estates from her father.  She had been carefully
educated, and was learned in many languages.  She had acted
all her life from principles laid down by herself, and different
from those which governed the actions of other people.  She
had bad health, suffering excruciating pain at frequent intervals
from headache, which it is supposed unsettled her reason.  At
her principal seat, Oulton, in Dorsetshire, she collected around
her celebrities and uncommon persons, "Excentrics" as they
were called, principally great physicians and quacks, and
religious persons and mystic theologians.  Van Helmont, the
great alchemist, spent much time there, attempting to cure her
disorder or allay her sufferings, and Dr. Henry More of
Cambridge condescended to reside some time at Oulton.  It was
a great freestone house, surrounded by gardens, and by a park
or rather chase of great extent, enclosing large pieces of water,
and surrounded by wooded and uncultivated country for many
miles.  At the time at which we are arrived, however, her
health was better than it afterwards became, and she was
chiefly ambitious of occupying an important position in politics,
and of seeing every species of life.  She was connected with
some of the principal persons on both sides in the civil
contention, and passed much time both in London and in Oxford.
In both these places, but especially in the royal quarters,
where greater license was possible, she endeavoured to be
included in anything of an exciting and entertaining character
that was going on.  Whatever it was, it afforded her an insight
into human nature and the manners of the world.  Such a
character does not seem a likely one to be willing to submit
to the restraints of the married life, and indeed Lady Cardiff
had hitherto rejected the most tempting offers, and, as she had
attained the mature age of thirty-two, most people imagined
that she would not at that time of life exchange her condition.
It appeared, however, that her fate had at last met her in the
handsome person of Eustace Inglesant, and the secret which
Eustace had told his brother was already beginning to be
whispered in Oxford, and opinions were divided as to whether
the boldness of the young man or his good fortune were the
most to be admired.

When Inglesant left his brother and walked under the
starry sky to his lodgings at Wadham, his mind was ill at ease.
He had taken a great interest in Lady Fentham and her husband;
indeed, his feelings towards the former were those of an
attached friend, attracted by her lively innocence and good
nature.  He was, as the reader will remember, still very young,
being only in his twenty-second year.  He was sincerely and
vitally religious, though his religion might appear to be kept
in subordination to his taste, and he had formed for himself,
from various sources, an ideal of purity, which in his mind
connected earth to heaven, and which, at this period of his
life at any rate, he may have been said faultlessly to have
carried out.  The circumstances of his youth and early
training, which we have endeavoured to trace, acting upon a
constitution in which the mental power dominated, rendered
self-restraint natural to him, or rather rendered self-restraint
needless.  It was one of the glories of that age that it produced
such men as he was, and that not a few; men who combined
qualities such as, perhaps, no after age ever saw united; men
like George Herbert, Nicholas Ferrar, Falkland, the unusual
combination of the courtier and the monk.  Yet these men
were naturally in the minority, and even while moulding their
age, were still regarded by their age with wonder and a certain
kind of awe.  It is not meant that John Inglesant was
altogether a good specimen of this high class of men, for he was
more of a courtier than he was of a saint.  He was a sincere
believer in a holy life, and strongly desirous of pursuing it; he
endeavoured conscientiously to listen for the utterances of the
Divine Voice; and provided that Voice pointed out the path
which his tastes and training had prepared him to expect, he
would follow it even at a sacrifice to himself; but he was not
capable of a sacrifice of his tastes or of his training.  On the
other hand, as a courtier and man of the world, he was
profoundly tolerant of error and even of vice (provided the latter
did not entail suffering on any innocent victim), looking upon
it as a natural incident in human affairs.  This quality had its
good side, in making him equally tolerant of religious differences,
so that, as has been seen, it was not difficult to him to
recognize the Divine prompting in a Puritan and an opponent.
He was acutely sensitive to ridicule, and would as soon have
thought of going to Court in an improper dress as of speaking
of religion in a mixed company, or of offering any advice or
reproof to any one.  In the case which was now disturbing
his mind, his chief fear was of making himself ridiculous by
interfering where no interference was necessary.

He passed a restless night, and the next morning went to
Trinity Chapel, then much frequented for the high style of the
music.  He was scarcely here before Lady Isabella and young
Lady Fentham, who lodged in that college, came in, as was
their habit, dressed to resemble angels in loose and very
inadequate attire.  At another time he might not have thought
much of it, but, his suspicions being aroused, he could not
help, courtier as he was, contrasting the boldness of this
behaviour with the chaste and holy life of the ladies at Little
Gidding; and it made him still more restless and uncertain
what to do.  He avoided the ladies after Chapel, and returned
to his own rooms quite uncertain how to act.  It came at last
into his mind to inquire of the Secretary Falkland whether
Sir Richard Fentham was expected shortly in Oxford, as his
journeys were very irregular, and generally kept a profound
secret.  He went to Lord Falkland and asked the question,
telling him that he did so from private reasons unconnected
with the State.  Falkland declined at first to answer him; but
on Inglesant's taking him a little more into his confidence,
he confided to him, as a great secret, that Sir Richard was
expected that very night, and further, that he would pass
through Newnham in the afternoon, where he would meet a
messenger with despatches.  Upon learning this startling piece
of news, Inglesant hastened to his brother's rooms, but found
he was too late, Eustace having been gone more than two
hours, and as he started considerably after the ladies' coach,
there could be no doubt but that the party was already at
Newnham.  Inglesant went to the stables where his horses
were kept, and having found one of his servants, he ordered
his own horse to be saddled, as he was going to ride alone.
While it was being prepared he attempted to form some plan
upon which to act when he arrived at Newnham, but his
ingenuity completely failed him.  Merely to walk into a room
where some ladies and gentlemen were at dinner, to which he
was not invited, and inform one of the ladies that her husband
was in the neighbourhood, appeared an action so absurd that
he discarded the intention at once.  When his horse was
brought out and he mounted and rode out of Oxford towards
the south, telling his servant he should be back at night, he
probably did not know why he went.  He rode quickly, and
arrived in about an hour.  The Plough at Newnham (it has
long disappeared) stood upon the banks of the river, in a
picturesque and retired situation, and was much frequented by
parties of pleasure from Oxford.  The gardens and bowling-greens
lay upon the river bank, and the paths extended from
them through the fields both up and down the river.  It was
apparent to Inglesant that a distinguished party was in the
house, from the servants loitering about the doors, and coming
in and out.  More than one of these he recognized as belonging
to Lord H——.  The absurdity of suspecting any mischief
from so public a rendezvous struck Inglesant as so great,
that he was on the point of passing the house.  He however
alighted and inquired of one of the men whether any of his
brother's servants were about.  The man, who knew him,
replied that Mr. Eustace Inglesant had dined there with his
lordship and the ladies, but was then, he believed, either in the
garden or the fields with Lady Cardiff; he had brought no
servants with him.  Having got thus into conversation with
the man, Inglesant ventured to inquire, with as careless a
manner as he could assume, if Lady Isabella were there.

Lady Isabella, the man said, had dined there, but after
dinner had gone on a little farther in her coach, and attended
by her servants, he believed to make some call in the
neighbourhood.

Then Inglesant knew that he had done right to come.

"I have a message to Lady Ann Fentham," he said to the
man, "but not being of the party, I would rather have sent it
through my brother.  As I suppose it is useless to attempt to
find him, I shall be glad if you will tell me in which room the
lady is, for I suppose his lordship is with her."

"His lordship left orders that he was not to be disturbed,"
said the man insolently; "you had better try and find your
brother."

"Nevertheless, I must give her my message," said Inglesant
quietly; "therefore, pray show me upstairs."

"I don't know the room," said the man still more rudely,
"and you cannot go upstairs; his lordship has engaged the
house."

During the conversation the other men had gathered round,
and it seemed to Inglesant that his lordship must have brought
all his servants with him, for the house appeared full of them.
None of the ordinary servants of the place were to be seen.

Inglesant had no arms but his riding sword, and even if
he had had, the use of them would have been absurd.

"You know who I am," he said, looking the man steadily
in the face, "one of the King's gentlemen whom they call the
Queen's favourite page.  I bring a message to Lady Fentham
from her husband, the Secretary to the Prince's council; do you
think your lord will wish you to stop me?"

As he spoke he made a step forward as though to enter,
and the man, evidently in doubt, stepped slightly on one side,
making it possible to enter the house.  The rest took this
movement to imply surrender, and one of the youngest,
probably to gain favour, said, "The lady is in the room opposite
the stairs, sir."  Inglesant walked up the low oak staircase to
the door, the men crowding together in silence at the bottom
of the stairs.

Inglesant tried the latch of the door, though he did not
intend to go in without knocking.

The door was fastened, and he knocked.

For a moment there was silence, and then a voice said,
angrily, "Who is there?"

"A message from Sir Richard Fentham," said Inglesant.

There was another and a longer pause, and then the same
voice said,—

"Is Sir Richard without?"

"No," replied Inglesant; "but he may be here any
moment; he is on the road."

The door was immediately opened by his lordship, and
Inglesant walked in.

The moment he did, Lady Fentham, who was in the
further part of the room, started up from the seat in which
she was lying, and throwing herself on Johnny's shoulder
said,—

"Help me, Mr. Inglesant, I have been cruelly deceived."

Inglesant took no notice of her, but turning to Lord
H—— he said with marked politeness,—

"I have to beg your lordship's pardon for intruding upon
your company, but I am charged to let Lady Fentham know
that Sir Richard is expected in Oxford to-night, and may pass
this house at any time, probably in a few minutes.  I thought
Lady Fentham would wish to know this so much that I
ventured to knock, though your servants told me you wished
to be private."

His words were so chosen and his manner so faultless and
devoid of suspicion, that Lord H—— could find nothing
in either to quarrel with, though he was plainly in a violent
passion, and with difficulty controlled himself.  It had also
the effect of calming Lady Fentham, who remained silent;
indeed, she appeared too agitated to speak.  It was an awkward
pause, but less so to Inglesant than to the other two.

"I wished," he continued, still speaking to Lord H——,
"to have sent my message by my brother, but I find he is
walking in the fields, and Lady Isabella appears to have gone
in her carriage to make a call in the neighbourhood.  I
presume she will call for you, Lady Fentham, on her way back."

Lady Fentham made a movement of anger, and Lord
H—— roused himself at last to say,—

"I am much obliged to you, Mr. Inglesant, for the great
trouble you have taken.  I assure you I shall not forget it.
Lady Fentham, as Sir Richard will so soon be here"—he
stopped suddenly as an idea struck him, and looking full at
Inglesant, said slowly and with marked emphasis, "Supposing
Mr. Inglesant to"—to have spoken the truth he would have
said, but Johnny's perfectly courteous attitude of calm politeness,
the utter absence of any tangible ground of offence, and
his own instincts as a gentleman, checked him, and he
continued,—"has not been misinformed, you will not need my
protection any further.  I will leave you with Mr. Inglesant;
probably Lady Cardiff will be back before long."

He took his leave with equal courtesy both to the lady
and Inglesant, and went down to his men.

Ann Fentham sank into her chair, and began to sob
bitterly, saying,—

"What shall I say to my husband, Mr. Inglesant?  He will
be here directly, and will find me alone.  What would have
happened to me if you had not come?"

"If I may offer any advice, madam, I should say, Tell your
husband everything exactly as it happened.  Nothing has
happened of which you have need to be ashamed.  Sir Richard
will doubtless see that you have been shamefully deceived by
your friends, as far as I understand the matter.  You can trust
to his sympathy and kindness."

She did not reply, and Inglesant, who found his situation
far more awkward than before, said, "Shall I seek for Lady
Cardiff, madam, and bring her to you?"

"No, don't leave me, Mr. Inglesant," she said, springing
up and coming to him; "I shall bless your name for ever for
what you have done for me this day."

Inglesant stayed with the lady until it was plain Lord
H—— had left the house with his servants, and he then
left her and went into the garden to endeavour to find his
brother and Lady Cardiff; but in this he was not successful,
and returned to the house, where he ordered some dinner—for
he had eaten nothing since the morning—and seated himself at
the window to wait for Sir Richard.  He had sat there about
an hour when the latter arrived, and drew his rein before the
house before dismounting.  Inglesant greeted him and went
out to him in the porch.  Fentham returned his greeting
warmly.

"Your wife is upstairs, Sir Richard," Inglesant said; "she
came down with Lady Isabella Thynne, and is waiting for her
to take her back."

Fentham left his horse with the servant and ran upstairs
straight to his wife, and as Inglesant followed him into the
house he met Lady Cardiff and his brother, who came in from
the garden.  Eustace Inglesant was radiant, and introduced
Lady Cardiff to his brother as his future wife.  He took them
into a private room, and called for wine and cakes.  Johnny
thought it best not to tell them what had occurred, but merely
said that Sir Richard and his wife were upstairs; upon which
Eustace sent a servant up with his compliments, asking them
to come and join them.  Both Lady Cardiff and Eustace
appeared conscious, however, that some blame attached to
them, for they expressed great surprise at the absence of Lady
Isabella, and took pains to inform Johnny that they had left
Lady Fentham with her, and had no idea she was going away.
Sir Richard and Lady Fentham joined the party, and appeared
composed and happy, and they had not sat long before Lady
Isabella's coach appeared before the door, and her ladyship
came in.  The ladies returned to Oxford in the coach, and
the gentlemen on horseback.  Nothing was said by the latter
as to what had occurred until after they had left Eustace at
his lodgings, and Johnny was parting with Fentham at the door
of Lord Falkland, to whom he was going.  Then Sir Richard
said,—

"Mr. Inglesant, my wife has told me all, and has told me
that she owes everything to you, even to this last blessing, that
there is no secret between us.  I beg you to believe two
things,—first, that nothing I can do or say can ever repay the
obligation that I owe to you; secondly, that the blame of this
matter rests mostly with me, in that I have left my wife too
much."

Inglesant waited for several days in expectation of hearing
from Lord H——, but no message came.  They met
several times and passed each other with the usual courtesies.
At last Eustace Inglesant heard from one of his lordship's
friends that the latter had been very anxious to meet Johnny,
but had been dissuaded.

"You have not the slightest tangible ground of offence
against young Inglesant," they told him, "and you have every
cause to keep this affair quiet, out of which you have not
emerged with any great triumph.  Inglesant has shown by the
line of conduct he adopted that he desires to keep it close.
None of the rest of the party will speak of it for their own
sakes.  Were it known, it would ruin you at once with the
King, and damage you very much in the estimation of all the
principal men here, who are Sir Richard's friends, and such
as are not would resent such conduct towards a man engaged
on his master's business.  Besides this you are not a
remarkably good fencer, whereas John Inglesant is a pupil of the
Jesuits, and master of all their arts and tricks of stabbing.
That he could kill you in five minutes if he chose, there can
be no doubt."

These and other similar arguments finally persuaded Lord
H—— to restrain his desire of revenge, which was the
easier for him to do as Inglesant always treated him when they
met with marked deference and courtesy.

The marriage of Lady Cardiff and Eustace Inglesant was
hurried forward, and took place at Oxford some weeks after
the foregoing events; the King and Queen being present at
the ceremony.  It was indeed very important to attach this
wealthy couple unmistakably to the royal party, and no
efforts were spared for the purpose.  Lady Cardiff and her
husband, however, did not manifest any great enthusiasm in
the royal cause.

The music of the wedding festival was interrupted by the
cannon of Newbury, where Lord Falkland was killed, together
with a sad roll of gentlemen of honour and repute.  Lord
Clarendon says,—"Such was always the unequal fate that
attended this melancholy war, that while some obscure, unheard-of
colonel or officer was missing on the enemy's side, and some
citizen's wife bewailed the loss of her husband, there were on
the other above twenty officers of the field and persons of
honour and public name slain upon the place, and more of the
same quality hurt."  In this battle Inglesant was more fortunate
than in his first, for he was not hurt, though he rode in the
Lord Biron's regiment, the same in which Lord Falkland was
also a volunteer.

The King returned to Oxford, where Inglesant found every
one in great dejection of mind; the conduct of the war was
severely criticized, the army discontented, and the chief
commanders engaged in reproaches and recriminations.

One afternoon Inglesant was sent for to Merton College,
where the Queen lay, and where the King spent much of his
time; where he found the Jesuit standing with the King in one
of the windows, and Mr. Jermyn, who had just been made a
baron, talking to the Queen.  The King motioned Inglesant
to approach him, and the Jesuit explained the reason he had
been sent for.

The trial of Archbishop Laud was commencing, and in
order to incite the people against him Mr. Prynne had
published the particulars of a popish plot in a pamphlet which
contained the names of many gentlemen, both Protestant and
Catholic, the publication of which at such a moment excited
considerable uneasiness among their relations and friends.

"I wish you, Mr. Inglesant," said the King, "to ride to
London.  Mr. Hall has provided passes for you, and letters to
several of his friends.  The new French Ambassador is
landing; I wish to know how far the French Court is true to me.
Prynne's wit has overreached himself.  His charges have
frightened so many, that a reaction is setting in in favour of
the Archbishop, and many are willing to testify in his favour
in order to exonerate themselves.  You will be of great use in
finding out these people.  Seek every one who is mentioned in
Prynne's libel; many of them are men of influence.  Your
familiar converse with Papists, in other respects unfortunate,
may be of use here."

Inglesant spent some time in London, and was in constant
communication with Mr. Bell, the Archbishop's secretary.  He
was successful in procuring evidence from among the Papists
of their antipathy to Laud, and in various other ways in
providing Bell with materials for defence.  Laud was informed
of these acts of friendship, and being in a very low and broken
state, was deeply touched that a comparative stranger, and one
who had been under no obligation to him, should show so
much attachment, and exert himself so much in his service, at
a time when the greatest danger attended any one so doing,
and when he seemed deserted both by his royal master and by
those on whom he had showered benefits in the time of his
prosperity.  He sent his blessing and grateful thanks, the
thanks of an old and dying man, which would be all the more
valuable as they never could be accompanied by any earthly
favour.  Inglesant's name was associated with that of the
Archbishop, and the Jesuit's aim in sending him to London
was accomplished.





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.. _`CHAPTER X.`:

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   CHAPTER X.

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Inglesant was of so much use in gaining information,
and managed to live on such confidential terms with many
in London in the confidence of members of the Parliament,
that he remained there during all the early part of the year,
and would have stayed longer; but the enemies of the
Archbishop, who pursued him with a malignant and remorseless
activity, set their eyes at last upon the young envoy, and he
was advised to leave London, at any rate till the trial was
over.  He was very unwilling to leave the Archbishop, but
dared not run the risk of being imprisoned and thwarting the
Jesuit's schemes, and therefore left London about the end of
May, and returned straight to Oxford.

He left London only a few days before the allied armies
of Sir W. Waller and the Earl of Essex, and had no sooner
arrived in Oxford than the news of the advance of the
Parliamentary forces caused the greatest alarm.  The next day
Abingdon was vacated by some mistake, and the rebels took
possession of the whole of the country to the east and south
of Oxford; Sir William Waller being on the south, and the Earl
of Essex on the east.  It was reported in London that the
King intended to surrender to the Earl's army, and such a
proposition was seriously made to the King by his own friends
a few days afterwards in Oxford.  The royal army was massed
about the city, most of the foot being on the north side;
Inglesant served with the foot in Colonel Lake's regiment of
musketeers and pikes, taking a pike in the front rank.  It was a
weapon which the gentlemen of that day frequently practised,
and of which he was a master.  Several other gentlemen
volunteers were in the front rank with him.  The Earl's army
was drawn up at Islip, on the other side of the river Cherwell,
having marched by Oxford the day before, in open file, drums
beating and colours flying, so that the King had a full view of
them on the bright fine day.  The Earl himself, with a party
of horse, came within cannon shot of the city, and the King's
horse charged him several times without any great hurt on
either side.  It was a gay and brilliant scene to any one who
could look upon it with careless and indifferent eyes.

The next morning a strong party of the Earl's army
endeavoured to pass the Cherwell at Gosford bridge, where Sir
Jacob Astley commanded, and where the regiment in which
Inglesant served was stationed.  The bridge was barricaded
with breastworks and a bastion, but the Parliamentarian army
attempted to cross the stream both above and below.  They
succeeded in crossing opposite to Colonel Lake's regiment,
under a heavy fire from the musketeers, who advanced rank
by rank between the troops of pikes and a little in advance of
them, and after giving their fire, wheeled off to the right and
left, and took their places again in the rear.  The rebels
reserved their fire, their men falling at every step; but they
still advanced, supported by troops of horse, till they reached
the Royalists, when they delivered their fire, closed their ranks,
and charged, their horse charging the pikes at the same time.
The ranks of the royal musketeers halted and closed up, and
the pikes drew close together shoulder to shoulder, till the
rapiers of their officers met across the front.  The shock was
very severe, and the struggle for a moment undecided; but
the pikes standing perfectly firm, owing in a great measure to
the number of gentlemen in the front ranks, and the
musketeers fighting with great courage, the enemy began to give
way, and having been much broken before they came to the
charge fell into disorder, and were driven back across the
stream, the Royalists following them to the opposite bank, and
even pursuing them up the slope.  Inglesant had noticed an
officer on the opposite side who was fighting with great
courage, and as they crossed the river he saw him stumble
and nearly fall, though he appeared to struggle forward on the
opposite slope to where an old thorn tree broke the rank of
the pikes.  Johnny came close to him, and recognized him
as the Mr. Thorne whom he had known at Gidding.  As he
knew the regiment would be halted immediately, he fell out
of his rank, leaving his file to the bringer-up or lieutenant
behind him, and stooped over his old rival, who evidently was
desperately hurt.  He raised his head, and gave him some
*aqua vitæ* from his flask.  The other knew him at once, and
tried to speak; but his strength was too far gone, and his
utterance failed him.  He seemed to give over the effort, and lay
back in Inglesant's arms, staining his friend with his blood.
Inglesant asked him if he had any mission he would wish
performed, but the other shook his head, and seemed to give
himself to prayer.  After a minute or two he seemed to rally,
and his face became very calm.  Opening his eyes, he looked
at Johnny steadily and with affection, and said, slowly and
with difficulty, but still with a look of rest and peace,—

"Mr. Inglesant, you spoke to me once of standing
together in a brighter dawn; I did not believe you, but it
was true; the dawn is breaking—and it is bright."

As he spoke a volley of musketry shook the hill-side, and
the regiment came down the slope at a run, and carrying
Inglesant with them, crossed the river, and, halting on the
other side, wheeled about and faced the passage in the same
order in which they had stood at first.  This dangerous
manoeuvre was executed only just in time, for the enemy
advanced in great force to the river-side; but the Royalists
being also very strong, they did not attempt to pass.  After
facing each other for some time, the fighting having ceased all
along the line, Inglesant spoke to his officer, and got leave to
cross the river with a flag of truce to seek his friend.  An
officer from the other side met him, most of the enemy's
troops having fallen back some distance from the river.  He
was an old soldier, evidently a Low-country officer, and not
much of a Puritan, and he greeted Inglesant politely as a
fellow-soldier.

Inglesant told him his errand, and that he was anxious to
find out his friend's body, if, as he feared, he would be found
to have breathed his last.  They went to the old thorn, where,
indeed, they found Mr. Thorne quite dead.  Several of the
rebel officers gathered round.  Mr. Thorne was evidently
well known, and they spoke of him with respect and regard.
Inglesant stopped, looking down on him for a few minutes,
and then turned to go.

"Gentlemen," he said, raising his hat, "I leave him in
your care.  He was, as you have well said, a brave and a
good man.  I crossed his path twice—once in love and once
in war—and at both times he acted as a gallant gentleman and
a man of God.  I wish you good day."

He turned away, and went down to the river, from which
his regiment had by this time also fallen back, the others
looking after him as he went.

"Who is that?" said a stern and grim-looking Puritan officer.
"He does not speak as the graceless Cavaliers mostly do."

"His name is Inglesant," said a quiet, pale man, in dark
and plain clothes; "he is one of the King's servants, a
concealed Papist, and, they say, a Jesuit.  I have seen him often
at Whitehall."

"Thou wilt not see him much longer, brother," said the
other grimly, "either at Whitehall or elsewhere.  It were a
good deed to prevent his further deceiving the poor and
ignorant folk," and he raised his piece to fire.

"Scarcely," said the other quietly, "since he came to do
us service and courtesy."  But he made no effort to restrain
the Puritan, looking on, indeed, with a sort of quiet interest as
to what would happen.

"Thou art enslaved over much to the customs of this
world, brother," said the other, still with his grave smile;
"knowest thou not that it is the part of the saints militant to
root out iniquity from the earth?"

He arranged his piece to fire, and would no doubt have
done so; but the Low-country officer, who had been looking
on in silence, suddenly threw himself upon the weapon, and
wrested it out of his hand.

"By my soul, Master Fight-the-fight," he said, "that
passes a joke.  The good cause is well enough, and the saints
militant and triumphant, and all the rest of it; but to shoot a
man under a flag of truce was never yet required of any saint,
whether militant or triumphant."

The other looked at him severely as he took back his weapon.

"Thou art in the bonds of iniquity thyself," he said, "and
in the land of darkness and the shadow of death.  The Lord's
cause will never prosper while it puts trust in such as
thou."  But he made no further attempt against Inglesant, who,
indeed, by this time had crossed the river, and was out of
musket shot on the opposite bank.

A few days afterwards the King left Oxford and went into
the West.  Inglesant remained in garrison, and took his
share in all the expeditions of any kind that were undertaken.
The Roman Catholics were at this time very strong in Oxford;
they celebrated mass every day, and had frequent sermons, at
which many of the Protestants attended; but it was thought
among the Church people to be an extreme thing to do, and
any of the commanders who did it excited suspicion thereby.
The Church of England people were by this time growing
jealous of the power and unrestrained license of the Catholics,
and the Jesuit warned Inglesant to attach himself more to the
English Church party, and avoid being much seen with
extreme Papists.  Colonel Gage, a Papist, was appointed
governor by the King; but being a very prudent man and a
general favourite, as well as an excellent officer, the
appointment did not give much offence.  Inglesant was present at
Cropredy Bridge, which battle or skirmish was fought after the
King returned to Oxford from his hasty march through
Worcestershire, and was wounded severely in the head by a
sword cut—a wound which he thought little of at the time, but
which long afterwards made itself felt.  Notwithstanding this
wound he intended following the King into the West, for His
Majesty had latterly shown a greater kindness to him, and a
wish to keep him near his person; but Father St. Clare, after
an interview with the King, told Inglesant that he had a
mission for him to perform in London, and so kept him in
Oxford.

The trial of the Archbishop was dragging slowly on
through the year, and the Jesuit procured Inglesant another
pass, and directed him to endeavour in every way to assist the
Archbishop in his trial, without fear of his prosecutors, telling
him that he could procure his liberation even if he were put
in prison, which he did not believe he would be.  Inglesant,
therefore, on his return to London, gave himself heartily to
assisting the counsel and secretary of the Archbishop, and
found himself perfectly unmolested in so doing.  He lodged
at a druggist's over against the Goat Tavern, near Toy Bridge
in the Strand, and frequented the ordinary at Haycock's, near
the Palsgrave's Head Tavern, where the Parliament men much
resorted.  Here he met among others Sir Henry Blount, who
had been a gentleman pensioner of the King's, and had waited
on him in his turn to York and Edgehill fight, but then,
returning to London, walked into Westminster Hall, with his
sword by his side, so coolly as to astonish the Parliamentarians.
He was summoned before the Parliament, but pleading that
he only did his duty as a servant, was acquitted.  This man,
who was a man of judgment and experience, was of great use
to Inglesant in many ways, and put him in the way of finding
much that might assist the Archbishop; but it occurred to
Inglesant more than once to doubt whether the latter would
benefit much by his advocacy, a known pupil of the Papists as
he was.  This caused him to keep more quiet than he
otherwise would have done; but what was doubtless the Jesuit's
chief aim was completely answered; for the Church people,
both in London and the country, who regarded the Archbishop
as a martyr, becoming aware of the sincere and really useful
exertions that Inglesant had made with such untiring energy,
attached themselves entirely to him, and took him completely
into their confidence, so that he could at this time have
depended on any of them for assistance and support.  The
different parties were at this time so confused and intermixed—the
Papists playing in many cases a double game—that it
would have been difficult for Inglesant, who was partly in the
confidence of all, to know which way to act, had he stood
alone.  He saw now, more than he had ever done, the
intrigues of that party among the Papists who favoured the
Parliament, and was astonished at their skill and duplicity.  At
last the Commons, failing to find the Archbishop guilty of
anything worthy of death, passed a Bill of Attainder, as they
had done with Lord Strafford, and condemned him with no
precedence of law.  The Lords hesitated to pass the Bill, and
on Christmas Eve, 1644, demanded a conference with the
Commons.  The next day was the strangest Christmas Day
Inglesant had ever spent.  The whole city was ordered to fast
in the most solemn way by a special ordinance of Parliament,
and strict inquisition was made to see that this ordinance was
carried out by the people.  Inglesant was well acquainted with
Mr. Hale, afterwards Chief Justice Hale, one of the
Archbishop's counsel, then a young lawyer in Lincoln's Inn, who,
it was said, had composed the defence which Mr. Hern, the
senior counsel, had spoken before the Lords.  Johnny spent
part of the morning with this gentleman, and in the afternoon
walked down to the Tower from Lincoln's Inn.  The streets
were very quiet, the shops closed, and a feeling of sadness
and dread hung over all—at any rate in Inglesant's mind.  At
the turnstile at Holborn he went into a bookseller's shop kept
by a man named Turner, a Papist, who sold popish books and
pamphlets.  Here he found an apothecary, who also was
useful to the Catholics, making "Hosts" for them.  These both
immediately began to speak to Inglesant about the Archbishop
and the Papists, expressing their surprise that he should exert
himself so much in his favour, telling him that the Papists, to
a man, hated him and desired his death, and that a gentleman
lately returned from Italy had that very day informed the
bookseller that the news of the Archbishop's execution was
eagerly expected in Rome.  The Lords were certain to give
way, they said, and the Archbishop was as good as dead already.
They were evidently very anxious to extract from Inglesant
whether he acted on his own responsibility or from the
directions of the Jesuit; but Inglesant was much too prudent to
commit himself in any way.  When he had left them he went
straight to the Tower, where he was admitted to the
Archbishop, whom he found expecting him.  He gave him all the
intelligence he could, and all the gossip of the day which he
had picked up, including the sayings of the wits at the taverns
and ordinaries respecting the trial and the Archbishop, of whom
all men's minds were full.  Laud was inclined to trust
somewhat to the Lords' resistance, and Inglesant had scarcely the
heart to refute his opinion.  He told him the feeling of the
Papists, and his fear that even the Catholics at Oxford were
not acting sincerely with him.  After the failure of the King's
pardon, Laud entertained little hope from any other efforts
Charles might be disposed to make; but Inglesant promised
him to ride to Oxford, and see the Jesuit again.  This he did
the next day, before the Committee of the Commons met the
Lords, which they did not do till the 2d of January.  He
had a long interview with the Jesuit, and urged as strongly as
he could the cruelty and impolicy of letting the Archbishop
die without an effort to save him.

"What can be done?" said the Jesuit; "the King can do
nothing.  All that he can do in the way of pardon he has
done: besides, I never see the King; the feeling against the
Catholics is now so strong, that His Majesty dare not hold
any communications with me."

Inglesant inquired what the policy of the Roman Catholic
Church really was; was it favourable to the King and the
English Church, or against it?

The Jesuit hesitated, but then, with that appearance of
frankness which always won upon his pupil, he confessed that
the policy of the Papal Court had latterly gone very much
more in favour of the party who wished to destroy the English
Church than it had formerly done; and that at present the
Pope and the Catholic powers abroad were only disposed to
help the King on such terms as he could not accept, and at
the same time retain the favour of the Church and Protestant
party; and he acknowledged that he had himself under-estimated
the opposition of the bulk of English people to Popery.
He then requested Inglesant to return to London, and continue
to show himself openly in support of the Archbishop, assuring
him that in this way alone could he fit himself for performing
a most important service to the King, which, he said, he should
be soon able to point out to him.  The old familiar charm,
which had lost none of its power over Johnny, would, of itself,
have been sufficient to make him perfectly pliant to the
Jesuit's will.  He returned to London, but was refused
admission to the Archbishop until after the Committee of the
Commons had met the Lords, and on the 3d of January the
Lords passed the Bill of Attainder.  When the news of this
reached the Archbishop, he broke off his history, which he had
written from day to day, and prepared himself for death.  He
petitioned that he might be beheaded instead of hanged, and
the Commons at last, after much difficulty, granted this request.
On the 6th of January it was ordered by both Houses that
he should suffer on the 10th.  On the same day Inglesant
received a special message from the Jesuit in these words, in
cypher:—"Apply for admission to the scaffold; it will be
granted you."

Very much surprised, Inglesant went to Alderman Pennington,
and requested admission to attend the Archbishop to the
scaffold, pleading that he was one of the King's household,
and attached to the Archbishop from a boy.

Pennington examined him concerning his being in London,
his pass, and place of abode, but Inglesant thought more from
curiosity than from any other motive; for it was evident that
he knew all about him, and his behaviour in London.  He
asked him many questions about Oxford and the Catholics,
and seemed to enjoy any embarrassment that Inglesant was
put to in replying.  Finally he gave him the warrant of
admission, and dismissed him.  But as he left the room he called
him back, and said with great emphasis,—

"I would warn you, young man, to look very well to your
steps.  You are treading a path full of pitfalls, few of which
you see yourself.  All your steps are known, and those are
known who are leading you.  They think they hold the wires
in their own hands, and do not know that they are but the
puppets themselves.  If you are not altogether in the snare of
the destroyer, come out from them, and escape both destruction
in this world and the wrath that is to come."

Inglesant thanked him and took his leave.  He could not
help thinking that there was much truth in the alderman's
description of his position.

The next three days the Archbishop spent in preparing for
death and composing his speech; and on the day on which
he was to die, Inglesant found when he reached the Tower,
that he was at his private prayers, at which he continued
until Pennington arrived to conduct him to the scaffold.
When he came out and found Inglesant there, he seemed
pleased, as well he might, for excepting Stern, his chaplain,
the only one who was allowed to attend him, he was alone
amongst his enemies.  He ascended the scaffold with a brave
and cheerful courage, some few of the vast crowd assembled
reviling him, but the greater part preserving a decent and
respectful silence.  The chaplain and Inglesant followed
him close, and it was well they did so, for a crowd of people,
whether by permission or not is not known, pressed up upon
the scaffold, as Dr. Heylyn said, "upon the theatre to see the
tragedy," so that they pressed upon the Archbishop, and
scarcely gave him room to die.  Inglesant had never seen
such a wonderful sight before—once afterwards he saw one
like it, more terrible by far.  The little island of the scaffold,
surrounded by a surging, pressing sea of heads and struggling
men, covering the whole extent of Tower Hill; the houses
and windows round full of people, the walls and towers behind
covered too.  People pressed underneath the scaffold; people
climbed up the posts and hung suspended by the rails that
fenced it round; people pressed up the steps till there was
scarcely room within the rails to stand.  The soldiers on guard
seemed careless what was done, probably feeling certain that
there was no fear of any attempt to rescue the hated priest.

Inglesant recognized many Churchmen and friends of the
Archbishop among the crowd, and saw that they recognized
him, and that his name was passed about among both friends
and enemies.  The Archbishop read his speech with great
calmness and distinctness, the opening moving many to tears,
and when he had finished, gave the papers to Stern to give to
his other chaplains, praying God to bestow His mercies and
blessings upon them.  He spoke to a man named Hind, who
sat taking down his speech, begging him not to do him wrong
by mistaking him.  Then begging the crowd to stand back
and give him room, he knelt down to the block; but seeing
through the chinks of the boards the people underneath, he
begged that they might be removed, as he did not wish that
his blood should fall upon the heads of the people.  Surely no
man was ever so crowded upon and badgered to his death.
Then he took off his doublet, and would have addressed
himself to prayer, but was not allowed to do so in peace; one Sir
John Clotworthy, an Irishman, pestering him with religious
questions.  After he had answered one or two meekly, he
turned to the executioner and forgave him, and kneeling down,
after a very short prayer, to which Hind listened with his head
down and wrote word for word, the axe with a single blow cut
off his head.  He was buried in All Hallows Barking, a great
crowd of people attending him to the grave in silence and
great respect,—the Church of England service read over him
without interruption, though it had long been discontinued in
all the Churches in London.

News of his death spread rapidly over England, and was
received by all Church people with religious fervour as the
news of a martyrdom; and wherever it was told, it was added
that Mr. John Inglesant, the King's servant, who had used
every effort to aid the Archbishop on his trial, was with him
on the scaffold to the last.  Inglesant returned to Oxford,
where the Jesuit received him cordially.  He had, it would
have seemed, failed in his mission, for the Archbishop was
dead; nevertheless, the Jesuit's aim was fully won.

On the King's leaving Oxford, before the advance of
General Fairfax, Inglesant accompanied him, and was present
at the battle of Naseby, so fatal to the royal cause.  No
mention of this battle, however, is to be found among the papers
from which these memoirs are compiled; and the fact that
Inglesant was present at it is known only by an incidental
reference to it at a later period.  Amid the confusion of the
flight, and the subsequent wanderings of the King before he
returned to Oxford, it is impossible to follow less important
events closely, and it does not seem clear whether Inglesant
met with the Jesuit immediately after the battle or not.
Acting, however, there can be no doubt, with his approval, if
not by his direction, he appears very soon after to have found
his way to Gidding, where he remained during several weeks.





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.. _`CHAPTER XI.`:

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   CHAPTER XI.

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The autumn days passed quickly over, and with them the
last peaceful hours that Inglesant would know for a
long time, and that youthful freshness and bloom and peace
which he would never know again.  Such a haven as this, such
purity and holiness, such rest and repose, lovely as the autumn
sunshine resting on the foliage and the grass, would never be
open to him again.  It was long before rest and peace came to
him at all, and when they did come, under different skies and
an altered life, it was a rest after a stern battle that left its scars
deep in his very life; it was apart from every one of his early
friends; it was unblest by first love and early glimpse of heaven.
It was about the end of October that he received a message
from the Jesuit, which was the summons to leave this paradise,
sanctified to him by the holiest moments of his life.  The
family were at evening prayers in the Church when the
messenger arrived, and Inglesant, as usual, was kneeling where he
could see Mary Collet, and probably was thinking more of her
than of the prayers.  Nevertheless he remembered afterwards,
when he thought during the long lonely hours of every moment
spent at Gidding, that the third collect was being read, and
that at the words "Lighten our darkness" he looked up at
some noise, and saw the sunshine from the west window
shining into the Church upon Mary Collet and the kneeling women,
and, beyond them, standing in the dark shadow under the
window, the messenger of the Jesuit, whom he knew.  He got
up quietly and went out.  From his marriage feast, nay, from
the table of the Lord, he would have got up all the same had
that summons come to him.

His whole life from his boyhood had been so formed upon
the idea of some day proving himself worthy of the confidence
reposed in him (that perfect unexpressed confidence which
won his very nature to a passionate devotion capable of the
supreme action, whatever it might be, to which all his training
had tended), that to have faltered at any moment would have
been more impossible to him than suicide, than any
self-contradictory action could have been—as impossible as for a
proud man to become suddenly naturally humble, or a merciful
man cruel.  That there might have been found in the universe
a power capable of overmastering this master passion is
possible; hitherto, however, it had not been found.

Outside the Church the messenger gave him a letter from
the Jesuit, which, as usual, was very short.

"Johnny, come to me at Oxford as soon as you can.  The
time for which we have waited is come.  The service which
you and none other can perform, and which I have always
foreseen for you, is waiting to be accomplished.  I depend on
you."

Inglesant ordered some refreshment to be given to the
messenger, and his own horses to be got out.  Then he went
back into the Church, and waited till the prayers were over.

The family expressed great regret at parting with him; they
were in a continual state of apprehension from their Puritan
neighbours; but Inglesant's presence was no defence but rather
the contrary, and it is possible that some of them may have
been glad that he was going.

Mary Collet looked sadly and wistfully at him as they
stood before the porch of the house in the setting sunlight, the
long shadows resting on the grass, the evening wind murmuring
in the tall trees and shaking down the falling leaves.

"Do you know what this service is?" she said at last.

"I cannot make the slightest guess," he answered.

"Whatever it is you will do it?" she asked again.

"Certainly; to do otherwise would be to contradict the tenor
of my life."

"It may be something that your conscience cannot approve,"
she said.

"It is too late to think of that," he said, smiling; "I should
have thought of that years ago, when I was a boy at Westacre,
and this man came to me as an angel of light—to me a weak,
ignorant, country lad—to me, who owe him everything that I
am, everything that I know, everything—even the power that
enables me to act for him."

Did she remember how he had once offered himself without
reserve to her, then at least without any reservation in favour
of this man?  Did she regret that she had not encouraged this
other attraction, or did she see that the same thing would have
happened whether she had accepted him or no?  She gave no
indication of either of these thoughts.

"I think you owe something to another," she said, softly;
"to One who knew you before this Jesuit; to One who was
leading you onward before he came across your path; to One
who gave you high and noble qualities, without which the Jesuit
could have given you nothing; to One whom you have professed
to love; to One for whose Divine Voice you have desired to
listen.  Johnny, will you listen no longer for it?"

He never forgot her, standing before him with her hands
clasped and her eyes raised to his,—the flush of eager speaking
on her face,—those great eyes, moistened again with tears, that
pierced through him to his very soul,—her trembling lip,—the
irresistible nobleness of her whole figure,—her winning manner,
through which the love she had confessed for him spoke in
every part.  He never saw her again but once—then in how
different a posture and scene; and the beauty of this sight never
went out of his life, but it produced no effect upon his purpose;
indeed how could it, when his purpose was not so much a part
of him as he was a part of it?  He looked at her in silence,
and his love and admiration spoke out so unmistakably in his
look that Mary never afterwards doubted that he had loved
her.  He had not power to explain his conduct; he could not
have told himself why he acted as he did.  Amid the distracting
purposes which tore his heart in twain he could say nothing
but,—

"It may not be so bad as you think."

Mary gave him her hand, turned from him, and went into
the house; and he let her go—her of whom the sight must have
been to him as that of an angel—he let her go without an effort
to stay her, even to prolong the sight.  His horses were waiting,
and one of his servants would follow with his mails; he mounted
and rode away.  The sun had set in a cloud, and the autumn
evening was dark and gloomy, yet he rode along without any
appearance of depression, steadily and quietly, like a man going
about some business he has long expected to perform.  I
cannot even say he was sad: that moment had come to him
which from his boyhood he had looked forward to.  Now at
last he could prove, at any rate to himself, that he was equal
to that effort which it had been his ideal to attempt.

When Inglesant reached Oxford he sought out the Jesuit
and found him alone.  The royal affairs were at the lowest
ebb.  Since the battle of Naseby the King had done little but
wander about like a fugitive.  He was now at Oxford; but it
was doubtful whether he could stay there in safety through the
winter, and certainly he would not be able to do so after the
campaign began, unless some change in his fortunes meanwhile
occurred.  All this Inglesant knew only too well.  The ruin
of the royal cause, entailing his own ruin and that of all his
friends, was too palpable to need description.  The Jesuit
therefore at once proceeded to the means which were prepared
to remedy this disastrous state of things.  The Lord Lieutenant
of Ireland, the Duke of Ormond, had, with the consent of the
King, concluded a truce with the Irish, who, after long years
of oppression, spoliation and misery, had, a few years before,
broken out suddenly in rebellion, and massacred hundreds of
the unprepared Protestants, men, women, and children, under
circumstances, as is admitted by Catholics, and is perhaps
scarcely to be wondered at, of frightful cruelty.  A feeling of
intense hatred and dread of these rebels had consequently
filled the minds of the English Protestants, both Royalists and
Parliamentarians; a feeling in which horror at murderous
savages—for as such they not unnaturally regarded the
Irish—was united with the old hatred and fear of popish massacres
and cruelties.  The Parliament had remonstrated with the
King for his supineness in not concluding the war by the
extirpation of these monsters, and when at last a truce was
concluded with them, the anger of the Parliament knew no bounds,
and even loyal Churchmen, although they acknowledged the
hard necessity which obliged the King to such a step, yet
lamented it as one of the severest misfortunes which had
befallen them.  The King hoped by this peace not only to be
able to recall the soldiers who had been engaged against the
rebels to his own assistance, but also to procure a detachment
of Irish soldiers for the same purpose from the popish leaders.
But the popish demands being very excessive, Ormond had
not been able to advance far towards a settled peace, when, in
the previous spring, the Lord Herbert (afterwards Earl of
Glamorgan), the son of the Marquis of Worcester, of a devoted
Catholic family and of great influence, announced his intention
of going to Ireland on private business, and offered to assist
the King with his influence among the Catholics.  He had
married a daughter of the great Irish house of Thomond, and
undoubtedly possessed more influence in that island among the
Papists than any other of the royal party.

The King eagerly accepted his assistance, and Glamorgan
afterwards produced a commission, undeniably signed by the
King, in which he gives him ample powers to treat with the
Papists, and to grant them any terms whatever which he
should find necessary, consistent with the royal supremacy
and the safety of the Protestants.  In this extraordinary
commission he creates him Earl of Glamorgan, bestows on him
the Garter and George, promises him the Princess Elizabeth
as a wife for his son, gives him blank patents of nobility to fill
up at his pleasure, and promises him on the word of a King to
endorse all his actions.  The only limit which appears to have
been set to the Earl was an obligation to inform the Lord
Lieutenant of all his proceedings; and the only doubt respecting
this commission appears to be whether it was filled up
before the King signed it, or written on a blank signed by the
King, in accordance with conclusions previously agreed upon
between him and the Earl.

The Earl left Oxford for Ireland, where the nuncio from
the Pope had arrived, and proceeded in his negotiations with
this dignitary and the Supreme Council of the rebel Papists
and Irish—negotiations in which he found endless difficulties
and delays, owing chiefly to a mutual distrust of all parties
towards each other;—a distrust of the King not unnatural on
the part of the Irish, who knew that nothing but the utmost
distress induced the King to treat with them at all, and that
to treat with them, or at least to make any important
concessions to them, was to alienate the whole of the English
Protestants—both Royalists and Parliamentarians—to an
implacable degree.  The Irish demanded perfect freedom of
religion; the possession of all Cathedrals and Churches; and
that all the strong places in Ireland, including Dublin, should
be in the hands at any rate of English Roman Catholics;
that the English Papists should be relieved from all disabilities;
and that the King in the first Parliament, or settlement
of the nation, should ratify and secure all these advantages to
them.  In return for this the Pope offered a large present of
money, and the Earl was promised 10,000 men from the
rebel forces—3000 immediately for the relief of Chester, and
7000 to follow before the end of March.

In order to realize how repulsive such a proceeding as
this would appear to the whole English nation, it is necessary
to recollect the repeated professions of attachment to
Protestantism on the part of the King, and of his determination
to repress Popery; the intense hatred of Popery on the part
of the Puritan party, and of most of the Church people; and
the horror caused in all classes by the barbarities of the Irish
massacre—something similar to the feeling in England during
the Sepoy rebellion.  No Irish ever came into England, and
the English knew them only by report as ferocious, half-naked
savages, to which state, indeed, centuries of oppression had
reduced them.  So universal was this feeling, that the King
dared only proceed in the most secret manner; and in a
letter to Glamorgan he acknowledges that the circumstances
are such that he cannot do more than hint at his wishes,
promising him again, on the word of a King, to ratify all his
actions, and to regard his proceedings with additional
gratitude if they were conducted without insisting nicely on
positive written orders, which it was impossible to give.

Communications between the Earl and the Court continued
to be kept up, and the former represented the progress of
the negotiations as satisfactory; but the state of the King's
affairs became so pressing, especially with regard to the relief
of Chester, which was reduced to great distress, that it was
absolutely necessary that some envoy should be sent to
Ireland to hasten the treaty, and if possible assist the Earl to
convince the Supreme Council of the good faith of the King;
and it was also as important that an equally qualified agent
should go to Chester to prepare the leaders there to receive
the Irish contingent, and to encourage them to hold out
longer in expectation of it.

"There is no man so suited to both these missions as
yourself," said the Jesuit.  "You are a King's servant and a
Protestant, and you will therefore have weight with the rebel
Council in Ireland.  Still more, as you are a Churchman and
a favourite with the Church people—especially since the death
of the Archbishop—you will be able to prepare the mind of
the Lord Biron and the commanders at Chester to receive
the Irish troops favourably; they will believe that you act by
the King's direction, and will not know anything of the
concessions which have been made in Ireland.  You are ready
to undertake it?"

Inglesant hesitated for a moment, but then he said simply
and without effort,—

"I am ready; I will do my best: but there are some
things I should like to ask."

"Ask what you will," said the Jesuit, quickly; "everything
I know I will tell you."

"As a Churchman," said Inglesant, "if I lend myself to
this plan I shall be considered by all Churchmen to have
betrayed my religion, and to have done my best to ruin my
country as a Protestant country.  Is not this the case?"

"Probably," said the Jesuit, after a moment's hesitation.

"Shall I have any authority direct from the King for what
I do?"

"I have advised not," said the Jesuit; "but His Majesty
thinks that you will need some other warrant, both in Ireland
and at Chester, than the mere fact of your belonging to the
Household.  He therefore intends to give you an interview,
and also a written commission signed by himself."

"And in case the whole scheme miscarries and becomes
public?" said Inglesant.

"I cannot answer," said the Jesuit, "for what course His
Majesty may be advised to take; but in your case it will, of
course, be your duty to preserve the strictest silence as to
what has passed between the King and yourself."

"Then if I fall into the hands of the Parliament," Inglesant
said, "my connection with the King will be repudiated?"

"His Majesty pledges his word as a King," began the Jesuit.

Inglesant made a slight impatient motion with his head,
which the other saw, and instantly stopped.

He raised his eyes to Inglesant, and looked fully in his
face for a moment, then, with that supreme instinct which
taught him at once how to deal with men, he said:—

"If the necessities of the State demand it, all knowledge
of this affair will be denied by the King."

"That is all I have to say," said Inglesant; "I am ready
to go."

The next day Inglesant saw the King.  The interview was
very short.  The King referred him to Father St. Clare for all
instructions, telling him distinctly that all the instructions he
would receive from him would have his approval, urging him
to use all his efforts to assist Lord Glamorgan, but at all events
to lose no time, after seeing his Lordship, in getting to Chester,
and, when there, to use every exertion to induce the Cavaliers
to receive the Irish troops, as they, no doubt, would be glad
in their extremity to do.  He received a few lines written by
the King in his presence and signed, requiring all to whom he
might show them to give credit to what he might tell them as
if it came direct from the King.  The King gave him his
hand to kiss, and dismissed him.

Inglesant lost no time in reaching Bristol, taking with him
all that remained of his money, considerable sums of which he
had from time to time lent to the King.  He found a vessel
sailing for Waterford, and was fortunate enough to reach that
harbour without loss of time.  He did not stay by the ship
while she went up to the city, but landed at Dunmore, and
immediately took horses to Kilkenny.  There he found the
Earl and the Papal Nuncio engaged in negotiations with each
other, and with the Supreme Council, the principal difficulty
being an intense distrust of the King.  The Nuncio, John
Baptista Renuccini, Archbishop of Fermo, was of a noble
family of Florence, and of long experience at the Court of
Rome.  He appeared pleased to see Inglesant, and came to
visit him privately at his lodgings, where he entered into a
long discourse with him, endeavouring to find out the real
standing and authority of the Earl, and whether the King could
be trusted or not.  Inglesant, who spoke both French and
Italian as well as Latin, was able to enter very fully and freely
into the state of affairs with him.  He told him that the only
way to gain any advantages which the Catholics might have in
view was to assist the King promptly and effectively at once;
that the King could only be enabled to fulfil his promises by
being placed in a strong and independent position; and that if,
by delays and half measures, the help was postponed till it was
too late, or the negotiations became publicly known, the King
would be powerless to fulfil his promises, and would be
compelled to repudiate them altogether.  He submitted to the
Nuncio that, even supposing the King's good faith was doubtful,
he was much more likely to be favourable to the Catholics,
when restored to power, than the Parliament and the Puritan
faction would ever be; he reminded the Nuncio of the great
favour and leniency which had ever been shown to the Romanists
during the King's reign, and he spoke warmly of the base
ingratitude which had been shown to the King by that party
among the Catholics who had intrigued with the Parliament
against a King, very many of whose troubles had arisen from
his leniency towards their religion.

The Nuncio was evidently much impressed with Inglesant's
arguments, and was very courteous in his expressions of
regard, assuring Inglesant that he should not forget to mention
so excellent and intelligent a friend of the Romish Church in
Rome itself, and that he hoped he might some time see him
there, and receive him into closer relations to that glorious
and tender mother.

Inglesant saw the Earl immediately after this interview; he
found him perplexed and discouraged with the difficulties of
his position.  He introduced Inglesant to several of the
Supreme Council, and many days were taken up in argument
and negotiations.  At last both Inglesant and the Earl agreed
that the most important thing for him to do was to get to
Chester without loss of time, as the delays and negotiations
were so great that there was imminent danger that the city
would be surrendered before the treaty could be completed.
Inglesant therefore left Kilkenny immediately, and, posting to
Dublin without loss of time, embarked for Anglesea, and
arrived there on the 29th of December.  Here he procured
horses, and, crossing the island, he passed over into Flintshire
and proceeded towards Chester.  It was exceedingly unfortunate
that he had not arrived a few days before, as the Parliamentary
army, having lately received a reinforcement of
Colonel Booth and the Lancashire forces who had just
reduced Lathom House, had now entirely surrounded the city,
guarding with sufficient force every gate and avenue, causing
a great scarcity of provisions, and rendering it almost
impossible for any one to gain admission to the garrison.





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.. _`CHAPTER XII.`:

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   CHAPTER XII.

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Lord Biron and some of the commissioners who were
associated with him in the defence of the city were at
supper in a long, low room in the castle on the evening of the
12th of January.  Lord Biron and more than one of the noblemen
and gentlemen then in Chester had their ladies with them,
but they lived apart, mostly at Sir Francis Gammul's house in
the Lower Bridge Street, opposite to St. Olave's Church, and
were provided for rather better than the rest; but the
commanders partook of exactly the same food as the rest of the
besieged, and their supper that night consisted of nothing but
boiled wheat, with water to drink.  The conversation was very
flat, for the condition of the besieged was becoming utterly
hopeless; and although they had rejected several offers of
capitulation, they foresaw that it could not be long before they
should be obliged to submit.  The town had been singularly
free from discontent and mutiny, and Lord Biron's high
position and renown made him particularly fitted for the post he
filled; but he felt that the task before him was well-nigh
hopeless.  He sat buried in thought, few of the other gentlemen
present spoke, and they were on the point of separating, Lord
Biron to make the round of the walls, when a servant came up
from the court below, saying that there was a man below in
the dress of a miner, who said he was Mr. Inglesant, the
King's gentleman, and wished to see his lordship.

"Who did you say?" exclaimed Lord Biron, and the others
crowded round in excitement, "Inglesant, the King's Esquire?"

"John Inglesant."

"The Esquire of the Body?"

"No doubt from Oxford and the King."

"How could he have got in?"

"In the dress of a miner, he says."

"Perhaps the King is near at hand?"

"At any rate he has not forgotten us."

"He has used his Jesuit's teaching to some purpose."

These and many other exclamations were uttered while
Lord Biron told the servant to send Inglesant up at once.
He entered the room in his miner's dress, his hands and face
stained with dust, his hair matted and hanging over his eyes.
He carried a large kind of bag, such as the miners used, and
his first action was to place it on the table, and to remove from
it five or six bottles of claret, a large ham, and a goose.

"I knew you were somewhat short here," he said, "and I
ran the risk of bringing these things, though I do not know,
if I had been caught, that it would have told much against me,
for we miners live well, I can tell your lordship."

"But how on earth did you get in?" said Lord Biron, "and
where have you come from?"

"I thought I never should have got in," he replied.  "The
leaguer is well kept, and there is scarcely a weak point.  But
I fear," he added sadly, "from the state I find you in, it really
mattered little whether I got in or not."

"Oh, never say that," said Lord Biron cheerily; "the sight
of you is a corps of relief in itself.  Come in here and let me
hear what you have to say.  I will not keep the news a moment
from you, gentlemen," he added courteously to the rest.

"If you will pardon me, my lord," said Inglesant, "and
allow me a moment to wash this dirt off, and if some one
would lend me a suit of clothes, it would be a courtesy.  I had
to leave my own in Flintshire, and these are none of the
pleasantest.  My news will keep a few minutes, and your
lordship will be all the better for a glass or two of this claret,
which is not the worst you ever drank."

Lord Biron took him into another room, and left him to
change his dress, lending him one of his own suits of clothes.
Inglesant really wished to gain time, and also to say what he
had to say with every advantage of appearance and manner,
for he felt that his mission was a difficult one—how difficult he
felt he did not know.

When he came back he found the gentlemen had opened
one of the bottles, and were drinking the wine very frugally,
but with infinite relish.  They were warm in their thanks to
Inglesant, and in congratulations on his improved appearance.
Lord Biron took him on one side at once.

Inglesant had a letter for him from the Duke of Ormond,
which the Duke had given him unsealed, telling him to read
it.  John Inglesant had done so several times during his
journey, and did not altogether like its contents.  The Duke
alluded by name to Lord Glamorgan, and mentioned the
number (10,000) of the troops intended to be sent to England.
Neither fact would Inglesant have wished to communicate
himself, at any rate at once, and he had resolved not to deliver
the letter until he saw how Lord Biron took the rather vague
information he intended to give him.  But there is always
this difficulty with negotiations of this kind, that while the first
requisite is entire frankness, the least caution, even at the
beginning, may convey a sense of suspicion which nothing
afterwards can remove.  Inglesant felt, therefore, that he
should have to watch Lord Biron most closely, and decide
instantly, and on the spur of the moment, when to trust him
and to what extent.

He began, after Lord Biron had expressed his cordial
admiration at his exploit and his sense of obligation, by telling
him he came direct from Lord Ormond, in Dublin, and that
his object in getting into Chester was to let them know that
they might expect relief from Ireland, at most within a few
days, and to urge them to hold out to the last moment and
the last bag of wheat.

Without appearing to do so, he watched Lord Biron
narrowly as he spoke, and saw that he expected to hear a great
deal more than this vague account.

He went on telling him of his interview with Ormond, of
the King's great anxiety for the relief of Chester, and the
difficulties the Lord Lieutenant met with in treating with the Irish;
but he saw that Lord Biron was manifestly getting impatient.
At last the latter said,—

"But you have not told me, Mr. Inglesant, where this
relief is to come from.  Ormond has no troops to spare—he
has told us so often; indeed, all the troops that could be spared
passed through Chester years ago when the truce was first
proclaimed.  He must keep all his to keep those murderous
villains, the Irish Papists, in check.  They will respect no truce.
We hear something of Lord Glamorgan; have you seen him
in Ireland?  Have you no letter from Ormond to me?"

Inglesant saw that he must trust him at once to a very
great extent.

"I have a letter from the Duke to you," he said; "but I
wish first to show you this warrant the King gave me at
Oxford, that you may see I do not speak without his authority.
When he gave me that, he told me all the negotiations which
the Duke was engaged in, at his desire, with the Irish Papists;
and all that I tell you has been done with his sanction.  As
to Lord Glamorgan, I saw him at Kilkenny; he is striving all
he can to second the Lord Lieutenant's efforts with the Irish
and the Papal Nuncio, and he has the fullest warrant from the
King."

Lord Biron read the warrant from the King carefully more
than once; then returned it, and took Lord Ormond's letter,
which he also read once or twice.

Inglesant walked to the window and looked out.

"The letter is not sealed, Mr. Inglesant," Lord Biron said.

"No," said Inglesant, "the Duke insisted on my bringing
it open, and on my reading it.  I requested him to seal it, but
he refused."

"And you have read it?"

"Certainly."

"I see he speaks of a very large contingent—10,000 men,
and that Glamorgan is to get them entirely from the Irish
Papists.  Ten thousand Irish Papists and murderers in England,
Mr. Inglesant, is not what I should like to see, and I do
not like the negotiation being entrusted so much to Glamorgan,
a determined Papist.  We know not what concessions he may
make unknown to the King.  I beg your pardon for my plain
speaking;—they say you are half a Papist yourself."

"You will only have 3000 men sent here," said Inglesant,
"and from what I saw in Ireland I fear it may be some time
before the rest follow.  Besides, surely, my lord, nothing can
be worse than your present state here."

"It is sad enough, certainly, but there may be things much
worse.  I tell you, sir, I would rather die of hunger on these
walls than see my country given over to murderous Irish
rebels and savage Kerns.  And bad as the King's affairs are
at present, I am convinced that His Majesty would endure all
gladly, rather than make any concessions to such as
these,—much less expose England to their ravages."

"The troops who will be sent will be under the strictest
orders, and commanded by gentlemen of honour and rank,"
said Inglesant; "and I assure your lordship, upon my sacred
word of honour as a Christian, that nothing will be attempted
but what has His Majesty's cordial consent."

Lord Biron was unsatisfied, but Inglesant considered he
had achieved a success; his lordship had plainly not the
least suspicious feeling towards him, all his dissatisfaction
arising from his dislike to the means proposed for his relief.
He would, moreover, hold out as long as possible, and this all
the more as he saw help approaching, from whatever source it
came.

They went back to the other officers, and communicated
the news to them, rather to their disappointment; for Inglesant
having spoken some words of encouragement to the soldiers of
the guard below, the report had run through Chester that the
King was at hand with 3000 horse.  The effect, however,
which Inglesant's news produced in Chester was altogether
exhilarating.  Officers, soldiers, and inhabitants set to work
with redoubled vigour, and Inglesant became a hero wherever
he went, and was introduced to Lady Biron and the ladies,
who received him with gratitude, as though he had already
raised the siege.  He was himself, however, very far from
being at ease, as day after day passed and no signs of help
appeared.  Lord Biron, though showing the greatest signs of
confidence openly, had evidently become more and more
hopeless, and continually sought opportunities of speaking to
Inglesant privately; and Inglesant found it impossible to avoid
letting him see more and more into the real facts of the case;
so that the Duke and his share in the negotiations fell, day by
day, deeper into the shade, and Lord Glamorgan and his share
appeared every day in greater prominence.  Lord Biron
expressed himself increasingly dissatisfied, and suspicious that
such negotiations did not originate with the King; but as no
help or troops of any kind appeared, these imaginary dangers
were not of much import.  Sir William Brereton, the
Parliamentary commander, was continually sending letters
summoning them to surrender.  Nine of these they refused, but when
there appeared no longer any hopes of succour, Lord Biron
answered the tenth.  To this Sir William answered, upbraiding
Lord Biron with having delayed so long, "every day producing
loss of blood and expense of treasure," but offering to appoint
commissioners to treat on the terms of surrender.  This letter
was received on the 26th of January, and the same day Lord
Biron replied.  Sir William's answer came the next day, and
the same morning, that is on the 27th of January, an event
occurred which decided Lord Biron to surrender, and at the
same time sealed Inglesant's fate.

Early in the forenoon a rumour spread through Chester,
the source of which could not be discovered, but which no
doubt arose from some soldiers' gossip between the outposts.
It was said that some great Earl (Lord Glamorgan's name was
immediately introduced into the report, but whether it was in
the original rumour is doubtful) had been arrested in Ireland,
for having concluded in the King's name, but without his
sanction, a treaty with the Irish rebels and Papists, by which
the latter were relieved from all disabilities and restored to
the command of the island, in return for which they agreed to
march a large army into England, to destroy the Parliament
and the Protestant party, and restore the King and Popery.
This report, garnished with great variety of additional horrors,
spread rapidly through the city, and about ten o'clock reached
Lord Biron's ears.  Chiming in as it did with his worst
suspicions, it excited and alarmed him not a little.  His first
thought was of Inglesant, and he sent at once to his lodgings
to know if he was within.  Inglesant had spent the whole of
the night at one of the advanced bastions, where, having some
reason to believe that the enemy were working a mine, the
garrison made a sortie, and, wearied out, had come home to
his room in the Bridge Street to rest.  His wounds, and
especially the one in his head, which had been supposed to
be cured, began to affect him again, probably through
exhaustion, excitement, and want of food, and for several days he
had felt a giddiness and confusion of brain which at times was
so great that he scarcely knew what he did.  He had scarcely
fallen asleep on the great bed in the small room, crowded with
the valuables of the good people of the house in which he
lodged, when the messenger from the governor entered the
room and aroused him.  Sending the man back before him he
waited a few minutes to collect his faculties and arrange his
dress, and then followed him to the Castle.  He found Lord
Biron in the state dining-room, a noble room, handsomely
furnished, with large windows at the end over-looking the Dee
estuary, and a great carved fireplace, before which Lord Biron
was standing, impatiently awaiting him.

"Mr. Inglesant," he said, as he entered the room, "you
showed me once a commission from His Majesty; will you let
me see it again?"

Inglesant, who had heard nothing of the rumour that had
caused such dismay, and who suspected nothing, immediately
produced the paper and handed it to Lord Biron, who took
out another from his pocket, and compared the two carefully
together, going to the window to do so.

Then, coming back to Inglesant, and holding the two
papers fast in his hand, he said:—

"Mr. Inglesant, I have heard this morning, what I have
reason to believe is true, that the Lord Glamorgan has been
arrested in Dublin by the King's Council for granting the
Papists terms in the King's name, and conspiring to bring over
a Papist army into England.  Have you any knowledge of
such matters as these?"

Inglesant's astonishment and dismay were so unfeigned
that Lord Biron saw at once that such news was most
unexpected by him.  He had indeed, among all the dangers he
was on his guard against, never calculated upon such as this.
Distasteful as he supposed the negotiations with the Papists
would be to numbers of the Church party, the idea never
entered his mind that any loyal authorities would take upon
them, without communicating with the King, the responsibility
of arresting the negotiations or making them public, and this
with a high hand, presupposing that they were without the
King's sanction.  But, supposing this extraordinary news to
be true, he saw at once an end to his efforts,—he saw himself
at once helpless and deserted, nothing before him but long
imprisonment and perhaps death.

He stood for some moments looking at Lord Biron, the
picture of astonishment and dismay.  At last he said,—

"I cannot think, my lord, that such news can be true.
What possible motive could the Council have to take such a
step?  I give you my word of honour as a Christian, that
Lord Glamorgan has done nothing but what he had authority
for from the King."

"You are much in his confidence evidently, sir," said Lord
Biron severely; "but I am inclined to believe my information
nevertheless."

"But he had commission and warrants signed by the King
himself; and private letters from him, which would have
removed all suspicion," said Inglesant.

"Yes, sir, no doubt he had commissions, professedly from
the King, as you have," said Lord Biron still more severely.
"Your commission names Lord Glamorgan, and you are
evidently of one council with him.  Will you pledge me your
honour that this paper was written by the King?"

And he held out Inglesant's commission,

Johnny hesitated: the circumstances of the case were
beginning to arrange themselves before him, racked and weary
as his brain was.  If this news were true, if the Lord
Lieutenant and the Council had really disclaimed, in the King's name,
the negotiations, and boldly before the world proclaimed them
unauthorized, and the warrants a forgery, the game was
evidently played out, and his course clear before him, dark and
gloomy enough.  Yet he thought he would make one effort to
recover the paper, a matter, whatever might turn out, of the
first importance to the King.

"If I swear to you, Lord Biron, that the King wrote it,
will you give it me back?"

"I am sorry, sir, that I cannot," said Lord Biron, "I am
grieved at my heart to do anything which would seem to doubt
in the least the word of a gentleman such as I have always
believed you to be; but in the post I hold, and in the crisis
of an affair so terribly important as this, I must act as my
poor judgment leads me.  I cannot give this paper up to any
one until I learn more of this distressing business."

"If I swear to you," said Inglesant, beaten at every point,
but fighting to the last, "that it is the King's writing, will you
give me your word of honour that you will burn it immediately?"

"No, sir," said the other loftily; "what the King has been
pleased to write, it can be the duty of no man to conceal."

"Then it is not the King's," said Inglesant.

Lord Biron stared at him for a moment, then folded up the
papers carefully, and replaced them in his pocket-case.  Then
he went to the door of the dining-room at the top of the stairs
and called down.

"Without! send up a guard."

Inglesant unhooked his sword from the scarf, and handed
it to Lord Biron without a word.  Then he said,—

"It can be of no advantage to me now, may probably tell
against me, when I entreat your lordship to believe me when
I tell you, as I hope for salvation before the throne of God,
that if you burn that paper now you will be glad of it every
day you live."

"I certainly shall not burn it, sir," said the other, speaking
now with a cold disdain.  And he turned his back upon
Inglesant, and stood looking at the fire.

Johnny went to the window and looked out.  The bright
winter's sun was shining on the walls and roofs of the town,
on the dancing waves of the estuary, and on the green oak
banks of Flintshire beyond.  He remembered the view long
afterwards, as we remember that on which the eye rests almost
unconsciously in any supreme moment of our lives.

Presently the guard came up.

"This gentleman is under arrest," said Lord Biron to the
sergeant; "you will secure him in one of the strong rooms of
the tower, and see that he has fire and his full share of
provisions until the garrison is relieved; but no one must be
admitted to see him, and you are responsible for his person
to me.  You can send word to your servant to bring you
anything you may want from your lodgings, Mr. Inglesant," he
said, "but he must not come to you, and all the things must
pass through my hands."

Inglesant bowed, "I have to thank you for the courtesy,
Lord Biron," he said; "I have nothing to complain of in your
treatment of me."

The other turned away, half impatiently, and Inglesant
followed the sergeant to his room, the guard following one by
one, through the passages and up the narrow staircase of the
tower.

It was a pleasant room enough, fitted with glass windows
strongly barred.  The sergeant caused a fire to be lighted, and
left Inglesant to himself.

It was the first time he had ever been imprisoned, and as
the door locked upon him that terrible feeling crept over him
which the first sense of incarceration always brings,—a nameless
dread and a frantic desire of escape, of again mixing with
fellow-men.  But to Inglesant this sad feeling was increased
immensely by the circumstances that surrounded him, and
the peculiar nature of his position.  The very nature of his
position debarred him from all hope, cut him off from all help
alike from friend and foe.  Those who in any other case would
be most forward to help him were now his jailers, nay, he was
turned by this strange reverse into his own jailer and enemy;
debarred from attempting anything to help himself, he must
actually employ all his energies in riveting the chains more
tightly on his limbs, in preparing the gallows himself.
Exposed to the contempt and hatred of all his friends, of those
dearer to him than friends, he could make no effort to clear
himself, nay, every word he spoke must be nicely calculated
to increase their aversion and contempt.  He was worn and
ill and half-starved, and his brain was full of confusion and
strange noises, yet the idea of faltering in his course never so
much as presented itself to him.  The Jesuit's work was fully
done.

The next day the Commissioners for the surrender of the
city met, and the day after Sir William Brereton's
commissioners made a formal announcement of the news that had
been received from Ireland.  Lord Glamorgan, they said, had
arrived in Dublin from Kilkenny.  The 26th of December
was fixed for him to appear before the Council, but in the
meantime letters were received by several persons in Dublin
giving an account of some papers found on the person of the
titulary Archbishop of Tuam, who was slain in an encounter
at Sligo in October.  The papers contained the details of the
treaty come to between Lord Glamorgan and the Papists,
which details threw the Council into such dismay that they
concluded that if such things were once published, and they
could be believed to be done by his Majesty's authority, they
could have no less fatal an effect than to make all men
conclude all the former scandals cast upon His Majesty of the
inciting the Irish Rebellion true; that the King was a Papist,
and designed to introduce Popery even by ways the most
unkingly and perfidious; and consequently, that there would
be a general revolt of all good Protestants from him.  Now,
the Council, considering all this, and also hearing that the
affair was already public through Dublin, and beginning to
work such dangerous effects that they did not consider
themselves safe, they concluded that the only course open to them
was to arrest Lord Glamorgan in the Council, which was
accordingly done on the 26th of December.

The Commissioners also informed Lord Biron that they
were told that there were many Irish in Chester, born of
Irish parents, who had formerly served in the rebel armies in
Ireland, and that also there was even then in Chester an
emissary from Lord Glamorgan.  They therefore demanded
that these Irish should be exempted from the general terms of
surrender, and made over to them as prisoners of war, and
that the emissary from Lord Glamorgan should also be given
up to them as a traitor, seeing that he was condemned by the
royal party as well as by themselves.

To this it was answered by Lord Biron's Commissioners
that the Irish—such at least as were born of Irish parents and
had served with the rebels—should be delivered as they
requested, and that as to Mr. Inglesant, the emissary alluded
to, he was already under arrest on the charge of treason, and
should remain so until more of this affair could be known,
when, if the truth appeared to be as was supposed, he should
be given up also.

With this the Parliamentary Commissioners professed
themselves satisfied, and the treaty was proceeded with, and
on the 3d of February Chester was formally surrendered.
On the same day Sir William Brereton informed Lord Biron
that the King, in a message to the Parliament, dated from
Oxford, January 29th, utterly repudiated all knowledge of the
Earl of Glamorgan's proceedings, and denied that he had
given him any authority whatever to treat with the Irish
Papists.  Sir William added, he supposed Lord Biron would
no longer have any scruple to surrender the person of Lord
Glamorgan's emissary, as by so doing could he alone convince
men of the sincerity of his belief in the King's freedom from
complicity in his designs.  Lord Biron answered that he had
nothing to object to in this, and would give Mr. Inglesant up,
and indeed it was not in his power to do anything else.  On
the 3d day of February the Parliamentary forces were marched
into the town, and Lord Biron with his lady, and the rest of
the noblemen and gentlemen and their ladies, prepared to
leave.  According to the articles of the treaty, carriages were
provided for them and their goods, and a party of horse
appointed to convey them to Conway.  The ladies and
gentlemen were assembled at Sir Francis Gammul's in the lower
Bridge Street.  The street was blocked with carriages and
horses, and carts full of goods; companies of foot were forcing
their way through; the overhanging rows and houses were full
of people, the Church bells were ringing, the Parliamentary
officers passing to and fro.  There was a certain amount of
relief and gaiety in all hearts; the Royalists were relieved from
the hardships of the siege, and were expecting to go to their
homes; the Parliamentarians, of course, were jubilant.  The
principal inhabitants of Chester were the worst off, but even
they looked forward to a time of quiet, and to the possibility
of at last retrieving their losses and their position in the town.
Amid all this confusion and bustle, a sergeant's guard entered
the room where Inglesant was confined, and desired him to
accompany them to the commander, that the transfer of his
person might be arranged.  He followed them out of the
castle, by St. Mary's Church, and up the short street into the
Bridge Street, at the corner of which Sir Francis Gammul's
house stood.  Forcing his way through the crowd that gaped
and pressed upon them, the sergeant conducted Inglesant into
the house, and up into one of the principal rooms, where the
commanders and the ladies and many others were assembled.
A crowd of curious spectators pressed after them to the door as
soon as it was known whom the sergeant had brought; a dead
silence fell upon the whole company, and the two commanders,
who were seated at a table, on which were the articles of
surrender, rose and gazed at Inglesant.  A confused murmur, the
nature of which it would have been difficult to describe, ran
through the room, and the ladies pressed together, with mingled
timidity and curiosity, to look on.  Inglesant was thin and pale,
his clothes shabby and uncared for, his hair and moustache
undressed, his whole demeanour cowed and dispirited—very
different in appearance from the fine gentleman who had
played Philaster before the Court.  Doubtless, many among
the Royalists pitied him; but at present no doubts were felt, or
at any rate had time to circulate, of the King's sincerity, and
the dislike to the Jesuits, even by the High Church Loyalists,
closed their hearts against him.  The Lord Biron asked him
whether he had anything to say before he was delivered over
to Sir William, to which he replied,—

"No."

He made no effort to speak to any one, or to salute Lady
Biron or any of his acquaintances, but stood patiently, his eyes
fixed on the ground.

Sir William asked whether he adhered to his statement
that the commission he had exhibited was a forgery?

At which he looked up steadily, and said,—

"Yes; it was not written by the King."

As he made the avowal a murmur of indignation passed
through the room, and Sir William ordered him to be removed,
telling him he should be examined to-morrow, the account of
his answers sent up to London, and the will of the Parliament
communicated to him as soon as possible.  Inglesant bowed
in reply and turned to leave the room, making no effort to
salute or take leave of any one; but Lord Biron stopped him
with a gesture, and said, probably actuated by some feeling
which he could not have explained,—

"I wish you good-day, Mr. Inglesant.  I may never see
you again."

Inglesant looked up, a slight flush passing over his features,
and their eyes met.

"I wish you good-day, my lord," he said; "you have acted
as a faithful servant of the King."

Lord Biron made no further effort to detain him, and he
left the room.

The next day he was brought up before Sir William Brereton,
and examined at great length.  He stated that the plot
had originated with the Roman Catholics, especially the Jesuits,
whose envoy Lord Glamorgan was; that all the warrants and
papers were forged by them, and that he had received his
instructions and the King's commission from Father St. Clare
himself.  He stated that if the design failed, the King was to
know nothing of it, and if it succeeded it was supposed that
he would pardon the offenders on consideration of the benefits
he would receive.  A vast mass of evidence was taken by Sir
William from Irish soldiers, inhabitants of Chester, and people
of every description, relative to what had taken place in the
city, and all was sent to London to the Parliament.  In the
course of a few days orders came down to bring Inglesant up
to town, together with some of the most important witnesses,
to be examined before a Committee of the House of Commons;
and this was accordingly done at once, Sir William Brereton
accompanying his prisoner and conveying him by easy stages
to London, where he was confined in St. James's palace till
the will of the Parliament should be known.





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When the news of the arrest of the Earl of Glamorgan
reached Oxford, it caused the greatest consternation,
and the King wrote letters, in his own name and in that of the
Chancellor, to the Parliament and to all the principal politicians
denying all participation in or knowledge of his negotiations.

The most violent excitement prevailed on the subject all
over England.  All parties, except the Papists, joined in
expressing the most lively horror and indignation at proposals
which not only repudiated the policy of the last hundred years,
and let loose the Papists to pursue their course unimpeded,
but also placed England at the mercy of the most repulsive
and lawless of the followers of the Roman Catholic faith.  The
barbarities of the Irish rebels, which were sufficiently horrible,
were magnified by rumour on every side; and the horror which
the English conceived at the thought of their homes being laid
open to those monsters, was only equalled by their indignation
against those who had conceived so treasonable and unnatural
a plot.  Besides this, the King having denied all knowledge
of such negotiations, the indignation of all loyal Churchmen
was excited against those who had so treasonably and
miserably done all they could to compromise the King's name, and
make him odious to all right-thinking Englishmen.  The
known actors in this affair being very few, consisting, indeed,
only of the Earl and Inglesant, and of the Jesuits (which last
was a vague and intangible designation, standing in the ordinary
English mind merely as a synonym for all that was wicked, base,
and dangerous), and the Earl being, moreover, out of reach, the
public indignation concentrated on Inglesant, and his life would
have been worth little had he fallen into the hands of the mob.
When the news of the fall of Chester and of Inglesant's arrest
and subsequent transference to the Parliamentary commander,
reached Oxford, the King sent for the Jesuit privately, and
received him in his cabinet at Christ Church.

The King appeared anxious and ill, and as though he did
not know where to turn or what to do.

"You have heard the news, Father, I suppose," he said.
"Lord Biron, as well as Digby, has taken upon himself to
keep the King's conscience, and know the King's mind better
than he does himself.  How many Kings there are in England
now, I do not know, but I have ever found my most faithful
servants my most strict masters.  You know Jack Inglesant
has been given over to the rebels?  What are we to do for him?"

"Your Majesty can do nothing," said the Jesuit.  "All
that could be done has been done, and as far as may be has
been done well.  All that your Majesty has to do now is to
be silent."

"Then Inglesant must be given up," said the King.

"He must be given up.  Your Majesty has no choice."

"Another!" said the King, bitterly.  "Strafford, whose
blood tinges every sight I see!  Laud, Glamorgan, now
another!  What right have I to suppose my servants will
be faithful to me, when I give them up, one by one, without
a word?"

"Your Majesty does not discriminate," said the Jesuit;
"your good heart overpowers your clearer reason.  It is as
much your duty, for the good of the State, to be deaf to the
voice of private feeling and friendship, as it is for your servants
to be deaf to all but the call of duty to your Majesty; and
this your servants know, and do not dream that they have any
cause to complain.  Strafford and the Archbishop both acknowledged
this, and now it will be the same again.  There is no
fear of John Inglesant, your Majesty."

"No," said the King, rising and pacing the closet with
unequal steps, "there is no fear of John Inglesant, I believe
you.  There is no fear that any man will betray his friends,
and be false to his Order and his plighted word, except the
King!—except the King!"

Apparently the Jesuit did not think it worth while to
answer this outbreak, for he said, after a pause,—

"Your Majesty has written to Glamorgan?"

"Yes, I have told him to keep quiet," said the King,
sitting down again; "he is in no danger—I am clear of him.
But do you mean to say, Father, that Inglesant must be left
to the gallows without a word?"

"No, I do not say that, your Majesty," said the other; "the
rebels will do nothing in a hurry, you may depend.  They will
do all they can to get something from him which may be
useful against your Majesty, and it will be months before they
have done with him.  I have good friends among them, and
shall know all that happens.  When they are tired of him, and
the thing is blown over a little, I shall do what I can."

"And you are sure of him," said the King; "any evidence
signed by him would be fatal indeed."

"Your Majesty may be quite easy," said the other, "I am
sure of him."

"They will threaten him with the gallows," said the King,
"life is sweet to most men."

"I suppose it is," said the Jesuit, as if it were an assertion
he had heard several times lately, and began to think he must
believe; "I have no experience in such matters.  But,
however sweet it may be, its sweetness will not induce John
Inglesant to utter a syllable against the cause in which he is
engaged."

"You are very confident of your pupil," said the King.  "I
hope you will not be deceived."

The Jesuit smiled, but did not seem to think it necessary
to make any further protestations, and soon after left the closet.

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Inglesant remained some time in confinement at St. James's
before he was summoned before the Parliamentary Committee;
but at the beginning of March another of those extraordinary
events occurred which seemed arranged by some providential
hand to fight against the King.  A packet boat put into
Padstow, in Cornwall, supposing it to be a royal garrison; on
discovering their mistake, and some slight resistance having been
overpowered, the captain threw a packet of letters and some
loose papers overboard.  The papers were lost, but the packet
was fished out of the sea, and proved to contain the most
important of the correspondence from Lord Digby, describing
the discovery of the plot, the articles of agreement with the
Papists, the copy of the warrant from the King to the Earl of
Glamorgan, and several letters from the Earl himself, all
asserting his innocence of any actions but those directed and
approved by the King.  These letters were published *in extenso*
by the Parliament in a pamphlet which appeared on the 17th
of March.  The information contained in these papers was of
the greatest use to the Parliament, for, though there was nothing
in them absolutely to inculpate the King (indeed the letters of
Lord Digby, as far as they went, were strong proofs to the
contrary), yet it placed it in their power to make assertions and
inquiries based upon fact, and it brought forward Lord
Glamorgan as an evidence on their side.  If they could now have
produced a confession signed by Inglesant to the same effect,
the case would have been almost complete—at any rate few
would have hesitated to call the moral proof certain.  A
Committee of the Commons was appointed to examine Inglesant,
and he was summoned to appear before them.

On the day appointed he was brought from St. James's
across the park in a sedan, guarded by soldiers, and not being
recognised escaped without any notice from the passers-by.

The Committee sat in one of the rooms of the Parliament
House, and began by asking Inglesant his name.

"I understand," said one of the members savagely, "that
your name is Inglesant, of a family of courtiers and sycophants,
who for generations have earned their wretched food by doing
any kind of dirty work the Court set them; and that they
never failed to do it so as to earn a reputation even among
the mean reptiles of the Court precincts.  This is true, is it
not?  And you have held some of those posts which an honest
man would scorn."

Inglesant had recovered his health during his imprisonment,
thanks to rest and sufficient food, and his manner was
quiet and confident.  To the attack of the Parliamentarian he
answered simply,—

"My name is Inglesant; I have been Esquire of the Body
to the King."

The Chairman checked the warmth of the Puritan, and
began to question Inglesant concerning the plot, endeavouring
to throw him off his guard by mentioning facts which had come
to their knowledge through the recent discoveries.  But
Inglesant was prepared with his story.  Though he was surprised
at the amount of knowledge the Committee possessed, yet he
stood to his assertion that he knew nothing of any instructions
except those which he had himself received, and that the
whole plot originated with the Jesuits, as far as he knew, and
had every reason to believe.  When he was asked how he, a
Protestant and a Churchman, could lend himself to such a
plot, he replied that he was very much inclined to the Romish
Church, and that he thought the King's affairs so desperate
that the plan of obtaining help from the Irish rebels appeared
to him and to Father St. Clare as almost the only resource
left to them.  The
Committee, finding gentle means fail, adopted a sterner tone,
telling him he was guilty of high treason, without benefit, and
that he might certainly, on his own confession, be condemned
to the gallows without further trial.  They then offered him a
statement to sign, which, they said, they had sure information
contained nothing but the truth.  Inglesant looked at it, and
saw that in truth it did contain a very fair statement of what
had really taken place.

He replied that it was impossible for him to sign anything
so opposite to what he had himself confessed; and that even if
he did, no one would believe so monstrous a statement, and one
so contrary to the known opinions and professions of the King.
The Committee then asked him why, if the King's commission
was forged, it was kept back, and where it was?

Inglesant said that "the Lord Biron had it, having forcibly
taken it from him, and refused to return it, telling him plainly
that he should keep it as evidence against him."

He observed that this impressed the Committee, and he was
soon after dismissed.  He returned to St. James's the same way
that he came, but found a strong guard summoned to attend
him; for, the news of his examination having got wind, the
crowd assembled at the Parliament House, and accompanied
him, with hootings and insults of every kind, across the Park.

As one result of his examination, Inglesant was removed
from St. James's, and sent by water to the Tower, where a close
confinement in a small cell, and insufficient diet, again affected
his health.  He formed the idea that the Parliament intended
to weaken him with long imprisonment, and so cause him to
confess what they wished; he feared that the state of his health,
and especially the extent to which his brain was affected, would
assist this purpose; and this fear preyed upon him, and made
him nervous and miserable—dreading above everything that,
his mind being clouded, he might say something inadvertently
which might discover the truth.  His health rapidly declined,
and he became again thin and worn.  The Parliament Committee
now spread a report that the royal party, who pretended
to indicate the offenders in this plot, did not really do so; and
that in particular they kept back the originals of the King's
warrants and commissions, which they asserted to be forgeries,
and refused to bring them forward and submit them to proof,
which would be the surest way of making the fact of the King's
ignorance of them certain.  They did this because they knew
Lord Biron's character as a man of unstained and unsuspicious
honour, and they calculated that such a taunt as this would be
certain to bring him forward with the commission, which he had
in his keeping, and which they trusted to be able to prove was
a genuine document.  Their policy had the desired effect.  Lord
Biron, who was at Newstead, without consulting any one, sent
up a special messenger to the Speaker to say that, a safe-conduct
being granted him, he would come up to London, and appear
before the Committee of Parliament, bringing the commission,
which he asserted was a palpable forgery, with him.  The
safe-conduct was immediately sent him, and he came up.  The
Committee were rejoiced at the success of their policy, and fixed
a day for him to appear before them, and at the same time
ordered Inglesant to be fetched up from the Tower to be
confronted with his lordship.  The affair caused the greatest
interest, and the Committee Room was thronged with all who
could command sufficient influence to obtain entrance, and crowds
filled the corridors and the precincts of the House.  Lord Biron
was introduced, and gave his evidence with great clearness,
describing the arrest of Inglesant, his suspicious conduct, and
his attempt to induce Lord Biron to destroy the warrant; and
finally produced the paper, and handed it to the clerk of the
Committee.  The Chairman then
ordered Inglesant to be brought in through a side door; and
he came up to the bar.

His appearance was so altered, and his manner so cowed
and embarrassed, that a murmur ran through the room, and
Lord Biron could not restrain an exclamation of pity.
Inglesant started when he saw him, for he had been kept in
complete ignorance of what had occurred, and his mind
immediately recurred to the commission.  He was evidently
making the greatest efforts to collect himself, and keep
himself calm.  Nothing could have told more against himself,
or in favour of the part he was playing, than his whole
demeanour.

He was examined minutely on the circumstances of his
arrest, and related everything exactly as it occurred, which,
indeed, he had done before—both his relations tallying
exactly with Lord Biron's.

When asked what his business was in Chester, he said—to
prepare the Cavaliers to receive the Irish help; and
added that he had been obliged to communicate a great deal
more to Lord Biron than he had wished or intended, and that
Lord Biron had always manifested the greatest suspicion of
him and of his mission.

He gave his evidence steadily, but without looking at
Lord Biron, or indeed at any one.

When asked why he wished to recover possession of the
commission, or at least to induce Lord Biron to burn it, he
replied,—

"Lest it should serve as evidence against myself."

This seemed to most present a very natural answer; yet it
caused Lord Biron to start, and to fix a searching glance on
Inglesant.

As a gentleman of high breeding and instinctive honour,
it jarred upon his instinct, and conveyed a sudden suspicion
that Inglesant was acting.  That the latter might be so utterly
perverted by his Jesuit teaching as to be lost to all sense of
right and truth, he was prepared to believe; that he might
have been led into treason knowingly or inadvertently, he was
willing to think; but the low and pitiful motive that he gave
was so opposed to his previous character, notorious for a
fantastic elevation and refinement of sentiment, that it
supposed him a monster, or that some miracle had been wrought
upon him.  A terrible doubt—a doubt which Biron had once
or twice already seen faintly in the distance—approached
nearer and looked him in the face.

The Committee had examined the commission one by
one, comparing it with some of the King's writing which they
had before them; finally it passed into the hands of a
Mr. Greenway, a lawyer, and skilled in questions of evidence and
of writing, who examined it attentively.

It was curious to see the behaviour of the two men under
examination while this was going on; Lord Biron, as a noble
gentleman, from whose mind the doubt of a few minutes ago
had passed, standing erect and confident, looking haughtily
and freely at the expert, secure in his own honour and in that
of his King; Inglesant, cowed and anxious, leaning forward
over the bar, his eyes fixed also on the lawyer—pale, his lips
twitching,—the very picture of the guilty prisoner in the dock.

The expert looked at both the men curiously, then threw
down the paper contemptuously.

"It is a palpable forgery," he said; "and not even a
clever imitation of the King's hand."

And indeed, from some accident or other, the letters were,
some of them, formed in a manner unusual to the King.

Inglesant, weakened with illness and anxiety, could not
restrain a movement of intense relief.  He drew a long breath
and stood erect, as if relieved from an oppressive weight.  He
raised his eyes, and they caught those of Lord Biron, which
had been attracted towards him, and were fixed full on his face.

Biron started again; there was not the least doubt that
Inglesant rejoiced in the proof of the forgery of the warrant.
That terrible doubt stood close now before his lordship and
grasped him by the throat.

Suppose, after all, this man whom he had imprisoned and
despised, whose mission he had thwarted—this man whom all
the royal party were calling by every contemptuous name, who
stood there pale, cowed, beaten down;—suppose, after all, that
this man, alone against these terrible odds, was all the time
fighting a desperate battle for the King's honour, forsaken by
God and men!  But the consequences which would follow, if
this view of the matter were the true one, were, in Lord Biron's
estimation, too terrible to be thought of.

"I wish to say," said Inglesant, looking straight before
him, "that the Lord Biron obtained possession of that paper
when he was in possession of information of which I was
ignorant.  His lordship would probably have behaved
differently, but he thought he was speaking to a thief."

There was something in this covert reproach, so worded,
which so exactly accorded with what was passing in Lord
Biron's mind that it cut him to the quick.

"I assure you, Mr. Inglesant," he said eagerly, "you are
mistaken.  Whatever I may think of the cause in which you
are engaged, I have always wished to behave to you as to a
gentleman.  If you consider that you have cause of complaint
against me, I shall be ready, when these unhappy complications
are well over, as I trust they may be, to give you
satisfaction and to beg your pardon afterwards."

He said these last words so pointedly that Inglesant started,
and saw at once that his fear had been well founded, and that,
thrown off his guard by the success of the examination of the
warrant, he had made a mistake.  He looked up quickly at
Biron—a strange terror in his face—and their eyes met.

That they understood each other is probable; at any rate
Inglesant's look was so full of warning that Biron understood
that if nothing more, and restrained himself at once.  All this
had passed almost unnoticed by the Committee, who were
consulting together.

Lord Biron left the room, and Inglesant was taken back
to the Tower as he had come.  Mr. Secretary Milton, who
had been present as a spectator, left the Parliament House
and proceeded at once to Clerkenwell Green to the house of
General Cromwell, and related to him and to General Ireton,
who was with him, what had occurred.

"They have gained nothing by getting this warrant," he
said; "nay, you have lost rather.  You have brought up Lord
Biron, who comes forward in the light of day and with the
utmost confidence, and challenges this paper to be a forgery,
and your own lawyers bear him out in it.  I have not the least
doubt it is the King's; but some of the letters, either purposely
or more probably by accident, are not in his usual hand, and
the best judges cannot agree on these matters.  Out of
Inglesant you will get nothing.  He is a consummate actor, as I
have known of old.  He is prepared at every point, and
carefully trained by his masters the Jesuits.  I know these men,
and have seen them both here and abroad.  Acting on select
natures the training is perfect.  They will go to death more
indifferently than to a Court ball.  You may rack them to the
extremity of anguish, and in the delirium of pain they will
say what they have been trained to say, and not the truth.
You may wear him out with fasting and anxiety until he makes
some mistake; he made two to-day, besides one which was a
necessity of the case,—for I do not see what else he could have
said,—that was so slight that no one saw it but Biron.
Weakened by anxiety, doubtless, he could not restrain a movement
of relief when the expert declared the warrant a forgery;
Biron saw that too, for I watched him.  Last, which was the
greatest mistake of all, and would show that his training is not
entirely perfect, were we not to make allowance for his broken
health, he forgot his part, and suffered his passion to get the
better of him, and to taunt Lord Biron in such a way that
Biron, who I think till then honestly believed the King's word,
very nearly let out the truth in his astonishment.  But what
do you gain by all this?  It rather adds to the apparent truth
of the man's story, and gives life to his evidence.  Nothing
but his written testimony will be of any use, and this you will
never get."

"He shall be tried for his life at any rate," said Cromwell.

"You have threatened him with that already."

"Threatening is one thing," replied the General; "to stand
beneath the gallows condemned to death another."

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News of the taking of Chester and of the arrest of John
Inglesant on such a terrible charge—a charge at once of
treason against the King, his country, and his religion—as it
travelled at once over England, reached Gidding in due course.
It caused the greatest dismay and distress in that quiet
household.  About the middle of April a gentleman of Huntingdon,
a Parliament man, who had lately come from London, dined
with the family.  He told them during dinner that he had
been present in the Committee room when Mr. Inglesant had
been examined.  When dinner was over Mr. John Ferrar, who
was now at the head of the family, remained at table with this
gentleman, being anxious to hear more, and Mary Collet also
stayed to hear what she could of her friend, watching every
word with eager eyes.  In that family, where there was nothing
but love and kindliness and entire sympathy, it was thought
only natural that she should do so, and no ill-natured thought
occurred to any member of it.  The Parliament man described
more at full the examination before the Committee, and
Inglesant's worn and guilty appearance,—sad news, indeed, to both
his hearers.  He described Lord Biron's examination and the
production of the forged warrant.

"And did John Inglesant admit that it was forged?" said
Mr. Ferrar.

"Yes, he said from his own knowledge that it was
prepared by Father St. Clare the Jesuit."

"It is a strange world," said Mr. Ferrar dreamily, "and
the Divine call seems to lead some of us into slippery
places—scarcely the heavenly places in Christ of which the Apostle
dreamt."

The gentleman did not understand him, nor did Mary
Collet altogether until afterwards.

Presently Mr. Ferrar said,—

"And what do you think of it all?  Was the warrant
forged or not?"

"I am somewhat at a loss what to think," said the other,
"I am not, as you know, Mr. Ferrar, and without wishing to
offend you, an admirer of the King, but I do not believe him
to be a fool and mad.  There is no doubt that he has tampered
with the Papists throughout, yet I cannot think, unless he is
in greater extremities than we suppose, that he would have
practised so wild and mad a scheme as this one of the Irish
rebels and murderers.  On the other hand, I can conceive
nothing too bad for the Jesuits to attempt; and it seems to me
that I can discern something of their hand in this—an
introduction of an armed Papist force into the country, to be joined,
doubtless, by all the English Papists; only I should have
thought they could have procured this without bringing in the
King's name, but doubtless they had some reason for this also.
The general opinion among the Parliament men is that the
warrant is the King's, and that he has planned the whole thing.
On the other hand, it is plain the Cavaliers do not believe it,
or Lord Biron would never have come boldly up of his own
accord, and brought up the warrant so confidently."

"But does not the warrant itself prove something one way
or the other?" said Mr. Ferrar.

"These things are very difficult to judge upon," said the
gentleman.  "The expert to whom the Committee gave it
pronounced it a forgery upon the spot, but he has been greatly
blamed for precipitancy; and others to whom it has been shown
pronounce it genuine.  Some of the letters certainly are not
like the King's, but the style of the hand is the King's, they
say, even in these unusual letters.  By the way, if you had
seen Inglesant's guilty look when the expert took the paper in
his hand, you would say with me it was a forgery.  You could
not, to my mind, have a stronger proof."

"But if the King had ordered this, would not he help
Mr. Inglesant?" Mary Collet ventured to say.

"Help? madam," said the gentleman warmly, "when did
the King help any of his friends?"

"Whichever way it is," said Mr. Ferrar mildly, "he cannot
help.  To help would be to condemn himself in public opinion,
which in these unhappy distractions he dare not do.  Did Lord
Biron speak to Mr. Inglesant, sir?"

"Very little.  They taunted each other once, and seemed
about to come to blows.  All the evidence went to show that
Lord Biron suspected him from the first."

The gentleman soon after left.  Mr. Ferrar returned to
the dining-room after seeing him to his horse, and found
Mary Collet sitting where they had left her, lost in sad and
humiliating thought.

He sat down near her and said kindly,—

"My dear Mrs. Mary, I hardly know which of the two
alternatives is the best for your friend—for my friend; but it is
better at least for you to know the truth, and I think I can
now pretty much tell which is the true one.  If this plot were
altogether the Jesuits', John Inglesant would not say it.  If
the King had no hand in it, proof would be given a thousand
ways without having recourse to this.  There are other facts
which to my mind are conclusive that this way of thinking is
the right one, but I need not tell them all to you.  What I
have said I should say to none but you.  You will see that it
is of the utmost importance that you say nothing of it to any.
I believe you may comfort yourself in thinking that, according
to the light which is given him, John Inglesant is following
what he believes to be his duty, and none can say at any rate
that it is a smooth and easy path he has chosen to walk in."

Mary Collet thanked him, her beautiful eyes full of tears,
and left the room.

A few days afterwards the news ran like wildfire over
England that the King had left Oxford secretly, and that no one
knew where he was; and a night or two afterwards Mr. John
Ferrar was called up by a gentleman who said he was Dr. Hudson,
the King's Chaplain, and that the King was alone, a few paces
from the door, and that he would immediately fetch him in.

Mr. Ferrar received His Majesty with all possible respect.
But fearing that Gidding, from the known loyalty of the family,
might be a suspected place, for better concealment he
conducted the King to a private house at Coppingford, an obscure
village at a small distance from Gidding, and not far from
Stilton.  It was a very dark night, and but for the lantern
Mr. Ferrar carried, they could not have known the way.  As it
was, they lost their way once, and wandered for some time in
a ploughed field.  Mr. Ferrar always spoke with the utmost
passionate distress of this night, as of a night the incidents of
which must have awakened the compassion of every feeling
heart, however biassed against the King.  As a proof of the
most affecting distress, the King, he said, was serene and even
cheerful, and said he was protected by the King of kings.
His Majesty slept at Coppingford, but early in the May
morning he was up, and parted from Mr. Ferrar, going towards
Stamford.  Mr. Ferrar returned to his house, and two days
after it was known that the King had given himself up to the
Scottish army.





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   CHAPTER XIV.

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Inglesant remained in prison, and would have thought
that he had been forgotten, but that every few weeks he
was sent for by the Committee and examined.  The Committee
got no new facts from him, and indeed probably did
not expect to get any; but it was very useful to the Parliament
party to keep him before the public gaze as a Royalist and a
Jesuit.  It was a common imputation upon the Cavaliers that
they were Papists, and anything that strengthened this belief
made the King's party odious to the nation.  Here was a
servant of the King's, an avowed Jesuit, and one self-condemned
in the most terrible crimes.  It is true he was disowned
by the royal party, apparently sincerely; but the general
impression conveyed by his case was favourable to the
Parliament, and they therefore took care to keep it before the world.
These examinations were looked forward to by Inglesant with
great pleasure, the row up the river and the sight of fresh faces
being such a delight to him.  He was not confined to his
room, being allowed to walk at certain hours in the court of
the Tower, and he found a box containing a few books, a
Lucretius, and a few other Latin books, probably left by some
former occupant of the cell.  These were not taken from him,
and he read and re-read them, especially the Lucretius, many
times.  They saved him from utter prostration and despair,—they,
and a secret help which he acknowledged afterwards,—a
help, which to men of his nature certainly does come upon
prayer to God, to whatever source it may be ascribed;—a help
which in terrible sleepless hours, in hours of dread weariness
of life, in hours of nervous pain more terrible than all, calms
the heart and soothes the brain, and leaves peace and cheerfulness
and content in the place of restlessness and despair.
Inglesant said that repeating the name of Jesus simply in the
lonely nights kept his brain quiet when it was on the point of
distraction, being of the same mind as Sir Charles Lucas,
when, "many times calling upon the sacred name of Jesus,"
he was shot dead at Colchester.

More than a year passed over him.  From the scraps of
news he could gather from his jailer, and from the soldiers in
the court during his walks, he learnt that the King had been
given up by the Scots, had escaped from Hampton Court, had
been retaken and sent to Carisbrooke, and was soon to come
to London, the man said, for his trial.

It was soon after he had learnt this last news that his jailer
suddenly informed him that he was to be tried for his life.

Accordingly, soon after, a warrant arrived from Bradshaw,
the President of the Council of State, to bring him before that
body.

The Council sat in Essex House, and some gentlemen,
who had surrendered Pembroke upon terms that they should
depart the country in three days, but—accounting it base to
desert their prince, and hoping that there might be further
occasion of service to His Majesty,—had remained in London,
were upon their trial.  When Inglesant arrived with his guard
these gentlemen were under examination, and one of them,
who had a wife and children, was fighting hard for his life,
arguing the case step by step with the lawyers and the Council.
Inglesant was left waiting in the anteroom several hours; from
the conversation he overheard, the room being constantly full
of all sorts of men coming and going—soldiers, lawyers,
divines—he learnt that the King's trial was coming on very
soon, and he fancied that his name was mentioned as though
the nearness of the King's trial had something to do with his
own being hurried on.  It was a cold day, and there was a
large fire in the anteroom.  Inglesant had had nothing to eat
since morning, and felt weak and faint.  He wished the other
examinations over that his own might come on; his, he thought,
would not take long.  At last the gentlemen were referred to
the Council of War, to be dealt with as spies, and came out
of the Council chamber with their guards.  The one was a
plain country gentleman, and neither of them knew Inglesant,
but, stopping a moment in the anteroom, while the guard
prepared themselves, one of them asked his name, saying he was
afraid they had kept him waiting a long time.  This was
Colonel Eustace Powell, and Inglesant met him again when
he thought he had only a few minutes to live.

The Council debated whether they should hear Inglesant
that day, as it was now late in the afternoon, and the candles
were lighted, but finally he was sent for into the Council.

As soon as he came to the bar, Bradshaw asked him suddenly
when he saw the King last, to which he replied that he
had not seen the King since Naseby field.

"You were at Naseby, then?" said Bradshaw.

"Yes," said Inglesant.

"And you ran away, I suppose?"

"Yes," said Johnny, "I ran away."

"Then you are a coward as well as a traitor," said Bradshaw.

"I am not braver than other men," said Inglesant.

Inglesant was then examined more in form, but very
shortly; everything he said having been said so often before.

The President then told him that, by his own confession,
he was guilty of death, and should be hanged at once if he persisted
in it, but that the Council did not believe his confession—indeed,
had evidence and confessions from others to prove the
reverse; and therefore, if he persisted in his course, he was his
own murderer, and could hope for no mercy from God.  That
if he would sign the declaration which they offered him, which
they knew to be true, and which stated that he had only acted
under the King's orders, he should not only have his life
spared, but should very shortly be set at liberty.

To this he replied that if they had evidence to prove what
they said, they did not want his; that he could not put his
name to evidence so contrary to what he had always confessed,
and was prepared to stand by to death; that, as to his fate
before God, he left his soul in His hands, who was more
merciful than man.

To this Bradshaw replied that they were most merciful to
him, and desired to save him from himself; that, if he died,
he died with a lie upon his lips, from his own obstinacy and
suicide.

Making no answer to this, he was ordered back to the
Tower, and warned to prepare himself for death.  He saw
clearly that their object was to bring out evidence signed by
him on the eve of the King's trial, which no doubt would have
been a great help to their cause.  As he went back in his
barge to the Tower, he wondered why they did not publish
something with his name attached, without troubling themselves
about his consent.  As they went down the river, the
darkness became denser, and the boat passed close to many
other wherries, nearly running them down; the lights on the
boats and the barges glimmered indistinctly, and made the
course more difficult and uncertain.  They shot the bridge
under the mass of dark houses and irregular lights, and
proceeded across the pool towards the Tower stairs.  The pool
was somewhat clear of ships, and the lanterns upon the
wharves and such vessels as were at anchor made a clearer
light than that above the bridge.  As they crossed the pool, a
wherry, rowed by a single man, came towards them obliquely
from the Surrey side, so as to approach near enough to discern
their persons, and then, crossing their bows, suffered itself to
be run down before the barge could be stopped.  The waterman
climbed in at the bows, as his own wherry filled and went
down.  He seemed a stupid, surly man, and might be
supposed to be either deaf or drunk.  To the abuse of the soldiers
and watermen he made no answer but that he was an up-river
waterman, and was confused by the lights and the current of
the bridge.  The officer called him forward into the stern, and
as he came towards them Inglesant knew him in spite of his
perfect disguise.  It was the Jesuit.  He answered as many
of the officer's questions as he appeared to understand, and
took no manner of notice of Inglesant, who of course appeared
entirely indifferent and uninterested.  When they landed at
the stairs, the waterman, with a perfectly professional manner,
swung himself over the side into the water, and steadied the
boat for the gentlemen to land, which act the officer took as
an awkward expression of respect and gratitude.  As Inglesant
passed him he put his hand up for his to rest on, and Johnny
felt a folded note passed into it.  Without the least pause, he
followed the officer across the Tower wharf, and was conducted
to his room.  As soon as he was alone he examined the paper,
which contained these words only:—

"You are not forgotten.  Keep on a little longer.  The
end is very near."

It made little impression upon him, nor did it influence his
after conduct, which had already been sufficiently determined
upon.  He expected very little help from any one, though he
believed that Father St. Clare would do what he could.  The
Jesuit would have died himself at any moment had his purpose
required it, and he could not think that he would regard as of
much importance the fall of another soldier in the same rank.
He was mistaken, but he did not know it; the Jesuit, beneath
his placid exterior, retained for his favourite and cleverest pupil
an almost passionate regard, and would have done for him far
more than he would have thought worth the doing for himself.
Meanwhile, Inglesant translated his words into a different
language, and thought more than once that doubtless they were
very true, and that, though in a sense not intended, the end
was very near.

This took place at the beginning of December, and about a
week afterwards the jailer advised Inglesant to prepare for
death, for the warrant to behead him was signed, and would be
put into execution that day week at Charing Cross.  He
immediately sent a petition to the Council of State, that a Priest,
either of the Roman Catholic or the English Church, he was
indifferent which, might be sent him.  To this an answer was
sent immediately that he was dying with a lie upon his lips, and
that the presence of no priest or minister could be of any use
to him, and would not be granted.  The same day a Presbyterian
minister was admitted to him, who used the same arguments
for some time without effect, representing the fearful
condition that Inglesant was in as an unrepentant sinner.
Inglesant began to regret that he had made any application,
and this regret was increased two days afterwards when a man,
who offered him certain proofs that he was a Roman Catholic
Priest, was admitted, and gave him the same advice, refusing
him Absolution and the Sacrament unless he complied.  Upon
this Inglesant became desperate, and refused to speak again.
The Priest waited some time and then left, telling him he
was eternally lost.

This was the severest trial he had yet met with; but his
knowledge of the different parties in the Romish Church, and
the extent to which they subordinated their religion to their
political intrigues, was too great to allow him to feel it so much
as he otherwise would.  He resigned himself to die unassisted.
He applied for an English Prayer Book, but this also was
refused.  He remembered the old monastic missals he had
possessed at Westacre, and thought over all those days with
the tenderest regret.

The fatal morning arrived at last.  Inglesant had passed
a sleepless night; he had not the slightest fear of death, but
excitement made sleep impossible.  He thought often of his
brother, but he had learned that he was in Paris alone; and
even had he been in England, he felt no especial desire to
see him under circumstances which could only have been
intensely painful.  Mary Collet he thought of night and day, but
he knew it was impossible to obtain permission to see her, and
he was tired of fruitless requests.  He was tired and wearied
of life, and only wished the excitement and strain over, that he
might be at rest.  It struck him that the greatest harshness
was used towards him; his food was very poor and of the
smallest quantity, and no one was admitted to him; but he
did not wonder at this, knowing that his case differed from any
other Loyalist prisoner.

At about eight o'clock on the appointed morning, the same
officer who had conducted him before entered his room with
the lieutenant of the Tower, bringing the warrant for his death.
The lieutenant parted from him in a careless and indifferent
way.  They went by water and landed by York Stairs, and
proceeded by back ways to a house nearly adjoining
Northumberland House, facing the wide street about Charing Cross.
From one of the first floor windows a staircase had been
contrived, leading up to a high scaffold or platform on which the
block was fixed.  Inglesant had not known till that morning
whether he was to be hanged or beheaded; like every other
thought, save one, it was indifferent to him—that one, how
he should keep his secret to the last.  In the room of this
house opening on the scaffold, he found Colonel Eustace
Powell, whom he had met at Essex House, who was to precede
him to death.  He greeted Inglesant with great kindness, but,
as Johnny thought, with some reserve.  He was a very pious
man, strongly attached to the Protestant party in the Church
of England, and he had passed the last three days entirely in
the company of Dr. S——, who was then in the room with
him, engaged in religious exercises, and his piety and
resignation had attached the Doctor to him very much.  The Doctor
now proceeded to ask the Colonel, before Inglesant and the
others, a series of questions, in order that he should give some
account of his religion, and of his faith, charity, and repentance,
to all of which he answered fully; that he acknowledged his
death to be a just punishment of God for his former sins;
that he acknowledged that his just due was eternal punishment,
from which he only expected to escape through the satisfaction
made by Christ, by which Mediator, and none other, he hoped
to be saved.  The Doctor then asking him if, by a miracle
(not to put him in vain hope), God should save him that day,
what life he would resolve to lead hereafter?  he replied, "It
is a question of great length, and requires a great time to
answer.  Men in such straits would promise great things, but
a vow I would make, and by God's help endeavour to keep it,
though I would first call some friend to limit how far I should
make a vow, that I might not make a rash one, and offer the
sacrifice of fools."

In answer to other questions, he said,—"He wished well
to all lawful governments; that he did not justify himself in
having ventured against the existing one; he left God to judge
it whether it be righteous, and if it be, it must stand.  He
desired to make reparation to any he had injured, and he
forgave his enemies."

The Doctor then addressed him at length, saying,—

"Sir, I shall trouble you very little farther.  I thank you
for all those heavenly colloquies I have enjoyed by being in
your company these three days, and truly I am sorry I must
part with so heavenly an associate.  We have known one
another heretofore, but never so Christianlike before.  I have
rather been a scholar to learn from you than an instructor.  I
wish this stage, wherein you are made a spectacle to God,
angels, and the world, may be a school to all about you; for
though I will not diminish your sins, yet I think there are few
here have a lighter load upon them than you have, and I only
wish them your repentance, and that measure of faith that God
hath given you, and that measure of courage you have attained
from God."

The Colonel, having wished all who were present in the
room farewell, went up on the scaffold accompanied by the
Divine.  The scaffold was so near that Inglesant and the
officers and the guards, who stood at the window screened
from the sight of the people, could hear every word that passed.
They understood that the whole open place was densely
crowded, but they could scarcely believe it, the silence was so
profound.

Colonel Powell made a speech of some length, clearing
himself of Popery in earnest language, not blaming his judges,
but throwing the guilt on false witnesses, whom, however, he
forgave.  He bore no malice to the present Government, nor
pretended to decide controversies, and spoke touchingly of the
sadness and gloom of violent death, and how mercifully he was
dealt with in being able to face it with a quiet mind.  He
finally thanked the authorities for their courtesy in granting him
the death of the axe—a death somewhat worthy of his blood,
answerable to his birth and qualification—which courtesy had
much helped towards the pacification of his mind.

Inglesant supposed the end was now come, but to his
surprise the Doctor again stepped forward, and before all the
people repeated the whole former questions, to each of which
the Colonel replied in nearly the same words.

Then, stepping forward again to the front of the scaffold,
the Colonel said, speaking to the people in a calm and tender
voice,—

"There is not one face that looks upon me, though many
faces, and perhaps different from me in opinion and practice
but methinks hath something of pity in it; and may that
mercy which is in your hearts now, be meted to you when
you have need of it!  I beseech you join with me in prayer."

The completest silence prevailed, broken only by a faint
sobbing and whispering sound from the excited and pitying
crowd.  Colonel Powell prayed for a quarter of an hour with
an audible voice; then taking leave again of his friends and
directing the executioner when to strike, he knelt down to the
block, and repeating the words, "Lord Jesus, receive me," his
head was smitten off with a blow.

A long deep groan, followed by an intense silence, ran
through the crowd.  The officer who accompanied Inglesant
looked at him with a peculiar expression; and, bowing in
return, Inglesant passed through the window, and as he
mounted the steps and his eyes came to the level of, and then
rose higher than the interposing scaffold, he saw the dense
crowd of heads stretching far away on every hand, the house
windows and roofs crowded on every side.  He scarcely saw
it before he almost lost the sight again.  A wild motion that
shook the crowd, a roar that filled the air and stunned the
sense, a yell of indignation, contempt, hatred, hands shook
and clutched at him, wild faces leaping up and staring at
him, cries of "Throw him over!" "Give over the Jesuit to
us!" "Throw over the Irish murderer!" made his senses reel
for a moment, and his heart stop.  It was inconceivable that
a crowd, the instant before placid, pitiful, silent, should in a
moment become like that, deafening, mad, thirsting for blood.
The amazing surprise and reaction produced the greatest
shock.  Hardening himself in a moment, he faced the people,
his hat in his hand, his pale face hard set, his teeth closed.
Once or twice he tried to speak; it would have been as easy
to drown the Atlantic's roar.  As he stood, apparently calm,
this terrible ordeal had the worst possible effect upon his
mind.  Other men came to the scaffold calm in mind,
prepared by holy thoughts, and the sacred, tender services of the
Church of their Lord, feeling His hand indeed in theirs.
They spoke, amid silence and solemn prayers, to a pitying
people, the name of Jesus on their lips, the old familiar words
whispered in their ears, good wishes, deference, respect all
around, their path seemed smooth and upward to the heavenly
gates.  But with him—how different!  Denied the aid of
prayer and sacrament, alone, overwhelmed with contempt
and hatred, deafened with the fiendish noise which racked his
excited and overwrought brain.  He was indifferent before;
he became hardened, fierce, contemptuous now.  Hated, he
hated again.  All the worst spirit of his party and of his age
became uppermost.  He felt as though engaged in a mad
duel with a despised yet too powerful foe.  He turned at
last to the officer, and said, his voice scarcely heard amid the
unceasing roar,—

"You see, sir, I cannot speak; do not let us delay any longer."

The officer hesitated, and glanced at another gentleman,
evidently a Parliament man, who advanced to Inglesant, and
offered him a paper, the purport of which he knew by this
time too well.

He told him in his ear that even now he should be set at
liberty if he would sign the true evidence, and not rush upon
his fate and lose his soul.  He repeated that the Parliament
knew he was not guilty, and had no wish to put him to death.

Inglesant saw the natural rejoinder, but did not think it
worth his while to make it.  Only get this thing over, and
escape from this maddening cry, tearing his brain with its
terrible roar, to something quieter at any rate.

He rejected the paper, and turning to the officer he said,
with a motion towards the people of inexpressible disdain,—

"These good people are impatient for the final act, sir;
do not let us keep them any longer."

The officer still hesitated, and looked at the Parliament
man, who shook his head, and immediately left the scaffold.
The officer then leaned on the rail, and spoke to his lieutenant
in the open space round the scaffold within the barriers.
The latter gave a word of command, and the soldiers fell out
of their rank so as to mingle with the crowd.  As soon as the
officer saw this manoeuvre completed, he took Inglesant's arm,
and said hurriedly,—"Come with me to the house, and
be quick."  Not knowing what he did, Inglesant followed
him hastily into the room.  They had need to be quick.  A
yell, to which the noise preceding it was as nothing—terrible
as it had been,—a shower of stones, smashing every pane of
glass, and falling in heaps at their feet,—showed the fury of a
maddened, injured people, robbed of their expected prey.

The officer looked at Inglesant, and laughed.

"I thought there would be a tumult," he said; "we are not
safe here; the troops will not oppose them, and they will
break down the doors.  Come with me."

He led Inglesant, still almost unconscious, through the
back entries and yards, the roar of the people still in their
ears, till they reached a stair leading to the river, where was a
wherry and two or three guards.  The officer stepped in after
Inglesant, crying, "Pull away!  The Tower!" then, leaning
back, and looking at Inglesant, he said,—

"You stood that very well.  I would rather mount the
deadliest breach than face such a sight as that."

Inglesant asked him if he knew what this extraordinary
change of intention meant.

To which he replied,—

"No; I acted to orders.  Probably you are of more use to
the Parliament alive than dead; besides, I fancy you have
friends.  I should think you are safe now."

That afternoon, a report spread through London that
Inglesant, the King's servant, had confessed all that was
required of him upon the scaffold, and had his life given him
in return.  This report was believed mostly by the lower
orders, especially those who had been before the scaffold; but
few of the upper classes credited it, and even these only did
so for a day or two.  The Parliament made no further effort;
and Inglesant was left quietly in prison.

This happened on the 19th of December, and on the 20th
of January the King's trial began.  That could scarcely be
called a trial which consisted entirely in a struggle between
the King and the Court on a point of law.  In the charge of
high treason, read in Westminster Hall against the King,
special mention was made of the commission which he "doth
still continue to the Earl of Ormond, and to the Irish rebels
and revolters associated with him, from whom further invasions
upon the land are threatened."  There appear to have been
no witnesses examined on this point, all that were examined
during three days, in the painted chamber, simply witnessing
to having seen the King in arms.  Indeed, all witnesses were
unnecessary, the sentence having been already determined
upon, and the King utterly refusing to plead or to
acknowledge the Court.  The King, indeed, never appeared to such
advantage as on his trial; he was perfectly unmoved by any
personal thought; no fear, hesitation, or wavering appeared in
his behaviour.  He took his stand simply on the indisputable
point of law that neither that Court, nor indeed any Court, had
any authority to try him.  To Bradshaw's assertion that he
derived his authority from the people, he in vain requested a
single precedent that the Monarchy of England was elective,
or had been elective, for a thousand years.  In his
abandonment of self, and his unshaken constancy to a point of
principle, he contrasted most favourably with his judges, whose
sole motive was self.  That none of the Parliamentary leaders
were safe while the King lived is probable; but sound
statesmanship does not acknowledge self-preservation as an excuse
for mistaken policy, and the murder of the King was not more
a crime than it was a blunder.  Having been condemned by
this unique Court, he was, with the most indecent haste, hurried
to his end.  A revolting coarseness marks every detail of the
tragic story; the flower of England on either side was beneath
the turf or beyond the sea, and the management of affairs was
left in the hands of butchers and brewers.  Ranting sermons,
three in succession, before a brewer in Whitehall, is the medium
to which the religious utterance of England is reduced, and
Ireton and Harrison in bed together, with Cromwell and
others in the room, signed the warrant for the fatal act.  The
horror and indignation which it impressed on the heart of the
people may be understood a little by the fact, that in no
country so much as in England the peculiar sacredness of
Monarchy has since been carried so far.  The impression
caused by his death was so profound, that, forty years afterwards,
when his son was arrested in his flight, the only thing
that during the whole course of that revolution caused the
least reaction in his favour was (according to the Whig Burnet)
the fear that the people conceived that the same thing was
going to be acted over again, and men remembered that saying
of King Charles—"The prisons of princes are not far from their
graves."  He walked across the park from the garden at
St. James's that January morning with so firm and quick a pace
that the guards could scarcely keep the step, and stepping
from his own banqueting house upon the scaffold, where the
men who ruled England had so little understood him as to
provide ropes and pulleys to drag him down in case of need,
he died with that calm and kingly bearing which none could
assume so well as he, and by his death he cast a halo of
religious sentiment round a cause which, without the final act,
would have wanted much of its pathetic charm, and struck
that keynote of religious devotion to his person and the
Monarchy which has not yet ceased to reverberate in the
hearts of men.

   |  "That thence the royal actor borne
   |  The tragic scaffold might adorn,
   |    While round the armed bands
   |    Did clap their bloody hands:
   |  He nothing common did, nor mean,
   |  Upon that memorable scene;
   |    But with his keener eye
   |    The axe's edge did try;
   |  Nor called the gods with vulgar spite
   |  To vindicate his helpless right,
   |    But bowed his comely head
   |    Down, as upon a bed."
   |                        *The Republican, Andrew Marvell.*





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.. _`CHAPTER XV.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XV.

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Inglesant remained in the Tower for several months
after the King's death.  The Lords Hamilton, Holland,
and Capel were the first who followed their royal master to
the block, and many other names of equal honour and little
inferior rank followed in the same list.  In excuse for the
murders of these men there is no other plea than, as in the
case of their master—self-preservation.  But the purpose was
not less abortive than the means were criminal.  The effect
produced on the country was one of awe and hatred to the
ruling powers.  Thousands of copies of the King's Book,
edged with black, were sold in London within the few days
following his death, and Milton was obliged to remonstrate
pitifully with the people for their unaccountable attachment to
their King.  The country, it is true, was for the moment
cowed, and, although individual gentlemen took every opportunity
to rise against the usurpers, and suffered death willingly
in such a cause, the mass of the people remained quiet.  The
country gentlemen indeed were, as a body, ruined; the head
of nearly every family was slain, and the widows and minors
had enough to do to arrange, as best they might, with the
Government agents who assessed the fines and compositions
upon malignants' estates.  It required a few years to elapse
before England would recover itself, and declare its real mind
unmistakably, which it very soon did; but during those years
it never sank into silent acquiescence to the great wrong that
had been perpetrated.  It is the custom to regard the
Commonwealth as a period of great national prosperity and peace.
Nothing can be a greater mistake.  There never was a
moment's peace during the whole of Cromwell's reign of power.
He began by destroying that Parliament utterly, for seeking
the arrest of five members of which the King lost his crown
and was put to death.  The best of the Republican party
were kept in prison or exiled, just as the King had been
seized and executed by Cromwell, independently of the
Parliament.  But the oppressed sections of the Puritan party never
ceased to hate the usurper as much as the Royalists did, and
the want of their support insured the fall of the Republic the
moment the master hand was withdrawn.

After a few months Inglesant's imprisonment was much
lighter; he was allowed abundance of food, and liberty to walk
in the courtyards of the Tower, and was allowed to purchase
any books he chose.  He had received a sum of money from
an unknown hand, which he afterwards found to have been
that of Lady Cardiff, his brother's wife, and this enabled him
to purchase several books and other conveniences.  He
remained in prison under these altered circumstances until
the end of January 1650, when, one morning, his door opened,
and without any announcement his brother was admitted to
see him.  Eustace was much altered; he was richly dressed,
entirely in the French mode, his manner and appearance were
altogether those of a favourite of the French Court, and he
spoke English with a foreign accent.  He greeted his brother
with great warmth, and it need not be said that Johnny was
delighted to see him.

Eustace told his brother at once that he was free, and
showed him the warrant for his liberation.

"I was in Paris," he said, "on the eve of starting for
England on affairs which I will explain to you in a moment,
when 'votre ami' the Jesuit came to see me.  He told me he
understood I was going to England on my private affairs, but
he thought possibly I might not object to do a little service
for my brother;—you know his manner.  He said if I would
apply in certain quarters, which he named to me, I should
find the way prepared, and no difficulties in obtaining your
release.  The words were true, and yesterday I received this
warrant.  As soon as it is convenient to you I shall be glad
for you to leave this sombre place, as I want you to come with
me to Oulton, to my wife,—my wife, who is indeed so perfectly
English in all her manners, as I shall proceed to explain to
you.  Since you were at Oulton my wife has been growing
worse and worse in health, and more and more eccentric and
crotchety; every new remedy and every fresh religious notion
she adopts at once.  She has filled the house with quacks, of
whom Van Helmont is chief, mountebanks, astrologers, and
physicians,—a fine collection of beaux-esprits.  The last time I
was there I could not see her once, though I stayed a fortnight;
she was in great misery, extremely ill, and said she was
near her last.  Since I have been in Paris I have been obliged
to give up many of my suppers with the French King and
Lords, from her letters saying she is at the point of death.
She is ill at present, and no one has seen her these ten days;
but I suppose it is much after the same sort; and she sends
me word that Van Helmont has promised that she shall not
be buried, but preserved by his art till I can come and see her.
To crown all, she has lately become a Quaker, and in my
family all the women about my wife, and most of the rest, are
Quakers, and Mons. Van Helmont is governor of that flock,—an
unpleasing sort of people, silent, sullen, and of reserved
conversation, though I hear one of the maids is the prettiest
girl in all the county.  These and all that society have free
access to my wife, but I believe Dr. More, the Platonist, who
is a scholar and gentleman, if an enthusiast, though he was in
the house all last summer, did not see her above once or twice.
She has been urging me for months to search all over Europe
for an eagle's stone, which she says is of great use in such
diseases as hers; and when I, at great labour and expense,
found her one, she sends back word that it is not one, but that
some of her quacks were able to decipher it at once, and that
it is a German stone, such as are commonly sold in London
at five shillings apiece.  I have grown learned in these stones,
by which the fairies in our grandfather's time used to preserve
the fruits from hail and storms.  There is a salamander stone.
This eagle stone is one made after a cabalistic art and under
certain stars, and engraved with the sign of an eagle.  I could
prove their virtue to you," he continued laughing, "throughout
all arts and sciences, as Divinity, Philosophy, Physic,
Astrology, Physiognomy, Divination of Dreams, Painting,
Sculpture, Music, and what not.  This affair of the stone, and
these reports of sickness and death, however, and doleful
stories of coffins prepared by art, and of open graves, would
not have brought me over, but for another circumstance of
much greater moment.  When I was in Italy and stayed some
time at Venice, and was desirous of engaging in some of the
intrigues and amusements of the city, I was recommended to
an Italian, a young man, who made himself useful to several
of the nobility, as a man who could introduce me to, and
show me more of that kind of pleasure, than any one else.  I
found him all that had been represented to me, and a great
deal more, for, not to tell you too long a story, he was an
adept at every sort of intrigue, and was acquainted at any rate
with every species of villany and vice that the Italians have
conceived.  The extent to which they carry these tastes of
theirs cannot be described, and from them the wildest of the
gallants of the rest of Europe start back amazed.  To cut this
short, I was very deeply engaged to him, and in return I held
some secrets of his, which he would not even now have known.
At last, upon some villanous proposal made by him, I drew
upon him.  We had been dining at one of the Casinos in
St. Mark's Place, and I would have run him through the body,
but the crowd of mountebanks, charlatans, and such stuff,
interposed and saved him.  I have often wished since I had.
He threatened me highly, but as I was a foreigner and
acquainted with most of the principal nobles, he could do me
no harm.  He endeavoured to have me assassinated more
than once, and one Englishman was set upon and desperately
wounded in mistake for me; but by advice I hired bravoes
myself who baffled his plots, for I had the longest purse.  I
knew nothing of him afterwards until I heard that he had left
Italy, a ruined and desperate man, whose life was sought by
many; and the next thing I heard, not many weeks ago, was
that he was at Oulton, having gained admission to my wife as
a foreign physician who had some especial knowledge of her
disease.  She fancies herself much the better for his nostrums,
and gives herself entirely to his directions, and I believe he
professes Quakerism, or some sort of foreign mysticism allied
to it, which has established him with the rest of her confidants.
I no sooner heard this pleasing information than I resolved to
come over to England at once, and at least drive away this
villain from my family, even if I had no other way to do it
than by running him through the body, as I might have done
in Italy.  I, however, sent a messenger to my wife to inform
her that I was coming, and on my reaching London a few
days ago, I found him waiting for me with a packet from
Oulton.  In a letter my wife desires me earnestly not to come
to Oulton to see her, as she is assured by good hands that
some imminent danger awaits me if I do, and she encloses
this horoscope, which no doubt one of her astrologers has
prepared for her.  Now I have no doubt the Italian is at the
bottom of all this, and that, at his instigation, the horoscope
has been drawn out; yet I confess that it appears to me to
have something about it that looks like the truth, something
beyond what would be written at the instigation of an enemy.
You can read it and judge for yourself.  I have dabbled a
little in astrology as in other arts."

John Inglesant took the paper from his brother and examined
it carefully.  At the top was an astrological scheme, or
drawing of the heavens, taken at some moment when the
intention of Eustace to come to Oulton had first become
known to his wife.  Beneath was the judgment of the adept,
in the following words:—

"Saturn, the significator of the quesited, being in conjunction
with Venus, I judge him to have gained by ladies to a
considerable extent, to be much attached to them, greatly
addicted to pleasure, and very fortunate where females are
concerned, and to be a man of property.  The significator
being affected both by Mercury, lord of the eighth in the
figure, and also by Mars, the lord of the quesited's eighth
house, and the aspect of separation of the moon being
bad,—namely, conjunction of Jupiter and square of Mercury, who is
ill aspected to Jupiter, and is going to a square of the sun on
the cusp of the mid-heaven,—I judge that the quesited is in
imminent danger of death; and the lord of the third house
being in the eighth, and the significator being combust, in
conjunction with the lord of the eighth, and the hyleg afflicted
by the evil planets, makes it more certain.  His significator
being in the eleventh house denotes that at the present time
he is well situated and with some near friend (I should judge,
as he is well aspected with the moon, the lady of the third
house, a brother), and happy.  Mars being in the ascendant,
and the cusp of the first house wanting only three degrees of
the place of the evil planet in a common sign, I judge the
time of death to occur in three weeks' time, and that it will
be caused by a sword or dagger wound, by which Mars kills.
The danger lies to the south-west—south, because the quarter
of the heaven where the lord of the ascendant is, is
south-west, because the sign where he is, is west."

John Inglesant read this paper two or three times, and
returned it to his brother with a smile.  "I should not be
greatly alarmed at it," said he; "that is not a true
horoscope, or rather it is a true horoscope tampered with.  The
man who erected the scheme, I should say, was an honest
man, though not a very clever astrologer.  It has, however, as
most schemes have, a glimmering of a truth not otherwise
known (you and I being together, which no one at Oulton
could have thought of, though you see he was wrong as to the
time); but some other hand has been at work upon the
judgment, and a very unskilful one.  It contradicts itself.  What
is most important, however, is that the artist has no ground to
take Saturn for your significator, which should be either the
lord of the third house, the cusp of the third, or the planets
therein, neither of which Saturn is.  Besides, he takes the
place of Fortune to be hyleg, for which he has no ground.
He has taken Saturn as significator, as suiting what he knows
of your character, and I think there is no doubt the Italian's
hand is in this.  Now I should rather say that Venus, the lady
of the third, being significator and applying to a friendly trine
of Jupiter, lord of the ascendant, and Saturn being retrograde,
and Venus also casting a sextile to the cusp of the ascendant,
is a very good argument that the querent should see the
quesited speedily, and that in perfect health.  I would have
you think no more of this rubbish, with which a wicked man
has tried to make the heavens themselves speak falsely."

"I did not know you were so good an astrologer, Johnny,"
said his brother.

"Father St. Clare taught it me among other things," said
Inglesant; "and I have seen many strange answers that he has
known himself; but it is shameful that the science should be
made a tool of by designing men."

Eustace returned the papers to his pockets, and requested
his brother again to prepare to leave the Tower at once.
After taking leave of the Lieutenant, and feeing the warders,
the two brothers departed in a coach in which Eustace had
come to the Tower, and went to the lodgings of the latter in
Holborn.  Eustace furnished his brother with clothes until he
could procure some for himself, and gave him money liberally,
of which he seemed to have no stint.  He wished his brother
to come with him to all the places of resort in the city, but
Johnny prudently declined.  Indeed, the city was so quiet
and dull, that few places of amusement remained.  The
theatres were entirely closed.  Whitehall was sombre and
nearly empty, and the public walks were filled only with the
townspeople in staid and sober attire.  The two brothers were
therefore reduced to each other's society, and it seemed as
though absence or a sense of danger united them with a
warmth of affection which they had seldom before known.

To John Inglesant, who had always been devotedly
attached to his brother, this display of affection was
delightful, cut off as he had been so long from all sympathy and
friendliness.  Dressed in his brother's clothes, the likeness
which had once been so striking returned again, and as they
walked the streets people turned to look at them with
surprise.  The brothers felt in their hearts old feelings and
thoughts returning, which had long been forgotten and had
passed away; and to John Inglesant especially, always given to
half melancholy musings and brooding over the past, all his
happiest recollections seemed to concentrate themselves on
his brother, the last human relation that seemed left to him,
since he had, as he thought, lost the favour of all his friends,
relations, and acquaintances in the world.  Possibly a sense
of a great misfortune made this sentiment more tender and
acute, for, as we shall see, there were some things in his
brother's position, and in the horoscope he had shown him,
which Inglesant did not like.  At present, however, his whole
nature, so long crushed down and lacerated, seemed to expand
and heal itself in the light of his brother's love and person,
and to concentrate all its powers into one intense feeling, and
to lose its own identity in this passion of brotherly regard.

This feeling might also be increased by his own state of
health, which made him cling closer to any support,  His long
imprisonment, and the sudden change from his quiet cell to
all the bustle of the city life, affected his mind and brain
painfully.  He was confused and excited among a crowd of
persons and objects to which he had been so long unaccustomed;
his brain and system had received a shock from which
he never entirely recovered, and for some time, at any rate, he
walked as one who is in a dream, rather than as a man engaged
in the active pursuits of life.

After two or three days Eustace told his brother one
morning that he was ready to go into the west, but before
starting he said he wished Johnny to accompany him to a
famous astrologer in Lambeth Marsh, to whom already he had
shown the horoscope, and who had appointed a meeting that
night to give his answer, and who had also promised to consult
a crystal, as an additional means of obtaining information of
the future.

Accordingly, late in the afternoon, they took a wherry at
the Temple Stairs, and were ferried over to Lambeth Marsh,
a wide extent of level ground between Southwark and the
Bishop's Palace, on which only a few straggling houses had
been built.  The evening was dark and foggy, and a cold
wind swept across the marsh, making them wrap their short
cloaks closely about them.  It was almost impossible to see
more than a yard or two before them, and they would probably
have found great difficulty in finding the wizard's house had
not a boy with a lantern met them a few paces from the river,
who inquired if they were seeking the astrologer.  This was
the wizard's own boy, whom, with considerable worldly
prudence at any rate, he had despatched to find his clients and
bring them to his house.  The boy brought them into a long
low room, with very little furniture in it, a small table at the
upper end, with a large chair behind it, and three or four
high-backed chairs placed along the wall.  On the floor, in the
middle of the room, was a large double circle, but there were
no figures or signs of any kind about it.  On the table was a
long thin rod.  A lamp which hung from the roof over the
table cast a faint light about the room, and a brazier of lighted
coals stood in the chimney.

The astrologer soon entered the room with the horoscope
Eustace had left with him in his hand.  He was a fine-looking
man, with a serious and lofty expression of face, dressed in a
black gown, with the square cap of a divine, and a fur hood
or tippet.  He bowed courteously to the gentlemen, who
saluted him with great respect.  His manner was coldest to
John Inglesant, whom he probably regarded with suspicion as
an amateur.  He, however, acknowledged that Inglesant's
criticisms on the horoscope were correct, but pointed out to
him that in his own reading of it many of the aspects were
very adverse.  John Inglesant knew this, though he had chosen
to conceal it from his brother.  The astrologer then informed
them that he had drawn out a scheme of the heavens himself
at the moment when first consulted by Eustace, and that, in
quite different ways, and by very different aspects, much the
same result had been arrived at.  "As, however," he went on
to say, "the whole question is to some extent vitiated by the
suspicion of foul play, and it will be impossible for any of us
to free our minds entirely from these suspicions, I do not
advise any farther inquiry; but I propose that you should
consult a consecrated beryl or crystal—a mode of inquiry
far more high and certain than astrology, so much so, indeed,
that I will seriously confess to you that I use the latter
but as the countenance and blind; but this search in the
crystal is by the help of the blessed spirits, and is open only
to the pure from sin, and to men of piety, humility, and
charity."

As he said these words he produced from the folds of his
gown a large crystal or polished stone, set in a circle of gold,
supported by a silver stand.  Round the circle were engraved
the names of angels.  He placed this upon the table, and
continued,—

"We must pray to God that He will vouchsafe us some
insight into this precious stone; for it is a solemn and serious
matter upon which we are, second only to that of communication
with the angelical creatures themselves, which, indeed, is
vouchsafed to some, but only to those of the greatest piety, to
which we may not aspire.  Therefore let us kneel down and
humbly pray to God."

They all knelt, and the adept, commencing with the Prayer-book
collect for the festival of St. Michael, recited several
other prayers, all for extreme and spotless purity of life.

He then rose, the two others continuing on their knees,
and struck a small bell, upon which the boy whom they had
before seen entered the room by a concealed door in the
wainscot.  He was a pretty boy, with a fair and clean skin, and was
dressed in a surplice similar to those worn by choristers.  He
took up a position by the crystal, and waited his master's
orders.

"I have said," continued the adept, "that these visions
can be seen only by the pure, and by those who, by long and
intense looking into the spiritual world, have at last penetrated
somewhat into its gloom.  I have found these mostly to be
plain and simple people, of an earnest faith,—country people,
grave-diggers, and those employed to shroud the dead, and
who are accustomed to think much upon objects connected
with death.  This boy is the child of the sexton of Lambeth
Church, who is himself a godly man.  Let us pray to God."

Upon this he knelt down again and remained for some
time engaged in silent prayer.  He then rose and directed the
boy to look into the crystal, saying, "One of these gentlemen
desires news of his wife."

The boy looked intently into the crystal for some moments,
and then said, speaking in a measured and low voice,—

"I see a great room, in which there is a bed with rich
hangings; pendant from the ceiling is a silver lamp.  A tall
dark man, with long hair, and a dagger in his belt, is bending
over the bed with a cup in his hand."

"It is my wife's room," said Eustace in a whisper, "and it
is no doubt the Italian; he is tall and dark."

The boy continued to look for some time into the crystal,
but said nothing; then he turned to his master and said, "I
can see nothing; some one more near to this gentleman must
look; this other gentleman," he said suddenly, and turning to
John Inglesant, "if he looks will be able to see."

The astrologer started.  "Ah!" he said, "why do you say
that, boy?"

"I can tell who will see aught in the crystal, and who will
not," replied the boy; "this gentleman will see."

The astrologer seemed surprised and sceptical, but he
made a sign to Inglesant to rise from his knees, and to take
his place by the crystal.

He did so, and looked steadily into it for some seconds,
then he shook his head.

"I can see nothing," he said.

"Nothing!" said the boy; "can you see nothing?"

"No.  I see clouds and mist."

"You have been engaged," said the boy, "in something
that was not good—something that was not true; and it has
dimmed the crystal sight.  Look steadily, and if it is as I
think, that your motive was not false, you will see more."

Inglesant looked again; and in a moment or two gave a
start, saying,—"The mist is breaking!  I see;—I see a large
room, with a chimney of carved stone, and a high window at
the end; in the window and on the carved stone is the same
coat many times repeated—three running greyhounds proper,
on a field vert."

"I know the room," said Eustace; "it is the inn parlour
at Mintern, not six miles from Oulton.  It was the manor of
the Vinings before the wars, but is now an inn; that was
their coat."

"Do you see aught else?" said the adept.

Inglesant gave a long look; then he stepped back, and
gazed at the astrologer, and from him to his brother, with a
faltering and ashy look.

"I see a man's figure lie before the hearth, and the hearthstone
is stained, as if with blood.  Eustace, it is either you
or I!"

"Look again," said the adept eagerly, "look again!"

"I will look no more!" said Inglesant, fiercely; "this is
the work of a fiend, to lure men to madness or despair!"

As he spoke, a blast of wind—sudden and strong—swept
through the room; the lamp burnt dim; and the fire in the
brazier went out.  A deathly coldness filled the apartment,
and the floor and the walls seemed to heave and shake.  A
loud whisper, or muffled cry, seemed to fill the air; and a
terrible awe struck at the hearts of the young men.  Seizing
the rod from the table, the adept assumed a commanding
attitude, and waved it to and fro in the air; gradually the
wind ceased, the dread coldness abated, and the fire burned
again of its own accord.  The adept gazed at Inglesant with
a stern and set look.

"You are of a strange spirit, young sir," he said; "pure in
heart enough to see things which many holy men have desired
in vain to see; and yet so wild and rebellious as to anger the
blessed spirits with your self-will and perverse thoughts.  You
will suffer fatal loss, both here and hereafter, if you learn not
to give up your own will, and your own fancies, before the
heavenly will and call."

Inglesant stared at the man in silence.  His words seemed
to him to mean far more than perhaps he himself knew.
They seemed to come into his mind, softened with anxiety for
his brother, and shaken by these terrible events, with the light
of a revelation.  Surely this was the true secret of his wasted
life, however strange might be the place and action which
revealed it to him.  Whatever he might think afterwards of
this night, it might easily stand to him as an allegory of his
own spirit, set down before him in a figure.  Doubtless he was
perverse and headstrong under the pressure of the Divine
Hand; doubtless he had followed his own notions rather than
the voice of the inward monitor he professed to hear: henceforth,
surely, he would give himself up more entirely to the
heavenly voice.

Eustace appeared to have seen enough of the future, and
to be anxious to go.  He left a purse of gold upon the
wizard's table; and hurried his brother to take his leave.

Outside the air was perfectly still; a thick motionless fog
hung over the marsh and the river; not a breath of wind
stirred.

"That was a strange wind that swept by as you refused to
look," said Eustace to his brother; "do you really think the
spirits were near, and were incensed?"

Inglesant did not reply; he was thinking of another spirit
than that the wizard had evoked.

They made their way through the fog to Lambeth, and
took boat again to the Temple stairs.





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.. _`CHAPTER XVI.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVI.

.. vspace:: 2

The next morning, when the brothers awoke and spoke
to each other of the events of the night, Eustace did
not seem to have been much impressed by them; he ridiculed
the astrologer, and made light of the visions in the crystal; he,
however, acknowledged to his brother that it might be better
to avoid the inn parlour at Mintern, and said they might reach
Oulton by another route.

"There is a road," he said, "after you leave Cern Abbas,
which turns off five or six miles before you come to Mintern;
it is not much farther, but it is not so good a road, and not
much frequented.  It will be quite good enough for us, however,
and will not delay us above an hour.  But I own I feel
ashamed of taking it."

John Inglesant, however, encouraged him to do so; and
towards middle day they left London on the Windsor Road.
Inglesant noticed, as they started, that his brother's favourite
servant was absent, and asked his brother where he was.  He
replied that he had sent him forward early in the morning to
inform his wife of their coming.

"I would not have let them know of your intention," said
Johnny.

Eustace shrugged his shoulders with a peculiar gesture,
saying in French,—

"It is not convenient for me to come into my family
unannounced.  I do not know what I might find going forward."

Johnny thought that his brother had bought his fortune
rather dear; but he said nothing more upon the subject.

They slept that night at Windsor, and hoped to have
reached Andover the next day; but their servants' horses, and
those with the mails, were not equal to so long a distance,
and they slept at Basingstoke, not being able to get farther.
The weather was pleasant for the season and, to Inglesant
especially—so long confined within stone walls—the journey
was very agreeable.  It reminded him of his ride up to
London with the Jesuit long ago when a boy, when everything
was new and delightful to him, and the future open and
promising.  The way had then been enlivened and every
interest doubled by the conversation of his friend, who had
known how to extract interest and amusement from the most
trivial incidents; but it was not less made pleasant now by
the society of his brother.  A great change seemed to be
coming over Eustace.  He was affectionate and serious.  He
spoke much of past years, of their grandfather, and of the old
life at Westacre; of his early Court life, before Johnny came
to London, and of the day when he came down to Westacre
with his father and the Jesuit, and saw his brother again.  He
asked Johnny much about his own life, and listened attentively
to all Inglesant thought proper to tell him of his
religious inquiries.  He asked about the Ferrars, and told
Inglesant some of the things that had been said at Court
about him and them.  A sense of danger—even though it
made little impression upon him—seemed to have called forth
kindly feelings which had been latent before; or perhaps some
foreboding sense hung over him, and—by a gracious
Providence—fitted and tuned his mind for an approaching fate.
Inglesant felt his heart drawn towards him with an intensity
which he had never felt before.  The whole world seemed for
the time to be centred in this brother; and he looked forward
to life associated with him.

They slept at Andover; and the next day made a shorter
journey to Salisbury, where they slept again.  The stately
cathedral was closed and melancholy-looking, and knowing no
one in the town, they passed the long evening alone in the inn.
The next morning early they set out.  They halted at Cern
Abbas about one o'clock, and dined.  Eustace made some
inquiries about the road he had mentioned to his brother, but
seemed more and more unwilling to take it, and it required all
Inglesant's persuasion to keep him to his promise.  The people
at the inn seemed surprised that anyone should think of
taking it, and made out that the delay would be very great, and
the chance of missing the way altogether not a little.  At this,
however, Eustace laughed, saying that he knew the country
very well.  Indeed, his desire to show the truth of this
assertion rather assisted his brother's purpose, and they left Cern
Abbas with the full intention of taking the unusual route.  The
country was thickly wooded, many parts of the ancient forest
remaining, and here and there rather hilly.  In descending
one of these hills John Inglesant's horse cast a shoe, just as
they reached the point where the two roads diverged, the right
hand one of which they were to take.  As it was impossible
for them to proceed with the horse as it was, Johnny proposed
sending it back with one of the servants to Cern Abbas, and
taking the man's horse instead, who could easily follow them.
As they were about to put in practice this scheme, however,
one of the men said there was a forge about a mile beyond, on
the road before them, where it would be easy to get the shoe
put on.  Eustace immediately approved of this plan, and
Johnny was obliged at last reluctantly to yield.  It seemed to
him as though the impending fate came nearer and nearer at
every step.  The man proved himself to be an uncertain guide
as to distance, and it was fully two miles before they reached
the forge.  When they reached it they found that a gentleman's
coach, large and unwieldy, had broken some portion of its
complicated machinery, and was taxing all the efforts of the
smith and his assistants to repair it.  The gentlemen
dismounted and accosted the two ladies who had alighted from
the coach, and whom Eustace remembered to have met before
at Dorchester.  The coach was soon mended, and the ladies
drove off; but by this time Eustace had grown impatient, and,
saying carelessly to his brother, "You will follow immediately,"
he mounted, and turned his horse's head still along the main
road, his men mounting also.

"You are not going on that way," said Johnny; "you said
we should turn back to the other road."

"Oh, we cannot turn back now," said his brother; "we
have come farther than I expected.  We will not stop at
Mintern," he added significantly.

And so saying, he rode away after the carriage, followed
by his men.

Inglesant looked after him anxiously, a heavy foreboding
filling his mind.  He saw his brother mount the little hill
before the forge, between the bare branches of the trees on
either side of the road; then a slight turn of the way concealed
him, but, for a moment or two more, he could see glimpses of
the figures as the leafless boughs permitted, then, when he
could see even these no longer, he went back into the forge.
It was some ten minutes before the horse was ready, and then
Inglesant himself mounted, and rode off quickly after his
brother.  He had felt all the day, and during the one preceding
it, a weariness and dulness of sense, the result, no doubt,
of fatigue acting upon his only partially recovered health, and
on a frame shattered by what he had gone through.  As he
rode on, his brain became more and more confused, so that
for some moments together he was almost unconscious, and
only by an effort regained his sense of passing events.  The
woods seemed to pass by him as in a dream, the thick winter
air to hang about him like the heavy drapery of a pall; whether
he was sleeping or waking he could scarcely tell.  What added
to his distress was an abiding sense of crisis and danger to his
brother, which required him at that moment, above all others,
to exert a strength and a prescience of which he felt himself
becoming more and more incapable.  He was continually
making violent efforts to retain his recollection of what was
passing, and of what it behoved him to do,—efforts which each
time became more and more painful, and of the futility of
which he became more and more despairingly conscious.
Words cannot describe the torture of such a condition as this.

At last he overtook some of his brother's servants with
the led horses, whom he scarcely recognized, so far were his
senses obscured.  Their master had ridden on before with two
servants, they told him; he would have to ride hard to overtake
them.  He seemed eager, they said, to be at home.  Inglesant
could scarcely sit his horse, much less expect to overtake his
brother—who was well mounted and an impetuous rider—nevertheless
he gave his horse the spur, and the animal, also a
good roadster, soon left the servants far behind.  The confusion
of mind which he suffered increased more and more as he rode
along, and the events of his past life came up before his eyes
as clearly and palpably as the objects through which he was
riding, so that he could not distinguish the real from the
imaginary, the present from the past, which added extremely
to his distress.  He stood again amid the confusion and
carnage of Naseby field; once more he saw the throng of heads,
and heard that terrible cry that had welcomed him to the
scaffold; again he looked into the fatal crystal, and strange
visions and ghostly shapes of death and corruption came out
from it, and walked to and fro along the hedgerows and across
the road before him, making terrible the familiar English fields;
a tolling of the passing bell rang continually in his ear, and his
horse's footfalls sounded strange and funereal to his diseased
sense.  He knew nothing of the road, nor of what happened
as he rode along, nor what people he passed; but he missed
the direct turning, and reached Mintern at last by another lane
which led him some distance round.  The servants with the
led horses were there before him, standing before the inn door,
and other strange servants in his brother's liveries, and several
horses stood about.

The old manor that was now an inn stood close to the
Church, at the opening of the village, with a little green before
it and a wall, in the centre of which was a pair of gates flanked
with pillars.  The iron gates were closed, but the wall had been
thrown down for some yards on either side, thus giving ample
access to the house within.  It was a handsome house with a
large high window over the porch, in the upper panes of which
Inglesant could see coats of arms.  Amid the tracery of the
iron gates running greyhounds were interlaced.

John Inglesant saw all this as in a dream, and he saw
besides creatures that were not real walking among the living
men; haggard figures in long robes, and others beneath the
grave shrouds, ghostly phantoms of his disordered brain.  He
made a desperate effort for the hundredth time to clear his
sense of these terrible distracting sights, of this death of the
brain that disabled all his faculties, and for the hundredth time
in vain.  It appeared to him—whether it was a vision or a
reality, he did not know—that one of his brother's servants
came to his horse's side, and told him something of a
gentleman of his lady's, a foreign physician, having met his master
purposely, and that they were within together.  Inglesant
dismounted mechanically and entered the hotel, telling the
servant to come with him.  He had some dim feeling of
dragging his brother away from a great danger, and a desire of
gathering about him, if he could but distinguish them, such as
would assist him and were of human flesh and blood.  Inside
the porch, and in the narrow hall beyond, the place swarmed
with these distracting visions walking to and fro; the staircase
at the farther end was crowded with them going up and down.
He saw, as he thought, his brother, attended by a dark,
handsome man, in the gown of a physician, come down the stairs
to meet him, but when they came nearer they dissolved
themselves and vanished into air.

The host came to meet him, saying that his brother and
the foreign gentleman were upstairs in the parlour; he had
thought they were having some words a while ago, but they
were quiet now.  The whole house, Inglesant thought, was
deadly quiet, though seemingly to him so full of life.  To
what terrible deed were all these strange witnesses and
assistants summoned?  He told the host to follow him, as he
had told the man before; and he did so, supposing he meant
to order something.  They went up the two flights of the oak
stairs, and entered the room over the hall and porch.  It was
a large and narrow room, and was seemingly empty.  Opposite
them, in the high window, and on the great carved
chimney to the right, running greyhounds coursed each other,
as it seemed to Inglesant, round the room.  A long table hid
the hearth as they came in.  With a fatal certainty, as if
mechanically, Inglesant walked round it towards the fire, the
others with him; there they stopped—sudden and still.  On
the white hearthstone—his hair and clothes steeped in
blood—lay Eustace Inglesant, the Italian's stiletto in his heart.





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.. _`CHAPTER XVII.`:

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   CHAPTER XVII.

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The sight of his brother's corpse seemed to steady
Inglesant's nerves, and clear his brain.  He turned
to the host, and said, "What way can the murderer have
escaped?"

The host shook his head; he was incapable of speech, or
even thought.  The three men stood looking at each other
without a word.  Then Inglesant knelt down by the body,
and raised the head; there was no doubt that life was
extinct—indeed, the body must have been nearly drained of blood;
the fine line of steel had done its work fully, and with no loss
of time.  Inglesant rose from the ground; his sight, his recollection,
his senses were speedily failing him; nothing kept
him conscious but the terrible shock acting with galvanic
effect upon his frame.  The back of the premises was
searched, and mounted messengers were sent to the neighbouring
towns and to the cross roads, and notice sent to the
nearest Justice of the Peace.  The country rose in great
numbers, and came pouring in to Mintern before the early evening
set in.  The body was deposited on the long table in the
parlour where the deed was committed; and more than one
Justice examined the room that afternoon.  Inglesant saw
that the guard was set, and proper care taken; and then he
mounted to ride to Oulton.  He was not fit to ride; but to
stay in the house all night was impossible—to lie down equally
so.  In the night air he rode to Oulton, through the long wild
chase, by the pools of water—from which the flocks of birds
rose startled as he passed, and by the herds of deer.  The
ride settled his nerves, and when he reached the house he
was still master of himself.  The news had preceded him;
Lady Cardiff was said to be in a paroxysm of grief; but, as
no one had seen her for days except her immediate servants,
Inglesant did not attempt to obtain an interview with her.
He was received by Dr. More and the superior servants, and
sat down to supper.  Not a word was spoken during that
sombre meal except by the doctor, who pressed Inglesant to
eat and drink, and offered to introduce him to Van Helmont,
who was not present.  The doctor said grace after supper;
but when he had done, one of the female servants, a
Quakeress, stood up, and spoke some words recommending
patience and a feeling after God, if perchance He might be
found to be present, and a help in such a terrible need.  The
singularity of this proceeding roused Inglesant from the
lethargy in which he was, and the words seemed to strike upon
his heart with a familiar and not uncongenial sense.  The
mystical doctrine which he had studied was not unlike much
that he would hear from Quaker lips.  He went to his room
after supper, intending to rise early next morning; but before
daybreak he was delirious and in a high fever, and Van
Helmont was sent for to his room, and bled him freely, and
administered cordials and narcotic draughts.  The skilful
treatment caused him to sleep quietly for many hours; and
when he awoke, though prostrate with weakness, he was free
from fever, and his brain was calm and clear.

From inquiries which he made, it appeared that the
Italian had been making preparations for leaving for several
days, probably doubting the success of his attempt to win over
Eustace to tolerate his continued stay at Oulton.  Inglesant
was told that it was supposed that he had not intended to
murder his brother; but that Eustace had probably threatened
him, and that in the heat of contention the blow was
struck.  The Italian had destroyed all his papers, and everything
that could give any clue to his conduct or history; but
he had left a very bad reputation behind him, independently
of his last murderous act; and his influence with Lady Cardiff
was attributed to witchcraft.

The funeral of Eustace Inglesant took place a few days
after, at the Church on the borders of the chase.  Snow had
fallen in the meanwhile; and the train of black mourners
passed over the waste of white that covered the park.  A
multitude of people filled the churchyard, and crowded round
the outside of the hall.  Lady Cardiff, by lavish almsgiving
and other vagaries, had always attracted a number of vagrant
and masterless people to Oulton; and there were always some
encampments of such people in the chase.  She particularly
favoured mountebanks and quacks of all kinds, and numbers
of them were present at the funeral.  Some few of the country
gentry attended; but Eustace being almost unknown in the
county, and his wife by no means popular, many who
otherwise would have been present were not so.  The Puritan
authorities of the neighbourhood suspected Lady Cardiff's
establishment as a haunt of recusants.  Dr. More was a known
Royalist; Eustace had been only restrained from active
exertion on the same side by his love of pleasure and his wife's
prudence; and the Puritans regarded the Quakers with no
favour.  The herd of idle and vicious people, as the authorities
considered them, who frequented Oulton, was an abomination
in their eyes; and understanding that a number of them
would be at the funeral, two or three Puritan magistrates, with
armed servants and constables, assembled to keep order, as
they said; but, as it proved, to provoke a riot.  To make
matters worse, Dr. More began to read the Prayer Book
service, which was forbidden by law.  The Justices interposed;
the mob of mountebanks, and players, and idle people sided
with the Church party, which had always given them a friendly
toleration, and commenced an assault upon the constables
and Justices' servants, driving them from the grave side with a
storm of snowballs.  The funeral was completed with great
haste, and the mourning party returned to the house, whither
the mob also resorted, and were regaled with provisions of all
kinds during the afternoon, being with difficulty induced to
disperse at night.

Inglesant took no part in this riot, being indeed still too
weak and ill to exert himself at all.  He expected to be
arrested and sent back to London; but the authorities did not
take much notice of the riot, contenting themselves with
dispersing the people, and seeing that most of them left the
neighbourhood, which they were induced to do by being set in
the village stocks, and otherwise imprisoned and intimidated.

Lady Cardiff had sent messages to Inglesant every day,
expressing her interest in him, and she now sent Van Helmont
to him with the information that a large sum of money, which
she had assigned to his brother, would now be his.  This sum,
which amounted to several thousand pounds, she was ready to
pay over to Inglesant whenever he might desire it.  She hoped
he would remain at Oulton till his health was more established,
but she hinted that she thought it was for his own interest
that neither his stay there, nor indeed in England, should be
unnecessarily prolonged.  Meanwhile, she recommended him
to Dr. More and to the Quakers; the teaching which he would
derive from both sources, she assured him, would be much to
his benefit.  Inglesant returned a courteous message expressive
of his obligation for her extraordinary generosity, and assuring
her that he should endeavour to benefit by whatever her
inmates might communicate to him.  He informed her that he
intended, as soon as his strength was sufficiently established, to
go to Paris, where the only friend he had left was, and that any
sum of money she was so generous as to afford him might be
transmitted to the merchants there.  He had some thoughts,
he said, of going to Gidding, but had learnt that soon after the
execution of the King, the house had been attacked by a mob
of soldiers and others, and that the family, who had timely
warning of their intention, had left the neighbourhood and
were dispersed.  He concluded by hoping that before he left
he might be allowed to thank his benefactress in person.

Some weeks passed over at Oulton with great tranquillity,
and Inglesant regained his strength and calmness of mind.
There was a large and valuable library in the house, and the
society of Dr. More was pleasant to Inglesant, though in many
ways they were far from congenial; indeed, there was more in
Van Helmont's character and tastes that suited his tone of
mind.  During these weeks, however, Inglesant began to
adapt himself to a course of religious life from which he never
altogether departed, and which, after some doubts and many
attempts on the part of others to divert him from it, he followed
to the end of his life.  He was no doubt strengthened at the
beginning of this course by the conversation of Dr. More and
also of the Quakers.  These latter, whom Inglesant had been
led to regard with aversion, he found harmless and sober
people, whose blameless lives, and the elevated mysticism of
their conversation, commended them to him.

The transient calm of this existence was, however, broken
by one absorbing idea—the desire of being revenged upon his
brother's murderer, of tracking the Italian's path, and bringing
him to some terrible justice.  It was this that induced him to
seek the Jesuit, whom at one time he had been inclined to shun.
No one, he considered, would have it in his power, from the
innumerable agents in every country with whom he had
connection, to assist him in his search so much as the Jesuit; and
he believed that he had deserved as much at his master's hand.
But it was not natural that, at any rate at once, he should
suppose that such a motive as this would be any hindrance to
him in a religious life, and for a long time he was unconscious
of any such idea.

It will be as well here to endeavour to understand something
of the peculiar form which Christianity had assumed in
Inglesant's mind—a form which was not peculiar to himself,
but which he possessed in common with most in that day
whose training had been more or less similar to his own.  It
was similar in many respects to that which prevails in the
present day in most Roman Catholic countries, and may be
described as Christianity without the Bible.  It is doubtful
whether, except perhaps once or twice in College Chapel, he
had ever read a chapter of the Bible himself in his life.
Certainly he never possessed a Bible himself; of its contents,
excepting those portions which are read in Church and those
contained in the Prayer Book, he was profoundly ignorant.
It was not included in the course of studies set him by the
Jesuit.  Of the Protestant doctrines of justification by faith
and by the blood of Christ, and of the Calvinistic ones of
predestination and assurance, he was only acquainted in a vague
and general way, as he might have heard mention of them in
idle talk, mostly in contempt and dislike.  It is true the
Laudian School in the Church, in which he had been brought up,
held doctrines which, in outward terms, might seem to bear
some affinity with some, if not all of these; but they were in
reality very different.  The Laudian School held, indeed, that
the sacrifice of Christ's blood had removed the guilt of sin,
and that by that, and that only, was salvation secured of men;
but they held that this had been accomplished on the Cross,
once for all, independently of anything that man could do or
leave undone.  The very slightest recognition, on the part of
man, of this Divine sacrifice, the very least submission to the
Church ordinances, combined with freedom from outward sin,
was sufficient to secure salvation to the baptized; and indeed
the Church regarded with leniency and hope even the wild and
reprobate.  It is true that the Laudian press teemed with holy
works, setting the highest of pure standards before its readers,
and exhorting to the following of a holy life; but this life was
looked upon rather as a spiritual luxury and privilege, to which
high and refined natures might well endeavour to attain, rather
than as absolutely necessary to salvation.  With this view the
Church regarded human error with tolerance, and amusements
and enjoyments with approbation, and as deserving the highest
sanctions of religion.  Inglesant's Christianity, therefore, was
ignorant of doctrine and dogma of almost every kind, and
concentrated itself altogether on what may be called the Idea of
Christ, that is, a lively conception of and attraction to the
person of the Saviour.  This idea,—which comes to men in
different ways, and which came to Inglesant for the first time in
the sacrament at Gidding, being, I should suppose, a purely
intellectual one,—would no doubt be inefficient and transitory,
were it not for the unique and mysterious power of attraction
which it undoubtedly possesses.  In the pursuit of this idea
he received little assistance either from Dr. More.  The school
to which the doctor belonged,—the Christian Platonists,—had
no tendency to that exclusive worship of the person of Jesus,
which, in some religious schools, has almost superseded the
worship of God.  This he had received from the Jesuits and
the mystical books of Catholic devotion which had had so great
an influence over him.  The Jesuits, with all their faults, held
fast by the motive of their founder, and the worship of Jesus
was by them carried to its fullest extent.  Dr. More's theology
was more that of a philosophical Deism, into which the person
and attributes of Christ entered as a part of an universal
scheme, in which the universe, mankind, the all-pervading
Spirit of God, and the objects of thought and sense, played
distinct and conspicuous parts.

One fine and warm day in the early spring, Inglesant and
the doctor were walking in the garden at the side of the house
bordering on the chase and park.  The wide expanse of grassy
upland stretched before them; overhead, the arch of heaven,
chequered by the white clouds, was full of life and light and
motion; across the water of the lakes the Church bells, rung
for amusement by the village lads, came to the ear softened
and yet enriched in tone; the spring air, fanned by a fresh
breeze, refreshed the spirits and the sense.  The doctor
began, as upon a favourite theme, to speak of his great sense
of the power and benefit of the fresh air.

"I would always," he said, "be '*sub dio*', if it were
possible.  Is there anything more delicious to the touch than the
soft, cool air playing on our heated temples, recruiting and
refrigerating the spirits and the blood?  I can read, discourse,
or think nowhere as well as in some arbour, where the cool
air rustles through the moving leaves; and what a rapture of
mind does such a scene as this always inspire within me!  To
a free and divine spirit how lovely, how magnificent is this
state for the soul of man to be in, when, the life of God
inactuating her, she travels through heaven and earth, and unites
with, and after a sort feels herself the life and soul of this
whole world, even as God?  This indeed is to become
Deiform—not by imagination, but by union of life.  God doth
not ride me whither I know not, but discourseth with me as a
friend, and speaks to me in such a dialect as I can understand
fully,—namely, the outward world of His creatures; so that I
am in fact '*Incola coeli in terrâ*,' an inhabitant of paradise
and heaven upon earth; and I may soberly confess that
sometimes, walking abroad after my studies, I have been almost
mad with pleasure,—the effect of nature upon my soul having
been inexpressibly ravishing, and beyond what I can convey
to you."

Inglesant said that such a state of mind was most blessed,
and much to be desired; but that few could hope to attain to
it, and to many it would seem a fantastic enthusiasm.

"No," said the doctor, "I am not out of my wits, as some
may fondly interpret me, in this divine freedom; but the love
of God compelleth me; and though you yourself know the
extent of fancy, when phantoms seem real external objects,
yet here the principle of my opponents, the Quakers (who, it
may be, are nearer to the purity of Christianity—for the life
and power of it—than many others), is the most safe and
reasonable,—to keep close to the Light within a man."

"You agree with the Quakers, then, in some points?"
said Inglesant.

"They have indeed many excellent points, and very nobly
Christian, which I wish they would disencumber from such
things as make them seem so uncouth and ridiculous; but the
reason our lady has taken so to them as to change some of
her servants for Quakers, and to design to change more, is
that they prove lovers of quiet and retirement, and they fit
the circumstances that she is in, that cannot endure any noise,
better than others; for the weight of her affliction lies so
heavy upon her, that it is incredible how very seldom she can
endure any one in her chamber, and she finds them so still,
quiet, and serious, that their company is very acceptable to
her; and she is refreshed by the accounts of their trials and
consolations, and their patience and support under great
distress.  Baron Van Helmont frequents their meetings."

"What do you think of the Baron?"

"I think he knows as little of himself, truly and really, as
one who had never seen him in his life."

Inglesant did not try to penetrate into this oracular
response; but said,—

"Have you seen Mr. Fox, the famous Quaker?"

"Yes; I saw him once," replied the doctor; "and in conversation
with him I felt myself as it were turned into brass,
so much did his spirit and perversity oppress mine."

"There are some men," the doctor went on, after a pause—but
Inglesant did not know of whom he was thinking—"that
by a divine sort of fate are virtuous and good, and this
to a very great and heroical degree; and come into the world
rather for the good of others, and by a divine force, than
through their own proper fault, or any immediate or necessary
congruity of their natures.  All which is agreeable to that
opinion of Plato, that some descend hither to declare the
being and nature of the gods, and for the greater health,
purity, and perfection of this lower world.  I would fain
believe, Mr. Inglesant," he continued, to the other's great
surprise, "that you are one of those.  Ever since I first saw you
I have had some thought of this; and the more I see of you
the more I hope and believe that some such work as this is
reserved for you.  You have, what is very happy for you,
what I call an ethereal sort of body—to use the Pythagoric
phrase—even in this life, a mighty purity and plenty of the
animal spirits, which you may keep lucid by that conduct and
piety by which you may govern yourself.  And this makes it
all the more incumbent on you to have a great care to keep
in order this luciform vehicle of the soul, as the Platonists
call it; for there is a sanctity of body which the sensually
minded do not so much as dream of.  And this divine body
should be cultivated as well as the divine life; for by how
much any person partakes more of righteousness and virtue,
he hath also a greater measure of this divine body or celestial
matter within himself; he throws off the baser affections of
the earthly body, and replenishes his inner man with so much
larger draughts of ethereal or celestial matter; and to incite
you still more to this effort, you have only to consider that
the oracle of God is not to be heard but in His holy temple,
that is to say, in a good and holy man, thoroughly sanctified
in spirit, soul, and body."





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.. _`CHAPTER XVIII.`:

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   CHAPTER XVIII.

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Shortly after the conversation recorded in the previous
chapter, Inglesant, who appeared completely restored
to health,—thanks to the Baron Van Helmont and to rest of
body,—left Oulton, and, without going to London, went to
Rye, and sailed thence to France, where he arrived about the
middle of May 1651.  He had taken a passage in a vessel
sailing to Dieppe, and from thence he posted to Paris, this
route being thought much safer than the one through Calais,
which was much infested by robbers.

He found Paris full of the fugitive Royalists in a state of
distress and destitution, which was so great, that on the Queen
of England's going to St. Germain's on one occasion, her
creditors threatened to arrest her coach.  The young King
Charles was in Scotland, previous to his march into England,
which terminated in the battle of Worcester.  Inglesant was
well received by the Royalists to whom he made himself
known on his arrival.  The Glamorgan negotiations were by
this time pretty well understood among the Royalists, and
Inglesant's conduct fairly well appreciated.  He had the
reputation of being a useful and trustworthy agent, and as such
was well received by the heads of the party.  He presented
himself at the Louvre, where the Queen was, who received
him graciously, and expressed a wish that he would remain in
Paris, as she had been speaking not many days ago with
Father St. Clare concerning him.  Inglesant inquired where
the Jesuit was, and was told, at St. Germain's with the French
Court, and that he would be in Paris again shortly.  After
leaving the Queen, Inglesant applied to the merchants with
whom his money was to have been lodged; but found that by
some misunderstanding a much smaller sum had arrived than
he had expected.  Such as it was, however, he was able from it
to make advances to the Royalist gentlemen, many of whom of
the highest rank were in absolute distress; and he even advanced
a considerable sum indirectly to the Queen, and, through the
Duke of Ormond, to the young Duke of Gloucester.

It is not necessary to enter into any details with regard to
the state of France or the French Court at that time.  The
Court had been obliged to leave Paris some time before, owing
to the violence of the populace, and was at present much
embarrassed from the same cause.  It was therefore quite unable
to afford any help to the distressed fugitives from England,
had it wished to do so, and even the Queen Henrietta,—a
daughter of France,—could scarcely obtain assistance, and was
reduced to the greatest pecuniary distress.  The Duke of
Ormond parted with his last jewel to procure money for the
use of the Duke of Gloucester, whose guardian he was, and
the inferior Royalists were reduced to still greater necessities.
No sooner, therefore, was it known that Inglesant had means
at his disposal, than he became once more a person of the
greatest consequence, and every one sought him out, or, if not
before acquainted with him, desired an introduction.  He
frequented the Chapel of Sir Richard Browne, who had been
ambassador from Charles the First, and still retained his
privileges, his chapel, and his household, being accredited
from the young fugitive King to the French Court.  This
was the only Anglican place of worship in Paris, or indeed at
that time, perhaps, in the world.  Ordinations were performed
there, and it was frequented by the King and the two young
Princes, the Duke of York and the Duke of Gloucester, and
by all the Royalist fugitives then in Paris.

Inglesant was the more welcome, as many of the Royalist
gentlemen who had any money at all, refused to stay in Paris,
where there were so many claims upon them, but went on to
other countries, especially Italy.  He found many of these
gentlemen in a very excited state, owing to the efforts of the
Queen Mother to discourage the English Church, and to win
over perverts to Romanism.  The King and the Duke, it is
true, received the sacrament in the Ambassador's Chapel,
partaking of it together before the other communicants, Lord
Biron, Inglesant's old friend, and Lord Wilmot, holding a
white cloth before the two Princes; but the Queen Mother
was making every effort to pervert the young Duke of
Gloucester, and throwing all the weight of her influence and
patronage on the side of the Papists.  Several of the maids of
honour had been discharged shortly before Inglesant's arrival
in Paris, for refusing to conform to the Romish Mass.
Dr. Cosin, the Dean of Peterborough, a profound Ritualist, but at
the same time devoted to the Anglican Church, had preached
a sermon in the Chapel comforting and supporting these
ladies.  Inglesant being with the Queen at the Palais Royal,
one morning, as she was going to her private mass, was
commanded to accompany her; and upon his readily complying,
the Queen afterwards spoke to him on the subject of religion,
inquiring why he, who had so long been so closely connected
with the Catholic Church, did not become one of its members.
Inglesant pleaded that the Jesuit, Father St. Clare, had
discouraged him from joining the Papists, as not convenient in
the position in which he had been placed.  The Queen said
that the reasons which actuated the Father did not any longer
exist, but that she would wait till she could take his advice;
in the meantime requesting Inglesant to attend the Romish
services as much as possible, which he promised to do.  As a
matter of choice, he preferred the English communion to the
mass, but he regarded both as means of sacramental grace,
and endeavoured at low mass to bring his mind into the same
devout stillness and condition of adoration as at a communion.
It would appear that about this time he must have been
formally received into the Romish Church, for he confessed and
received the sacrament at low mass; but no mention of the
ceremony occurs, and it is possible that the priests received
instructions respecting him, while there is clear proof that he
attended the services at the Ambassador's Chapel, and once
at any rate partook of the sacrament there.

Here he met with Mr. Hobbes, who expressed himself
pleased to see him, and entered into long discourses with him
respecting the Glamorgan negotiations and the late King's
policy generally,—discourses which were very instructive to
Inglesant, though he felt a greater repugnance to the man
than when he formerly met him in London.  The religious
thoughts which had filled Inglesant's mind at Oulton were
far from forgotten, and when he arrived in Paris, his first
feeling had been one of dissatisfaction at finding himself at once
involved again in political intrigue; but his affection for the
Jesuit, apart from his desire to discover the Italian by his
means, made him desire to meet him; and he continued in
Paris, waiting with this intention, when an event occurred
which altogether diverted his thoughts.

He spent his time in many ways,—partly in acts of religion,
partly in studies, frequenting several lectures, both in letters
and in science, such as Mons. Febus's course of chemistry.
He also frequented the tennis court in the Rue Verdelet,
where the King of England, and the princes and nobles, both
of that country and of France, amused themselves.  He had
been at this latter place one morning, and something having
happened to prevent the gentleman who had arranged to play
the match from appearing, Inglesant, who was a good tennis
player, had been requested to take his place against
Mons. Saumeurs, the great French player.  There was a large and
brilliant attendance to watch the play, and Inglesant exerted
himself to the utmost, so much so, that he earned the applause
and thanks of the company for the brilliant match played
before them.  Having at last been beaten, which occurred
probably when the great player considered he had afforded
sufficient amusement to the spectators, Inglesant turned to
leave the court, having resumed his dress and sword, when
he was accosted by an English nobleman whom he very
slightly knew; who, no doubt, influenced by the applause and
attention which Inglesant had excited, asked him to dine with
him at a neighbouring place of entertainment.  After dinner
the gentleman told Inglesant that he was in the habit, together
with many other English who wished to perfect their knowledge
of French, of resorting to one or other of the convents
of Paris, to talk with the ancient sisters, whose business it was
to receive strangers, and had several such acquaintances with
whom he might "chat at the grates, for the nuns speak a
quaint dialect, and have besides most commonly all the news
that passes, which they are ready to discourse upon as long as
you choose to listen, whereby you gain a greater knowledge
of the most correct and refined manner of speaking of all
manner of common and trifling events than you could otherwise
gain."  He said that he had received a parcel of English
gloves and knives from England the day before, some of
which he intended that afternoon taking to one of his
"Devota" (as they call a friend in a convent, he said, in Spain),
and would take Inglesant with him if the latter wished to
come.  Inglesant willingly consented, and they went to a
convent of the —— in the Rue des Terres Fortes.  They
found the ancient nun—a little courtly old lady—as amusing
and pleasant as they expected; and she was on her part
apparently equally pleased with Lord Cheney's presents, and
with Inglesant's courteous discourse and good French.  She
invited Inglesant to visit her again, but the next day he
received a message which was brought by a servant of the
convent, who had found his lodgings with some difficulty
through Lord Cheney, requesting him to come to the convent
at once.  It lay in a retired and rather remote part of the
city, and but for his friend's introduction he would never have
visited it.  Thinking the message somewhat strange, he
complied with the request, and in the afternoon found himself
again in the convent parlour.  The nun came immediately to
the grate.

"Ah, monsieur," she said, "I am glad that you are come.
You think it strange, doubtless, that I should send for you so
soon; but I spoke of you last night to an inmate of this house,
who is a compatriot of yours, and who, I am sorry to say, is
very ill,—nay, I fear at the point of death,—and she told me
she had known you very well—ah, very well indeed—in times
past; and she entreated me to send to you if I could find out
your residence.  I only knew of you through Milord Chene,
but I sent to him."

"What is this lady's name, madame?" said Inglesant, who,
even then, did not guess who it was.

"Ah, her name," said the nun; "her name is
Collette—Mademoiselle Marie Collette."

She had the door in the grate opened for Inglesant, and
took him through the house, and past a court planted with
trees, to a small and quiet room overlooking the distant
woodlands.  There, upon a little bed—her face white, her hands
and form wasted to a shadow, only her wonderful eyes the
same as ever—lay Mary Collet, her face lighting up and her
weak hands trembling as he came in.  On his knees by the
bedside, his face buried in his hands, her white fingers playing
over his hair, Inglesant could not speak, dare not even look
up.  The old nun looked on kindly for some few minutes,
and then left them.

Mary was the first to speak, and as she spoke, Inglesant
raised his head and fixed his eyes on hers, keeping down the
torrent of grief that all but mastered him as he might.

She spoke to him of her joy at seeing him—she so lonely
and lost in a foreign land, separated from all her friends and
family,—not knowing indeed where they were; of the suffering
and hardships she had passed through since they had left
Gidding—hardships which had caused the fever of which she
lay dying as she spoke.  She had come to Paris after parting
from her uncle in Brittany, where they had suffered much
deprivation with the Lady Blount, and had been received into
this convent, where she had meant to take the veil; but the
fever grew upon her, and the physicians at last gave her no
hope of recovery.  There she had lain day after day, tended
by the kind nuns with every care, yet growing weaker and
more weary—longing for some voice or face of her own
country or of former days.  While she had been well enough
to listen, the nuns had told her all the little scraps of news
relating to her own countrymen and to the Queen which had
reached them; but Inglesant's arrival was not likely to be
among these, and Mary had heard nothing of his being in
Paris till the night before, when the kindly old nun, finding
her a little better than usual, had thought to amuse her by
speaking of the pleasant young Englishman who spoke French
so well, and whose half foreign name she could easily
remember, and who, Lord Cheney had told her, had been one of the
most faithful servants of the poor murdered King.

The start of the dying girl before her, her flushed face as
she raised herself in bed and threw herself into her friend's
arms, entreating her that this old friend, the dearest friend she
had ever known—ah! dearer now than ever—might be sent
for at once while she had life and strength to speak to him,
showed the nun that this was yet again a reacting of that old
story that never tires a woman's heart.  The nuns were not
strict—far from it—and, even had Mary already taken the veil,
the sisters would have thought little blame of her even for
remembering that once she dreamt of another bridegroom than
the heavenly Spouse.  The nun had promised to send early in
the morning to Lord Cheney, who, no doubt, knew the abode
of his friend; and Mary, as she finished telling all this in her
low and weak speech, lay still and quiet, looking upon her
friend almost with as calm and peaceful a glance of her
absorbing eyes as when she had looked at him in the garden
parlour at Gidding years ago.  He himself said little; it was
not his words she wanted, could he have spoken them.  That
he was there by her, looking up in her face, holding her hand,
was quite enough.  At last she said,—

"And that mission to the Papist murderers, Johnny, you
did not wish to bring them into England of your own accord
or only as a plot of the Jesuits?  Surely you were but the
servant of one whom you could not discover."

"I had the King's own commission for all I did, for every
word I said," said Inglesant eagerly—"a commission written
by himself, and signed in my presence, which he gave me
himself.  That was the paper the Lord Biron would not burn."

"I knew it must be so, Johnny; my uncle told me it must
be so.  It seems to me you have served a hard master, though
you do not complain.  We heard about the scaffold at Charing
Cross.  Will you serve your heavenly Master as well as
you have served your King?"

"I desire to serve Him, am seeking to serve Him even now,
but I do not find the way.  Tell me how I can serve Him,
Mary, and I swear to you I will do whatever you shall say."

"He must teach you, Johnny, not I.  I doubt not that
you follow Him now, will serve Him hereafter much better
than I could ever show you—could ever do myself.  Whatever
men may think of the path you have already chosen, no
one can say you have not walked in it steadily to the end.
Only walk in this way as steadily, Johnny,—only follow your
heart as unflinchingly, when it points you to Him.  I will do
nothing night and day while I live, Johnny, but pray to Jesus
that He may lead you to Himself."

The old familiar glamour that shed such a holy radiance
on the woods and fields of Gidding, now, to Inglesant's senses,
filled the little convent room.  The light of heaven that
entered the open window with the perfume of the hawthorn,
was lost in the diviner radiance that shone from this girl's face
into the depths of his being, and bathed the place where she
was in light.  His heart ceased to beat, and he lay, as in a
trance, to behold the glory of God.





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   CHAPTER XIX.

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Inglesant was present at the funeral in the cemetery of
the convent, and caused a white marble cross to be set
over the grave.  He remained in his lodgings several days,
melancholy and alone.  His whole nature was shaken to the
foundation, and life was made more holy and solemn to him
than ever before.  The burden of worldly matters became
intolerable, and the coil that had been about his life so long grew
more oppressive till it seemed to stifle his soul.  He desired to
listen to the Divine Voice, but the voice seemed silent, or to
speak only the language of worldly plans and schemes.  He
desired to live a life of holiness, but the only life that seemed
possible to him was one of business and intrigue.  What was
this life of holiness that men ought to lead?  Could it be
followed in the world?  Or must he retire to some monastic
solitude to cultivate it; and was it certain that it would flourish
even there?  It seemed more and more impossible for him to
find it; he was repulsed and turned back upon his worldly life
at every attempt he made.  He almost resolved to give up the
Jesuit, and to seek some more spiritual guide.  He remembered
Cressy, who had become a Romanist, and a Benedictine
monk of the Monastery at Douay, and was at that moment in
Paris.

When Inglesant had been last in Oxford, the secession of
Hugh Paulin Cressy, as he had been named at the font in
Wakefield Church,—Serenus de Cressy, as he called himself in
religion,—had created a painful and disturbed impression.  A
Fellow of Merton, the chaplain and friend of Lord Strafford,
and afterwards of Lord Falkland, a quick and accurate
disputant, a fine and persuasive preacher, a man of sweet and
attractive nature, and of natural and acquired refinement,—he
was one of the leaders of the highest thought and culture of
the University.  When it was known, therefore, that this man,
so admired and beloved, had seceded to Popery, the interest
and excitement were very great, and one of Archbishop Usher's
friends writes to him in pathetic words of the loss of this bright
ornament of the Church, and of the danger to others which
his example might cause.

He was at present in Paris, where the conjuncture of
religious affairs was very exciting.  There was much in the
discussions which were going on, singularly fitted to Inglesant's
state of mind, and in some degree conducive to it.  The
Jesuits, both in Rome and Paris, were occupied, as they had
been for several years, in that great controversy with the
followers of Jansenius, which, a few years afterwards, culminated
in those discussions and that condemnation in the Sorbonne
so graphically described by Pascal.  We have only to do with
it as it affected Inglesant, and it is therefore not necessary to
inquire what were the real reasons which caused the Jesuits
to oppose the Jansenists.  The point at which the controversy
had arrived, when Inglesant was in Paris, was one which
touched closely upon the topics most interesting to his heart.
This was the doctrine of sufficient grace.  The Jesuits, on this
as in all other matters, had taken that side which is
undoubtedly most pleasing to the frailty of the human heart,—an
invariable policy, to which they owed their supremacy over the
popular mind.

When the faithful came to the theologians to inquire what
was the true state of human nature since its corruption, they
received St. Augustine's answer, confirmed by St. Bernard and
St. Thomas Aquinas, and finally adopted by the Jansenists,—"That
human nature has no more sufficient grace than God is
pleased to bestow upon it, and that fresh efficacious grace must
constantly be given by God, which grace God does not give
to all, and without which no man can be saved."  In opposition
to this, the Jesuits, about the time of the Reformation, came
forward with what was called a new doctrine,—that sufficient
grace is given to all men, as men, but so far compliant with
free-will that this latter makes the former efficacious or
inefficacious at its choice, without any new supply from God.
The Jansenists retorted that this doctrine rendered unnecessary
the efficacious grace of Jesus Christ; but that this does
not follow is plain, for this efficacious grace of God that is given
to all men once for all, may be owing to the sacrifice of Christ.
To many natures this universal gracious beneficent doctrine
of all-pervading grace, which includes all mankind, was much
more pleasing than the doctrine of the necessity of special grace,
involving spiritual assumption in those who possess it or say
they do, and bitter uncertainty and depression in humble,
self-doubting, and thoughtful minds.  It resembled also the
doctrines of the Laudian School, in which Inglesant had been
brought up.  So attractive indeed was it, that the Benedictines
were compelled to profess it, and to pretend to side with the
Jesuits, while in reality hating their doctrine.

When Inglesant remembered Cressy, and remembered also
that he belonged to the Benedictines, the polished and learned
cultivators of the useful arts, and was told that Cressy had
chosen this order that he might have leisure and books to
prosecute his studies and his writings, he conceived great hope
that from him he should learn the happy mean he was in search
of, between the worldliness of the Jesuits on the one hand, and
the narrow repulsiveness of the Mendicant orders and the
Calvinists on the other.  In this frame of mind he sought an
interview with Cressy.  The directions of the Jesuits and of the
Laudian School seemed to Inglesant to have failed; to have
associated himself with the Jansenists or Calvinists would have
been distasteful to him, and almost impossible.  He sought in
the Benedictine monk that compromise which the heart of man
is perpetually seeking between the things of this world and the
things of God.  But though for the time the influence of the
training of his life was somewhat shaken, it was far from removed,
and an event occurred which, even before he saw Cressy,
reforged the chains upon him to some extent.  One Sunday
evening, the day before he was to meet Cressy, walking along
the Rue St Martin from the Boulevard where he had lodgings,
he turned into the Jesuits' Church just as the sermon had
begun.  The dim light found its way into the vast Church from
the stained windows; a lamp burning before some shrine shone
partially on the preacher, as he stood in the stone pulpit by a
great pillar, in his white surplice and rich embroidered stole.
He was a young man, thin and sad-looking, and spoke slowly,
and with long pauses and intervals, but with an intense
eagerness and pathos that went to every heart.  The first words
that Inglesant heard, as he reached the nearest unoccupied
place, were these:—

"Ah! if you adored a God crowned with roses and with
pearls, it were a matter nothing strange; but to prostrate
yourselves daily before a crucifix, charged with nails and
thorns,—you living in such excess and superfluity in the flesh, dissolved
in softness,—how can that be but cruel?  Ah, think of that
crucifix as you lie warm in silken curtains, perfumed with eau de
naffe, as you sit at dainty feasts, as you ride forth in the
sunshine in gallantry.  He is cold and naked; He is alone;
behind Him the sky is dreary and streaked with darkening
clouds, for the night cometh—the night of God.  His locks
are wet with the driving rain; His hair is frozen with the sleet;
His beauty is departed from Him; all men have left him—all
men, and God also, and the holy angels hide their faces.  He
is crowned with thorns, but you with garlands; He wears
nothing in His hands but piercing nails; you have rubies and
diamonds on yours.  Ah! will you tell me you can still be
faithful though in brave array?  I give that answer which
Tertullian gave,—'I fear this neck snared with wreaths and
ropes of pearls and emeralds.  I fear the sword of persecution
can find no entrance there.'  No! hear you not the voice of
the crucifix?  Follow me.  We are engaged to suffer by His
sufferings as we look on Him.  Suffering is our vow and profession.
Love which cannot suffer is unworthy of the name of love."

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The next day, at the appointed hour, he went to the
Benedictine Monastery, in the Rue de Varrennes, and sent in his
name to Father de Cressy.  He was shown, not into the
visitors' room, but into a private parlour, where Cressy came
to him immediately.  Dressed in the habit of his order, with
a lofty and refined expression, he was a striking and attractive
man; differing from the Jesuit in that, though both were
equally persuasive, the latter united more power of controlling
others than the appearance of Cressy implied.  He had
known Inglesant slightly at Oxford, and greeted him with
great cordiality.

"I am not surprised that you are come to me, Mr. Inglesant,"
he said, with a most winning gesture and smile; "De
Guevera, who was himself both a courtier and a recluse, says
that the penance of religious men was sweeter than the
pleasures of courtiers.  Has your experience brought you to the
same conclusion?"

Inglesant thanked him for granting him an interview; and
sitting down, he told him shortly the story of his life, and his
early partiality for the mystical theology; of his wishes and
attempts; of his desire to follow the Divine Master; and of
his failures and discouragements, his studies, his Pagan
sympathies; and how life and reality of every kind, and inquiry,
and the truth of history, and philosophy, even while it sided
with or supported religion, still seemed to hinder and oppose
the heavenly walk.

"I do not know, Mr. Inglesant," said De Cressy, "whether
your case is easier or more difficult than that of those who
usually come to me; I have many come to me; and they
usually, one and all, come with the exact words of the blessed
gospel on their lips, 'Sir, we would see Jesus.'  And I look
them in the face often, and wonder, and often find no words
to speak.  See Jesus, I often think, I do not doubt it! who
would not wish to see Him who is the fulness of all perfection
that the heart and intellect ever conceived, in whom all
creation has its centre, all the troubles and sorrows of life have
their cure, all the longings of carnal men their fruition?  But
why come to me?  Is He not walking to and fro on the earth
continually, in every act of charity and self-sacrifice that is
done among men?  Is He not offered daily on every altar,
preached continually from every pulpit?  Why come to me?
Old men of sixty and seventy come to me with these very
words, 'Sir, we would see Jesus.'  If the course of sixty years,
if the troubles and confusions of a long life, if He Himself has
not revealed this Beatific Vision to them,—how can I?  But
with you it is very different.  By your own story I know that
you have seen Jesus; that you know Him as you know your
dearest friend.  This makes our discourse at first much the
easier, for I need waste no words upon a matter to enlarge
upon which to you would be an insult to your heart.  But it
makes it more difficult afterwards, when we come to ask
how it is that, with this transcendental knowledge, you are
still dissatisfied, and find life so difficult a path to tread.  I
make no apology for speaking plainly; such would be as
much an insult to you as the other.  You remind me of the
rich oratories I have seen of some of our Court ladies, where
everything is beautiful and costly, but where a classic statue
of Apollo stands by the side of a crucifix, a Venus with Our
Lady, a Cupid near St. Michael, and a pair of beads
on Mercury's Caduceus.

"You are like the young man who came to Jesus, and
whom Jesus loved, for you have great possessions.  You have
been taught all that men desire to know, and are accomplished
in all that makes life delightful.  You have the knowledge of
the past, and know the reality of men's power, and wisdom,
and beauty, which they possess of themselves, and did possess
in the old classic times.  You have culled of the tree of
knowledge, and know good and evil; yea, the good that belongs to
this world, and is part of it, and the strength and wisdom
and beauty of the children of this world; yea, and the evil
and ignorance and folly of the children of light.  Let us
grant—I am willing to grant—that Plato has a purer spiritual
instinct than St. Paul.  I will grant that Lucretius has the
wisdom of this world with him; ay, and its alluring tongue.
Paul did not desire spiritual insight; he wanted Jesus.  You
stand as a god free to choose.  On the one hand, you have the
delights of reason and of intellect, the beauty of that
wonderful creation which God made, yet did not keep; the charms
of Divine philosophy, and the enticements of the poet's art:
on the other side, Jesus.  You know Him, and have seen Him.
I need say no more of His perfections.

"I do not speak to you, as I might speak to others, of
penalties and sufferings hereafter, in which, probably, you do
not believe.  Nor do I speak to you, as I might to others, of
evidences that our faith is true, of proofs that hereafter we
shall walk with Christ and the saints in glory.  I am willing
to grant you that it may be that we are mistaken; that in the
life to come we may find we have been deceived; nay, that
Jesus Himself is in a different station and position to what
we preach.  This is nothing to your purpose.  To those who
know Him as you know Him, and have seen Him as
you have, better Jesus, beaten and defeated, than all the
universe besides, triumphing and crowned.  I offer to you
nothing but the alternative which every man sooner or later
must place before himself.  Shall he turn a deaf ear to
the voice of reason, and lay himself open only to the light of
faith? or shall he let human wisdom and human philosophy
break up this light, as through a glass, and please himself with
the varied colours upon the path of life?  Every man
must choose; and having chosen, it is futile to lament
and regret; he must abide by his choice, and by the different
fruit it brings.  You wish this life's wisdom, and to walk with
Christ as well; and you are your own witness that it cannot
be.  The two cannot walk together, as you have found.  To
you, especially, this is the great test and trial that Christ
expects of you to the very full.  We of this religious order
have given ourselves to learning, as you know; nay, in former
years, to that Pagan learning which is so attractive to
you, though of late years we devote ourselves to producing
editions of the Fathers of the Church.  But even this you
must keep yourself from.  To most men this study is no
temptation; to you it is fatal.  I put before you your life,
with no false colouring, no tampering with the truth.  Come
with me to Douay; you shall enter our house according to the
strictest rule; you shall engage in no study that is any delight
or effort to the intellect: but you shall teach the smallest
children in the schools, and visit the poorest people, and
perform the duties of the household—and all for Christ.  I
promise you on the faith of a gentleman and a priest—I
promise you, for I have no shade of doubt—that in this path
you shall find the satisfaction of the heavenly walk; you shall
walk with Jesus day by day, growing ever more and more like
to Him; and your path, without the least fall or deviation,
shall lead more and more into the light, until you come
unto the perfect day; and on your death-bed—the deathbed
of a saint—the vision of the smile of God shall sustain
you, and Jesus Himself shall meet you at the gates of eternal
life."

Every word that Cressy spoke went straight to Inglesant's
conviction, and no single word jarred upon his taste.  He
implicitly believed that what the Benedictine offered him he
should find.  There was no doubt—could be no doubt—that
it was by such choice as this that such men as Cressy gained
for themselves a power in the heavenly warfare, and not only
attained to the heavenly walk themselves, but moved the earth
to its foundations, and drew thousands into the ranks of Christ.
He saw the choice before him fairly, as Cressy had said, and
indeed it was not for the first time.  Then his mind went back
to his old master, and to that school where no such thing as
this was required of him, and yet the heavenly light offered to
him as freely as by this man.  The sermon of the night before
came into his mind again; surely, where such doctrine as that
was preached, might he not find rest?  It was true that his
coming there, and his confession, closed his lips before Cressy;
but might he not have been too hasty?  Life was not yet over
with him; perchance he might yet find what he sought in some
other way.  He saw the path of perfect self-denial open before
him,—renunciation, not of pleasure, nor even of the world, but
of himself, of his intellect, of his very life,—and distinctly of
his free choice he refused it.  This only may be said for him:
he was convinced that every word the Benedictine had said to
him was true,—that in the life he offered him he should follow
and find the Lord; but he was not equally convinced that it
was the will of Christ that he should accept this life, and
should follow and find Him in this way, and in no other.
Had he been as clear of this as of the truth of Cressy's words,
then indeed would his turning away have been a clear denial
of Jesus Christ; but it was the voice of Cressy that spoke to
him, and not the voice of Christ; it came to him with a
conviction and a power all but irresistible, but it failed to carry
with it the absolute conviction of the heavenly call.  How
could it?  The heavenly call itself must speak very loud
before it silences and convinces the unwilling heart.

He rose from his seat before the monk, and looking sadly
down upon him, he said,—

"I believe all that you say and all that you promise, and
that the heavenly walk lies before me in the road that you
have pointed out; but I cannot follow it—it is too strait.  I
return your kindness and your plainness with words equally
plain; and while you think of me as lost and unworthy, it may
be some well-earned satisfaction to you to remember that none
ever spoke truer, or nobler, or kinder words to any man than
you have spoken to me."

"I do not look on you as lost, Mr. Inglesant,—far from it,"
said Cressy, rising as he spoke; "I expect you will yet witness
a good confession for Christ in the world and in the Court;
but I believe you have had to-day a more excellent way shown
you, which, but for the trammels of your birth and training,
you might have had grace to walk in, for your own exceeding
blessedness and the greater glory of the Lord Christ.  I wish
you every benediction of this life and of the next; and I shall
remember you at the altar as a young man who came to Jesus,
and whom Jesus loves."

Inglesant took his leave of him, and left the monastery.
He came away very sorrowful from Serenus de Cressy.
Whether he also, at the same time, was turning away from
Jesus Christ, who can tell?

The next day the Jesuit arrived in Paris.





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   CHAPTER XX.

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Inglesant was much struck with the change in the
Jesuit's appearance.  He was worn and thin, and looked
discouraged and depressed.  He was evidently extremely
pleased to see his pupil again, and his manner was affectionate
and even respectful.  He appeared shaken and nervous, and
Inglesant fancied that he was rather shy of meeting him; but
if so, it soon passed off under the influence of the cordial
greeting with which he was received.

To Inglesant's inquiry as to where he had been, the Jesuit
answered that it did not matter; he had succeeded very
imperfectly in his mission, whatever it had been.  He asked
Inglesant whether he had met with Sir Kenelm Digby, or
heard anything of him.  In reply to which Inglesant told him
the reports which he had heard concerning him.

"He is mad," said the Jesuit, "and he is not the less
dangerous.  He was sent to Rome by the Queen, where he
made great mischief, and offended the Pope by his insolence.
He has sided with the Parliament in England, and is engaged
on a scheme to persuade Cromwell to recall the King, and seat
him on the throne as an elective monarch.  The Queen does
not wish to break with him altogether, both because he has
great influence with some powerful Catholics, and because, if
nothing better can be done, she would perforce accept the
elective monarchy for her son.  But the scheme is chimerical,
and will come to nothing.  Cromwell intends the crown for
himself.  You see, Johnny," continued St. Clare with a smile, "all
our plans have failed.  The English Church is destroyed, and
those Catholics who always opposed it are thought much of at
Rome now, and carry all before them.  I have not altered my
opinion, however, and I shall die in the same.  But we must
wait.  I do not wish to influence you any more, nor to involve
you any longer in any schemes of mine, but the Queen wants
you to go as an agent to Rome on her behalf; and it would be
of great service to me, and to any plans which I may in future
have, if I had such a friend and correspondent as yourself in
that city.  If you have no other plans, I do not see that you
could do much better than go.  You shall have such introductions
to my friends there—cardinals and great men—that you
may live during your stay in the best company and luxury, and
without expense.  One of my friends is the Cardinal
Renuccinni, brother of the Legate the Bishop of Fermo, whom you
met in Ireland, and who, by the by, was much impressed with
you.  You cannot fail to make friends with many who will
have it in their power to be of great use to you; and you may
establish yourself in some lucrative post, either as a layman, or,
if you choose to take orders, as a priest.  You will believe
me, also, when I say,—what I say to very few,—that I am under
obligations to you which I can never repay, and nothing will
give me greater pleasure than to see you rich and prosperous,
and admired and powerful in the Roman Court.  You have
the qualities and the experience to command success.  You
will be backed by the whole power of my friends, with whom
to make your fortune will be the work of an after-dinner's talk.
You will see Italy, and delight yourself in the sight of all
those places and antiquities of which we have so often talked;
and with your cultivated and religious tastes you will enter,
with the most perfect advantage, into that magic world of sight
and sound which the churches and sacred services in Rome
present to the devout.  I cannot see that you can do better
than go."

Inglesant sat looking at the Jesuit with a singular expression
in his eyes, which the latter did not understand.  Yes,
surely it was a very different offer from that of Serenus de
Cressy, yet Inglesant did not delay to answer from any
indecision; from the moment the Jesuit began to speak he knew
that he should go.  But he took a kind of melancholy pleasure
in contrasting the two paths, the two men, the different choice
they offered him, and in reading a half sad, half sarcastic
commentary on himself.

After a minute or two, he said,—

"I thank you much for your good-will and quite undeserved
patronage.  It is by far too good an offer to be refused,
and I gladly accept it.  You know, doubtless, what has
happened to me, especially within these last few days, and that
I have no friend left on earth save yourself; such a journey
as that which you propose to me will, at the least, distract my
thoughts from such a melancholy fate as mine."

"I knew of your brother's murder," said the Jesuit; "I
have heard of the man before—one of those utterly lost and
villanous natures which no country but Italy ever produced.
Do you wish to seek him?"

Inglesant told him that one of his principal objects in staying
in Paris was to seek his assistance for that purpose; and
that he felt it a sacred duty, which he owed to his brother,
that his murderer should not escape unpunished.

"I have no doubt I can learn where he is," said the other;
"but I do not well see what you can do when you have found
him, unless it happens to be in a place where you have powerful
friends.  It is true that he is so generally known and hated
in Italy, that you might easily get help in punishing him
should you meet him there; but he is hardly likely to return
to his native country, except for some powerful reason."

"If I can do nothing else," said Inglesant bitterly, "I can
tell him who I am and shoot him dead, or run him through
the body.  He murdered my brother, just as he had come back
to me—to me in prison and alone, and was a loving friend
and brother to me, and would have been through life.  Do
you suppose that I should spare him, or that any moment will
be so delightful to me as the one in which I see him bleed to
death at my feet, as I saw my poor brother, struck by his hand,
as he shall be by mine?"

The Jesuit looked at Inglesant with surprise.  The terrible
earnestness of his manner, and the unrelenting and grim
pleasure he seemed to take at the prospect of revenge, seemed
so inconsistent with the refined and religious tone of his
ordinary character, approaching almost to weakness; but the next
moment he thought, "Why should I wonder at it?  The man
who has gone through what he did without flinching must have
a strength of purpose about him far other than some might
think."

He said aloud,—

"Well, I doubt not I can find him; he is well known in
France, in Spain, and in Italy, and if he goes to Germany he
can be traced.  But what was the other sad misfortune you
spoke of?—something within the last few days, you said."

Inglesant had been looking fixedly before him since he had
last spoken, with a steady blank expression, which, since his
imprisonment, his face sometimes wore,—part of a certain
wildness in his look which bespoke a mind ill at ease and a
confused brain.  He was following up his prey to the death.

He started at the Jesuit's question, and seemed to recollect
with an effort; then he said,—

"Mary Collet died at the convent of the Nuns of the
—— last week.  I only found her out the night before;"
and as he spoke, the contrast arose in his mind of the deathbed
of the saint-like girl, and the Italian's bleeding body struck
down by his revenge.  The footsteps of the Saviour he had
promised his friend to follow, surely could not lead him to such
a scene as that.  If this were the first-fruits of his refusal to
follow Serenus de Cressy, surely he must also have turned his
back on Christ Himself.

He covered his face with his hands, and the Jesuit saw
that he wept.  He supposed it was simply from grief at the
death of his friend, and he was surprised at the strength of
his attachment.  Like others, he had thought Inglesant's love
a rather cool and Platonic passion.

"I always thought him one of those nice and coy lovers,"
he said to himself, "who always observe some defect in the
thing they love, which weakens their passion, and shows them
that the reality is so much inferior to their idea, that they easily
desist from their enterprize, and vanish as if they had not so
much intention to love as to vanish, and had more shame to
have begun their courtship than purpose to continue it.  He
must be much shaken by his suffering and by his brother's
death."

He waited a few moments, and then spoke to Inglesant
about his health, of his brother's death, and of his imprisonment.
He spoke to him of the late King, and of his distress
at the necessity under which he lay of denying Inglesant's
commission; and he said many other things calculated to cheer
his friend and please his self-regard.

Inglesant listened to him not without pleasure, but he said
little.  An idea had taken possession of his mind, which he
carried with him into Italy and for long afterwards.  He was
more than half convinced that, in rejecting Cressy's advice,
he had turned his back on Christ; and he was the more
confirmed in this belief because never had the image of the Italian,
nor the desire of revenge, taken so strong a hold upon his
imagination as now.  It occurred to his excited imagination
that Christ had deserted him, and the Fiend taken possession,
and that the course and intention of the latter would be to
lure him on, by such images, to some terrible and lonely place,
where the Italian and he together should be involved in one
common ghastly deed of crime, one common and eternal ruin.
The sense of having had a great act of self-denial placed
before him and having refused it, no doubt weighed down and
blunted his conscience; and once placed, as he half thought,
upon the downward path, nothing seemed before him but the
gradual descent, adorned at first by some poor show of gaudy
flowers, but ending speedily—for there was no self-delusion to
such a nature as his, which had tasted of the heavenly
food—in miserable and filthy mire, where, loathing himself and
despised by others, nothing awaited him but eternal death.
He answered the Jesuit almost mechanically, and on parting
from him at night promised indifferently to accompany him
on the morrow to an audience with the Queen.

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END OF VOL. I.

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*Printed by* R. & R. CLARK, *Edinburgh*.

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