CHAP. XI.
He makes the infirmity of his temper pass for revelations.
Butler.
The summer months at Milverton rolled swiftly on, Cuthbert slowly, but perfectly, regained his strength; and, early in August, he was once more able to walk abroad and to take exercise on horseback; but his vivacity and animation did not return with his health: he was no longer the cheerful and entertaining companion at table, or in the intervals of leisure. Sir Oliver found him a dull restraint, and wearied of his presence: even his pupil, who was truly attached to him, and was still, in the hours of study, delighted with his preceptor, felt the sad and depressing change; and if it had not been for the frequent visits of George Juxon, would have been disappointed of many of those joyous and manly exercises which Juxon delighted to encourage, and in which he excelled. The only diversions by which Cuthbert could now be attracted were fencing, and the use of the broad sword: but he practised them without a smile; and there was an earnestness of attention and a seriousness of effort about him, whenever he took a lesson from Juxon, which drove away smiles and jokes. His stamp was angry; the glance of his eye rapid and piercing; and after six weeks of occasional practice, when Juxon told him he would soon be a strong and complete swordsman, the grave scholar, so quiet and gentle in all his ways and words on common occasions, hastily and vehemently exclaimed, “Thank God.”
“For what?” asked his good-tempered instructor, “for what do you thank God so warmly?”
“It matters not, it matters not,” replied Cuthbert, hastily; “time will show.”
Juxon put down his sword, and, looking him earnestly in the face, asked him if he was well?
“What a strange question! quite well.”
“No, Master Cuthbert, it is not always that a man is well who calls himself so, or even who thinks himself to be so. We are alone; we are friends; tell me what has thus moved you; tell me what it is that has so changed and saddened you; what are the dark purposes which lie hid in your bosom?”
“Methinks this question is yet more strange. I have no purposes that be not honest; none that will not bear the light of open day; but, yet, I may not care to trouble others or myself by babbling of them.”
“Does the blow still rankle in your bosom, Cuthbert? Have you retracted the pardon uttered on your bed? And do you mean to seek out Sir Charles, and make him do battle for your revenge?”
“Master Juxon, that is not well asked: such purpose would be dark, indeed: was not my pardon spoken before God, and at the grave’s mouth? No; I forgave him as I hope to be forgiven; nay, in that it was a stab which sought my life I forgave it more readily than I could have done a blow; that, indeed, such slaves we are of pride, that might have rankled still.”
“True—I had forgotten—and my words have wronged you; but, Cuthbert, whatever are your purposes, they do not make you happy. I met you the other day riding much faster than is your wont, and your countenance was clouded, and your teeth were set, as if in hottest anger, and you would not stop, but only muttered a good morrow as you passed swiftly by. What do all these things mean?”
“They mean that I am sick at heart for England; sick for the meek man’s wrongs. I had just then met an aged countryman, his furrowed cheek newly branded, for a churchyard brawl: I questioned him closely, and found him a sufferer for conscience’ sake, falsely accused and persecuted by a godless parson of his parish.”
“Cuthbert, did the countryman tell truth? Did he name the parish and the parson?”
“He did; I know them well: in Oxfordshire was this outrage done, and the crime is not three months old.”
“Well, here is a case of wrong to be made known and to be redressed. Scandals there must be, even in the most sacred offices, when they are held by mere men. Some are cruel, and some are wanton by nature, and to punish these we have our judges and our bishops.”
“Yes we have—and the same who ruled the decisions of the Star-chamber. The wrong redressed! it would be smiled at; and if it were punished, what then? There’s nothing but the grave-worm can take away the brand from the old man’s cheek: his grandchildren will put their little fingers on the mark and ask the story of it, and he will tell them what he told me, and more. It is a hard world, Juxon.”
“And always was, and always will be. Legislation is a coarse thing: some innocent will always suffer with the guilty.”
“The guilty! is liberty of conscience guilt? Look you, Master Juxon, there are good men and true ready to stand up for that liberty.”
“And for a little more, perhaps: your secret is out; so, instead of our sword-play being mere exercise for pastime, after college fashion, I have been teaching the noble science of defence to a stout Parliamentarian, to an enemy of mother church.”
“Nay; no enemy to any persons or any institutions, but to the oppressor every where, and to oppression every where, by whatever titles or names they may be disguised.”
“You confess, then, that you wish an appeal to the sword.”
“I say not so; but if it come, as it may, and as in my present judgment it surely will, I shall be well pleased that my fingers have been taught to fight; for I would not be wanting in the day of battle.”
“I have heard you, Cuthbert, speak words of Christ’s religion since your late illness, which I have thought of so sweet and heavenly a temper, as might well engage all men to follow the truth in love. Surely the weapons of a Christian’s warfare are not carnal.”
“I tell you, the fat heart of the oppressor is proof against all other, and they that govern with the headsman’s axe must look to be wounded by the patriot’s sword.”
“Stop, Cuthbert, we’ll say no more on this subject—you are standing upon a precipice—the gulf beneath is treason.”
“Not against Heaven, Juxon; and it is a poor thing to me to be judged by my fellow man.”
“Yes, Cuthbert, against Heaven. Your father will say so.”
“Never; though it is true that my father is old and timid, and he would bear the errors of the crown in charity and in hope, rather than see them openly opposed by arms.”
“And you would punish them in the field of battle?”
“And gain a victory over the crown for the greater honour and more golden purity of the crown itself!”
“Are you so weak, Cuthbert, as to think that a crown, beaten from a king’s head by the sword, and lying soiled by the dust of a fall, can ever be replaced on the same brows with honour?—No! but among the successful rebels, some stern spirit would be found to wipe it and put it on; whose sceptre would have no peaceful globe surmounted by a dove; but would rather be a naked sword crimsoned to the hilt with blood.”
“Never, never:—you, like many good and generous persons, are the creature of prejudice and of circumstance; you do not see, and you will not believe, that the temple of true freedom needs only to be opened, and all the virtuous and the holy will flock there to worship in peace, and they will guard it alike from the rude tyrant and from the slavish rabble.”
“Cuthbert, you dream, and will awake some day in bitterness of soul. But if these be your sentiments—if thoughts like these fill your mind and colour your gloomy fancies—no wonder that your looks are sad.”
“My fancies are not gloomy. They are solemn. I am not sad, but I am serious. In visions of the night, I have seen this earth regenerate—its people walking in peace—holiness on the bells of the horses. I have heard the voice of thanksgiving and the song of praise. I have listened for sighs, and looked for tears, but there were none. I have asked about their happiness, and they have told me, ‘In this region there is no one to hurt or to destroy:—we do not teach every man his neighbour, for from the least to the greatest we all know God.’ Such have been my revelations; and I have been called, and chosen by name, to join that sacred band, which is to awaken a slumbering and captive people, and lead them forward to prepare the way for that monarchy of truth and universal love which is even now about to descend and bless mankind. The spear shall be broken, the sword turned into a ploughshare, and the sovereign Lord of all shall stand a second time upon the earth, and proclaim his promised reign of holiness and peace.”
Juxon listened to this rhapsody with awe and pain; and not without an effort to shake the strong delusion, which was evidently taking a fast hold upon the mind of Cuthbert.
“My dear friend,” he said, laying his hand gently upon his arm, “I confess that you greatly alarm me. Consider that, for the first two months after your wound, you were very weak in body; you were often obliged to have recourse to opiates to procure rest; and you was not in a state to examine the impressions made on your mind, and to separate illusion from reality. There is nothing wonderful in these phantasma having floated past your mind’s eye: it is with sounds as with sights; the music of a dream is often clear and ravishing to the mind’s ear; and our name may be thus, to our sleeping fancy, very distinctly called and connected with some message or charge of solemn import spoken as by a voice from Heaven. Or, it may be, Cuthbert, that the enemy of your soul, knowing that you can only be led aside from the path of duty and peace by the fair semblance of true religion and freedom, hath assumed these angel shapes to lure you to your ruin.
“I can understand the plain and manly language of a Hampden, but this I cannot. It is unhealthy; it is the false fire of the fanatic. Rouse your intellect, and turn away from these notions, or you will be entangled and overcome: strangle the serpent while you have strength to do so.”
Cuthbert replied only by the grave smile of one so firmly persuaded of the truth of his own convictions as rather to pity than resent the very unwelcome effort to disturb them. However, he now communicated to Juxon that, in another month (it being then the end of September), he should accompany his pupil to enter at Oxford, and should there leave him, and proceed himself to join a friend in London. This arrangement, he observed, would enable him to reach the capital about the time when the new parliament was to assemble; for it had been just resolved by the King, in his great council of peers held at York, that a parliament should be called to sit on the third of November following.
George Juxon was truly concerned to find that Cuthbert was so far gone in his views, that to reclaim him seemed hopeless; but there were so many amiable and engaging points in his character, that he could not allow any one chance of recovering him from a course which he truly thought would distress his father and destroy his own peace of mind, altogether neglected.
He was aware that Cuthbert maintained a scrupulous silence on the subjects on which he had just spoken in his intercourse with the family; but he had often observed that, whatever was the matter of discourse at table, or elsewhere, the opinion of Mistress Katharine had great weight with him. He determined, therefore, to make a full disclosure to her of the state of Cuthbert’s mind, and to engage her good offices to dissipate, if possible, the cloud of illusions which obscured or dazzled his present judgment. He was, however, obliged to defer this step by the sudden arrival of Sophia and Jane Lambert; the latter of whom instantly joined Sir Oliver and the ladies in the gallery, to communicate the arrival of their brother at the Grange, and his intention of again presenting himself at Milverton that evening, to express his sorrow to Sir Oliver for what had passed in the spring, and to acknowledge duly the frank and Christian forgiveness of Cuthbert Noble.
Juxon learned from Sophia Lambert that Sir Charles having met with Sir Philip Arundel at some place of public amusement, had demanded satisfaction of him for the insulting words which Sir Philip had addressed to him on the evening when they last parted at Milverton; that they had retired to an adjoining tavern with their friends; and Sir Philip having been wounded, the quarrel was amicably adjusted, and the parties shook hands.
By this duel, Sir Charles at once succeeded in stopping the mouth of one who would have reported the occurrence at Milverton more to his disadvantage and shame than it was yet considered among his London acquaintance, and knew that he should in some degree recover his lost ground with Sir Oliver and his neighbours in Warwickshire. For the credit of their family the sisters were naturally desirous of this; and, therefore, they had preceded their brother with cheerfulness, and with an earnest anxiety to secure him a good reception. Jane, indeed, well knew the feelings of Katharine Heywood, and loved her happiness far before that of Sir Charles; but still he was a brother, and the head of their house; and though she secretly determined to divert his attentions and his hopes from Katharine, she wished that the two families should resume their old footing of neighbourhood and frequent intercourse.
The various projects devised by the kind heart of Jane Lambert were always most readily aided by an acute and contriving mind.
She had already rendered Katharine a most important service in the matter of George Juxon’s suit, which she had put an end to before any declaration of it distressing to the fair and noble object of it had been made.
The modesty, the good sense, and the manliness of Juxon, enabled him, with very little assistance from the delicate though playful management of Jane Lambert, to discern the painful truth. He plainly saw that Katharine Heywood was not at all disposed to favour, or even entertain, his pretensions as a lover; and he made a worthy and successful effort to stifle in his breast the sentiment, which she had inspired, that he might still enjoy the privilege of visiting at Milverton as an intimate, and might attain to the happy and soothing distinction of being her true and faithful friend:—this consolation was already granted to his manly heart. Katharine saw and valued his sterling qualities; and to no one in the whole circle of her acquaintance were her manners more open, cordial, and confiding than to George Juxon.
It was a curious thing, that evening, to see with what a shy, embarrassed air the noble Cuthbert, noble even in his errors, received the silken, though forced and momentary, submission of the man, whose savage anger had well nigh deprived him of life. No looker on, ignorant of their peculiar relation to each other, at the first interview, could have remotely guessed it from the manner or bearing of either.
The cheek of Sir Charles was indeed coloured by a deep, though transient, stain of crimson, as he made his obeisance to Mistress Katharine, and took her slowly extended hand,—but with Sir Oliver he was quite at his ease immediately; not so, however, with Juxon, whose presence a little disconcerted him throughout the evening.
As the weather was, for the season, very open and mild, and as there was a fine moon, it was soon arranged by Sir Oliver, that the party from the Grange should sup at Milverton, and ride home by moonlight. To Sir Oliver the reconciliation was most satisfactory; and as he saw Cuthbert sitting at the table, as strong and healthy as before the misfortune, and as he considered the name of Sir Charles completely white-washed in society, by his duel with Sir Philip Arundel, he dismissed all further thought about the ferocious crime which he committed. It was now passed without the sad consequences which might have followed—it was forgiven—it was already dwindling into very insignificant proportions—and was soon to be altogether forgotten.
After the pleasant customs of that time, when supper was ended, the music books were introduced—the viol and lute were brought;—and an hour, or more, was delightfully spent to the health and refreshment of mind and body, in that familiar concert, where each person was expected to sing the appointed part at first sight. Among the permitted pleasures of our existence, those derived from the gift of sweet sounds, and from the divine art of musical composition, may be classed among the purest and most refined.
They sung a few of the best madrigals of Orlando Gibbons, and Bird’s rich harmony—“My Mind to me a Kingdom is;”—and they closed with a flowing glee for five voices, from Gibbons, entitled “The Silver Swan.” The summer parlour in which they sung had been found so warm that the casements were half open, and the moonlight streamed in, scarcely overpowered by the lamp, which stood upon the table, and but dimly illuminated the oaken wainscot and ceiling. Except a whispered word, to the one sitting next, on the richness of Bird’s harmonies, or on the delicate and sweet style of Orlando Gibbons, a long and silent pause followed the evening’s performance, and they seemed to be enjoying again in memory what they had just made vocal. Suddenly there stole upon them from among the trees, at a short distance, a simple and soft melody of a most tender expression. It was the music of a pipe or reed, but such as none of the party had ever heard before. The tones were various,—now full and clear; now faint and exquisite; now died away into a charmed stillness; now, again, they were heard slow, chaste, and solemn, as if the burden of the air were some sacred hymn. At last, after ravishing the ears of the astonished party, who stood at the window, or leaned upon their chairs with mute attention, by breathing forth airs of strange harmony, which none could distinctly recognise, the invisible minstrel closed the magical prelude, in heavenly and melancholy notes of surpassing sweetness, with the favourite air of “Now, O now,” by the famous Dowland, the well known friend of the immortal William Shakspeare. Not one of the party observed the sudden paleness and deep agitation of Katharine, while the sweet notes of this beautiful air were sounding in their ravished ears. All were silent, and most of them absorbed in still attention; and Katharine sat back in the shadow of the apartment, so that her countenance was hid.
“Methinks it is a spirit,” said Jane Lambert, with a smile.
“Nay, if it be,” observed Mistress Alice, “it is a good one, and has been gently bred.—I am sure I felt quite sorry when the last air ceased; and as for poor Master Cuthbert, I never saw any man so affected by music before.—Do you not observe it, Katharine?”
“I cannot wonder, because I know that Dowland is a great favourite with him; and that air, played as it was, might affect a person less easily moved than Master Cuthbert.”
“Well, Kate,” said Sir Oliver, “after all, it is but some piping stroller, perhaps, that is trudging it to Coventry fair; but, what with moonshine and fancy, you are making an Orpheus of the vagabond,—and I dare to say he would be well pleased to pipe a good fat hen out of the fowl house.”
“Really, Sir Oliver,” said Jane Lambert, “you old gentlemen are very provoking:—you have a way of knocking down all castles in the air with a crab-stick; and if we do now and then get lifted off plain ground, you bring us down again with a vengeance. Now, even I, who am not very romantic, was painting to myself some disconsolate bard of noble presence, wandering about in sad banishment from the lady of his love, and solacing his despair with the melody of this pipe, given him, I am sure, by a magician.”
“Whoever he is,” said Juxon, who with young Arthur had leaped from the window and ran to the wood, coming to the open casement a few minutes after, “he has certainly got the ring of Gyges; for there is not man or animal in that open beechery; and if any one had run forth we must have seen them in the close behind.”
“It may be, Juxon, he is perched in a tree, like your true nightingale,” said Sir Oliver.
“Nay, we looked up into the branches carefully, but could discern nothing: the birds at roost, though, had raised their heads from beneath their wings, to listen to the strange chorister. In faith, he is no common shepherd in clouted shoon, but a rare minstrel, such as poets feign Apollo. Hush! listen again.”
Again, after a playful prelude, the invisible musician performed the sweet air to which the song of Ariel in the Tempest was always sung.
“Marry, Master Juxon,” said Jane, “the precious songster mocks your pains, and gives you fair challenge to renew your hunt; but I think you might gather the night dew till cock-crow before you would find him.”
Every one seemed spell-bound till the air was done, and Jane Lambert spoke; but Juxon and Arthur now ran again to the beechery, and in a few minutes returned without better success than before.
“Well,” said Jane Lambert, “we shall soon find out who it is that this dainty spirit is come to honour; for if it be Sophy or me, we shall have him flying with us on a bat’s back all the way to the Grange; and if it be you, dear Kate, you will have more music than sleep to-night.”
Katharine was spared all reply by Sir Oliver gravely saying, “that he remembered when he was a boy that beechery was said to be haunted, and that whenever the white lady appeared it boded evil to the family at Milverton.” This old Philip had already mentioned to the servants, who stood grouped at the gate of the court-yard on the right, but none of whom had dared to venture down to the spot whence the music came, though they had seen all which passed.
Master Cuthbert ventured to observe, that the music was not like the wailing of a ghost, which came as a forerunner of grief; nor was it of such solemnity, that a spirit from heaven could take delight in it: and he doubted not that the minstrel was plain flesh and blood; that he had, probably, been arrested by the sounds of their little concert, had amused himself by responding to them with his own pleasant instrument, and had practised cleverly upon their curiosity by the nimbleness with which he had evaded their search. But Sir Oliver shook his head at this natural explanation of the mystery; and the Lamberts and Juxon, after putting their lips to a stirrup cup of spiced wine, took leave of their host, and the trampling of their horses soon died away in the distance.