"Is it not strange that Sir Gyles' son should favour him so little?"
"Ah, but he is like my grandfather in that he is wise; only he is wise like a philosopher, and looks at the matters of this world as if he were sitting away high up with Greeks, and Romans, and saints, in the clouds. Grandad used to say father cared more for the laws of Plato's Republic than he did for English Acts of Parliament, and that some day he would be asking if Queen Bess sat still on the throne! While my grandfather was wise for everything, for the constables, and the soldiers, and the poor folks, and the Parliament; so when he died it was as though the sky had fallen, and no one knew which way to turn."
But there was little time to spare, even for such a chatterbox as Audrey to discourse in. She was soon flying round the house, searching and planning, emptying cupboards, and tying up bundles, and Richard found work enough to drive away all thoughts, save how best to defend bedding from salt water, and whether it were possible to carry the great brass warming-pan over seas. Not till evening drew on and the chests and bundles were piled ready in the entry, did the thoughts that had laid in ambush all day spring out and possess him again. The pleasant occupation, the novelty of the girl's bright society and ready sympathy, had charmed them to sleep for a while, but the sickness that lay at his heart was part of himself; it was only the more real that he could turn from it for a while, and come back and find it unchanged.
"Prithee, good brother," cried Audrey, crossing to the chimney corner, where he sat in sudden gloom, "why so sad? Are you already repenting of having chosen a hard task-mistress as a travelling companion?"
He started from his study. "No, truly," he answered; "'tis the pleasantest day I have spent since the troubles came upon us. I reckon I have laughed more this day than I have for a twelve-month past. But, sweet sister, is there not enough to make a man sad nowadays?"
"Yes," she answered gently; "but you must not grieve overmuch for General Harrison. Surely, though the way thereto was hard, now he hath attained to rest from his labours."
"Ay," answered Richard, bitterly, rising and pacing up and down the kitchen, "but do his works follow him? Indeed I grieve no longer for him of whom this land is not worthy. How may I dare to grieve, having witnessed his triumph over a death of agony? But what of the liberties of England for which he gave his life? If our cause had been of God would it not have gone forward? But He hath not owned us, and our labour was spent in vain."
"No, no," she cried eagerly; "not all in vain! I am but a foolish girl, and should not speak of such high matters; but I mind my father often hath said that a great deed hath an immortality in itself and cannot die, even if for a time it seem to perish. He did not justify the death of the king, but doth bewail it yearly as the day comes round, in fasting and humiliation. He held that the cause of Liberty must triumph in the end by men's eyes being instructed to desire her for her beauty, for that she needs not the service of bloody hands. He is of so meek a spirit, he would rather endure to the uttermost than take the sword. Yet have I often heard him say that he did account all that the army had done for the liberty of England was so great, that the names of those who fought in it would, by-and-by, be numbered among the heroes of history."
"You are a kind comforter, my gentle sister, and I trust your prophecies may prove true. Yet, as a man may not read his own epitaph, 'tis but a lesson of patience to say that by-and-by matters may mend, while now they go from bad to worse."
Audrey could not, in the bottom of her heart, grieve as deeply as did the young soldier for the downfall of the Republican cause, but even in that lonely Hall she heard enough of public matters to understand that the new King Charles was not renewing the golden Elizabethan age she had been brought up to revere, and, moreover, she was a born hero-worshipper, and treasured the stories of Blake's victories, and of Cromwell's defence of the Waldenses all the more dearly now that the bones of those great Englishmen were torn from their graves and flung into a shameful pit under the gallows. She could give a good deal of sympathy, and still more of pity to the lost cause, but could she give consolation? She had seen her grandfather preserve his hope of the ultimate triumph of sober liberty through all the storms and tumult of the Civil wars; she knew how old men could sorrow and could endure. But this stranger's mind was still a sealed book to her. How did the young sorrow? What was the comfort that would appeal to him? How could she whisper hope to the man who sat with his head dropped in his hands, as if he feared to let any one see the burning tears of shame that were gathering in his eyes?