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.
CHAPTER VII.
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?"