For her part, however, Ruth could not consider the landlady of the "King's Arms" at all a bad sort. On the contrary, she entertained a great liking for her. Folks were fond of saying that Mistress Sheppard had a shrewish tongue; but Ruth had never felt its edge. The good woman was as foolish as everybody else in the matter of spoiling the little mistress of the Rye House; and though she would as soon tell a prince of the blood a piece of her mind, as she would the stable-boy of her own establishment, if she saw fit, she would have vowed the old dun-cow to be white as milk, if it could have afforded Ruth any satisfaction; or declared that Master Richard Rumbold was the most urbane and delightful gentleman in all the country, though no love, to put it mildly, was lost between her and her opposite neighbour.
The hostess of the "King's Arms."
One reason for this among divers others, was their difference of opinion concerning the sign of her hostelry. What easier, the maltster always insisted, than to change it from the "King's Arms" to the "Commonwealth Arms?" or some such reasonable name? There could be no offence, he argued, to anybody in that. But Mistress Sheppard maintained there was, and much offence too. She would stand by and see no such senseless choppings and changings. There had never been anything common about the place, since place it was; and shouldn't be while she was above ground. And what did the man want of such notions? And Master Sheppard, if he could have answered that question, as perhaps he might, maintained a discreet silence, as indeed is the only safe course when one finds one's self betwixt two stools, as his lot in life placed him; for he was never certain whether he stood more in awe of his wife or of Master Rumbold. Once, it is true, he ventured so far as to hint to her, that for the good of the house, and the sake of peace, it might be well to think over Master Rumbold's suggestion, and that he, Sheppard, was agreeable, if so be—but having got thus far he was pulled up by Mistress Sheppard, who said she "was not agreeable; that those who didn't like the sign might spare their custom, and the good o' the house'd be none the worse for lack o' their company." And so the sign remained true to its colours, and an eyesore and a thorn in the flesh to roundhead Master Rumbold.
Smouldering fires.
Differences between neighbours were, however, unfortunately common enough in those troubled times; for troubled they were. It is true that the old quarrel between the king and the parliament, which had brought Charles the First to his sad death at Whitehall, had been patched up very neatly more than twenty years ago now, when his son, King Charles the Second, had been restored to the throne; but the feelings of the people were like smouldering fires, and ready as ever to break out in discontent. The country, moreover, was divided, not now, as then, into those who did approve of its being governed by a king and those who did not; but there were many loyal enough sober-minded folks, and holding quite varying forms of religious belief, who were sorely disappointed with the manner in which the king, whom they had helped to restore with so much expense of precious lives and of money, governed; or, more properly, neglected to govern. Yes, a careless "Merry Monarch"—all very well to call him so—but your merry men and women are frequently cruelly selfish ones, and contrive to bring tears into other people's eyes every time they are pleased to laugh.
Then, too, there were many who dreaded the day when Charles's brother, the Duke of York, should succeed him on the throne. There seemed hardly any doubt that he had adopted the Roman Catholic form of belief; and a strong impression prevailed that Charles was also greatly inclined to do the same.
The Merry Monarch.
How far this was true can, perhaps, never be fairly determined. The king's pleasures always interested him vastly more than religious questions of any kind, and the fears of those who dreaded to see England fall back under popish rule were probably exaggerated. It is very certain that these ideas were fed by dangerous men, who for their own selfish ends spread alarms of popish plots and conspiracies which existed nowhere but in their own mischievous brains; and many harmless peace-abiding Roman Catholics were hunted to prison and death, solely for the crime of being faithful to the creed they had been reared in. These did not, however, remain entirely unavenged, for the love of fair play and of justice triumphed in the end; and the wretches who had persecuted their fellow-men under the pretence of religion were many of them severely punished, and few pitied them.
The father of Lawrence Lee had died, fighting for King Charles the First on Worcester field; while Richard Rumbold had lost his eye in the selfsame struggle, serving the Parliamentary forces.
A dark desire.