At the village of Milverton, in Warwickshire, upon a sweet spot above the valley of the Avon, Sir Oliver Heywood, the descendant of a successful and honoured merchant, occupied a fair and pleasant mansion erected in the reign of Elizabeth by his wealthy father.
The family at Milverton House consisted of the worthy knight, a maiden sister, his daughter—an only child—and a boy who was the son of a favourite nephew slain in the German wars, in which he had been led to engage as a diversion of his grief on the loss of a beloved wife.
In addition to these regular members of the family there was a little orphan girl, whom his benevolent sister had adopted. This sister, Mistress Alice, was two years the junior of Sir Oliver, and had attained the age of sixty-one. She had taken up her abode with him at the death of Lady Heywood, about four years before the period of which we now speak.
Katharine, his daughter, was in her twentieth year, and his nephew’s son was about fourteen years of age.
Master Noble, of whom mention has been made, was tutor to the boy Arthur, and resided with the family.
This young scholar was the son of an old school-fellow and friend of Sir Oliver’s, who held the benefice of Cheddar, in Somersetshire. Cuthbert Noble, like his father before him, had been educated at William of Wykeham’s school of Winchester; but not succeeding so far as to obtain a fellowship at New College, Oxford, which is the usual aim and reward of the scholars upon the Winchester foundation, he had proceeded to Cambridge, and there graduated with good report. He had been now six months at Milverton.
Sir Oliver’s birthday was ever a high festival at the manor-house. This year it was the pleasure of his daughter to celebrate it by a masque; and all the arrangements for this masque were referred by Mistress Katharine to Cuthbert Noble. He cheerfully undertook them; and having gained some experience in these matters at college, and having some skill in painting, set himself to prepare scenes—then a very recent invention. As, with a painting brush in his hand, he was standing before a scene, nearly finished, and dashing in the white and foamy water upon canvass, that was fast changing into a torrent, falling from rocks, and rushing through a lonely glen,—and as he stood back surveying the effect, and humming the fragment of a song, Philip came slowly up the gallery, and said gravely,—
“Master Cuthbert, Sir Oliver wants to speak with you directly.”
“Where is he?”
“In the garden, on the lower terrace; and I wish he was looking more pleasant:—it’s my thought, Master, there’s something wrong; for it is not a small matter that can vex him.”