THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Mary Randall 
 
 

r 
 
THE GOLDEN DAYS 
 
 BY 
 
 EDNA LYALL, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "DONOVAN," "DERRICK VAUGHAN," 
 ETC., ETC. 
 
 ^4L.4u V-JU( 
 
 NEW YORK 
 JOHN W- LOVELL COMPANY 
 
 150 WORTH STREET, CORNER MISSION PLACE 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAIS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 "GOOD KING CHARLES'S GOLDEN DAYS." 
 
 What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted I 
 Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just, 
 And he but naked, though locked up in steel, 
 Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 " THAT stripling of yours is too quiet by half, Randolph. 
 You should shake him up a bit give him a little of your 
 superfluous energy." 
 
 " Hugo is but nineteen ; you can hardly expect him to 
 be aught but a raw school-boy." 
 
 Sir Peregrine Blake laughed. 
 
 " School-boy, indeed ! as little of a boy as ever I saw. 
 You've kept him too close, Randolph, and that's a fact! 
 Mewed him up as though he were a convent maid." 
 
 " He had good schooling at Westminster," returned tha 
 other, " and if Dr. Busby couldn't birch him into an ordi- 
 nary fellow, how can I help it ? I'm sure he has had enough 
 thrashings from me alone to harden him." 
 
 " I'll warrant that," said Sir Peregrine, smiling broadly. 
 " You were ever a good hand at keeping other folk in 
 order. For my part, I marvel that your brother is so will- 
 ing to bow down to you in everything." 
 
 " Habit, Blake a mere matter of habit. I've brought 
 him up to it, and now begin to reap the reward of my 
 pains. He will be a useful second to me." 
 
 "Why don't you get him a commission? The army is 
 the best cure for your bookish, philosophizing youth." 
 
 IVJ854160 
 
4 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 " He's not fit for active service. Besides, I would rather 
 have him in my own profession." 
 
 " ' Others believe no voice to an organ 
 So sweet as lawyer's in his bar-gown,' " 
 
 trolled Sir Peregrine, quoting from " Hudibras," the great 
 satire of the times. " Well, after all, the bar is the usual 
 thing for younger sons. Have you fairly settled the matter?" 
 
 " Quite. He was entered as a student at the Inner Tem- 
 ple six months ago, and already he has taken up with the 
 most jovial and rollicking of the Templars, who will soon 
 stir him up." 
 
 ' What, that fellow Denham, who's riding with him now?'* 
 
 " Ay, the one who was so lucky yesterday at Newmarket. 
 I never knew such a fellow he was born to win." 
 
 " By my faith ! an odd pair of friends !" said Sir Pere- 
 grine, laughing. " Eupert Denham dare-devil, and Hugo 
 Wharncliffe passive obedience in the flesh !" 
 
 The elder brother frowned a little. 
 
 " Passive obedience has its advantages," he remarked, 
 with some asperity. 
 
 And for a few minutes there was a pause in the conver- 
 sation. 
 
 The two were riding along a rough track which in those 
 days two hundred years ago was dignified by the name 
 of a road. All around them lay a vast expanse of slightly 
 undulating ground covered with low gorse-bushes and 
 heather. Of cultivation no trace was to be seen; wild, 
 open, and utterly waste lay the great stretch of land as far 
 as the eye could reach, without one field reclaimed or one 
 acre turned to the profit of a nation which yet was often 
 in sore need of bread. That the state of the country was 
 not all that it might have been did not, however, occur to 
 the two gentlemen as they rode on in silence on that Octo- 
 ber afternoon of the year 1682. Randolph Wharncliffe 
 had indeed a grievance, but it was a private grievance, and 
 as to troubling himself about the people and the land, or 
 the laws of supply and demand, or the abject condition of 
 the poor, or the responsibility of riches, it would never 
 have entered his head. 
 
 ,He was now a little over forty, a clever, cold-looking 
 man, evidently one who, having set his mind 011 any object, 
 would pursue it through thick and thin. His features were 
 regular and good, but there was an ominous want of re- 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 5 
 
 pose in the forehead, while the month, plainly "visible under 
 the slender mustache, betrayed a bitter and overbearing 
 temper. He wore the usual long, curled wig of the period, 
 a crimson riding suit, a short cloak thrown back over one 
 shoulder, and a crimson felt hat cocked on the left side. 
 
 His companion, Sir Peregrine Blake, was a few years 
 older, in reality, but years had left few traces on his face 
 either for good or evil. He was a bluff, ruddy, hot-tem- 
 pered country squire, proud of his long pedigree, his 
 ancestral mansion, and his well-stocked deer-park. He was 
 a Suffolk magistrate, and flattered himself that he dis- 
 charged his duties with great dignity and decorum. Both 
 gentlemen were returning from the autumn races at New- 
 market, and Randolph Wharncliffe and his brother were to 
 spend the night under Sir Peregrine's roof on their way 
 back to London. 
 
 The rough track had now led down to a broader and more 
 regular thoroughfare, deeply scored, however, with ruts. 
 On each side of the way was a wood, dusky enough to 
 make Randolph draw up his steed sharply, and glance back 
 across the heathy country they had left. 
 
 " Those two are loitering," he said. " May be we had bet- 
 ter wait for them. This wood might prove a snug retreat 
 for highwaymen." 
 
 " I don't think it," said Sir Peregrine, " 'Tis not far 
 from the village of Mondisfield, and but half a mile from 
 the Hall." 
 
 " Mondisfield !" exclaimed Randolph, in a tone which 
 made his companion look up quickly. 
 
 " Ay, Colonel Wharncliffe's place. Why, bless my soul, 
 I never thought of that before ! I suppose he's near of kin 
 to you ?" 
 
 " Thank Heaven, no !" said Randolph, bitterly. "We are 
 very distantly related. But I come into the estate at his 
 death." 
 
 Sir Peregrine uttered half a dozen unwritable ejacula- 
 tions. 
 
 " Who'd have thought it !" he exclaimed ; " I never 
 dreamed of connecting you with that grave, puritanical re- 
 publican. W T e'll drink to-night to his speedy dissolution. 
 'Twould be something like to have you master of Modis- 
 field Hall." 
 
 " Hud the king rewarded his friends instead of pardon- 
 ing his foes I should have been in possession these twenty 
 jears,'' said Randolph, his brow darkening, his lips con- 
 
4 
 
 6 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS." 
 
 tracting themselves into a straight line, his eyes gleaming 
 with cold anger. 
 
 " Ho, ho !" exclaimed Sir Peregrine. " Now I see how 
 the land lies ! You are one of the unrequited cavaliers 
 whose fathers melted the family plate for the blessed 
 martyr's use, and lost their broad acres for the privilege of 
 fighting his battles." 
 
 "I care not for what we have lost," returned the other; 
 " but I do care that this minion of Cromwell's, this hater of 
 monarchy, should be calmly enjoying all his possessions, 
 while loyal subjects are yet crippled by poverty." 
 
 "You should get the fellow denounced to the king. 
 Catch him using treasonable words, or haunting conven- 
 ticles. Why, confound it, Randolph ! "What's the good of 
 you being a lawyer if you can't make out a pretty little case 
 in your own behoof ?" 
 
 Randolph did not reply. He looked round impatiently 
 toward the other horsemen, who were approaching them as 
 rapidly as the bad roads would permit. 
 
 The elder of the two was a merry, careless-looking fellow 
 of three-ahd-twenty; his whole face seemed to sparkle with 
 humor, and his fantastic dress, covered at every available 
 point with loops and streamers of bright-colored ribbons, 
 suited his face to a nicety. 
 
 The younger Hugo was, indeed, a strange contrast. 
 In those days such a face could not but challenge 
 observation, it was so curiously unlike the generality 
 of faces. In complexion he was pale and somewhat 
 fair. Like the rest of the world, he was clean- 
 shaven, save for a very slight mustache; and, unlike the 
 rest of the world, he had not as yet adopted the prevalent 
 wig, though it was, as a rule, eagerly coveted even by young 
 boys. He wore his own hair, which was light brown, and 
 somewhat wanting in color, but made up for its deficiencies 
 in that way by its crisp curliness and its great thickness 
 and length. The rather large and marked features were 
 well-cut, the chin pointed, the mouth singularly sweet- 
 tempered. But the power of the face lay in the forehead, 
 which was strikingly broad and open, and in the large, 
 strangely shaped, dark-gray eyes. Altogether, it was a face 
 to haunt one full of interest because full of possibihties. 
 Apparently there was, however, some truth in Sir Pere- 
 grine's strictures. Hugo did, in fact, look as though he 
 needed waking up. He lived in a world of his own, bliss- 
 fully removed from the coarse and sensual world which sur- 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 7 
 
 rounded him, but a world too shadowy, too dreamily peace- 
 ful to call forth his best faculties. 
 
 " What the devil do you mean by keeping me waiting 
 like this?" said Randolph, as his brother joined him. "Ah, 
 I see how it has been !" he continued, catching sight of a 
 harmless-looking bundle of herbs fastened to his saddle- 
 bow. " You've been loitering over those wretched speci- 
 mens of yours. I'll put a stop to it altogether, if you make 
 it such a general nuisance." 
 
 And, with an angry gesture, he reached across, tore off 
 the bunch of herbs, and flung them far away into the copse 
 which bordered the road. 
 
 Hugo looked after them with a sort of regret, but *ot 
 even a gleam of anger dawned in his quiet eyes. He made 
 no excuse for his slowness, neither did he express any con- 
 cern for having caused his brother to wait for him. He was 
 absolutely, yet not sulkily, silent. It was rather as if some 
 noisy, screaming bird had flown across the surface of a 
 calm lake, thinking to create a vast disturbance, but quite 
 powerless to trouble the deep, still waters ! 
 
 The small cavalcade rode on. 
 
 "Well!" ejaculated Denham, turning a look of utter as- 
 tonishment upon his companion, "I'm blessed if I'd let a 
 fellow do that to me ! Why, he's thrown away that weed 
 you were so mighty pleased at finding." 
 
 "Ay," said Hugo, "I would I had not put it with the rest. 
 Something must have angered Eandolph. May be he has 
 had words with Sir Peregrine." 
 
 " If you aren't the meekest fellow living, my name's not 
 Rupert !" exclaimed Denham. "What right had he to fling 
 away what belonged to you?" 
 
 " Right !" ejaculated Hugo. "Why, it was Randolph ! He's 
 my guardian, you know, my brother everthing to me !" 
 
 His face became more animated as he spoke; evidently 
 loyalty to his very despotic elder was his most pronounced 
 characteristic. It had never occured to him not to obey, 
 not to reverence. 
 
 Just at this moment Sir Peregrine's horse stumbled, a 
 proceeding which caused that worthy to swear lustily. 
 
 "A stone in his shoe, if I'm not mistaken," said Randolph; 
 then, raising his voice, "Dismount, Hugo, instantly, and 
 see what is amiss with the beast." 
 
 Hugo flung the reins of his own steed to Denham, and in 
 a moment was making the best of his way through the mud 
 and loose stones to the squire's horse. Sir Peregrine had 
 
8 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 also dismounted, but he left his horse to Hugo, perhaps not 
 caring to spoil his long riding-gloves, perhaps because he 
 had caught sight of an attraction which he could never 
 resist. 
 
 By the roadside, gathering the blackberries which grew 
 on the outskirts of the wood, was a lovely girl ; beside her 
 stood a little child of ten years old, holding the large basket 
 already more than half filled with the shining ripe fruit. 
 
 Exactly what passed Hugo never knew; he was very 
 unobservant at all times, and now, absorbed in his own 
 thoughts and busy with the horse, he heard nothing but a 
 hum of meaningless conversation, until a frightened 
 indignant cry, in a girlish voice, fell upon his ear and 
 startled him back to the world of realities. 
 
 The scene that met his gaze was of too common occur- 
 rence to have aroused him under ordinary circumstances. 
 That a pretty girl should be waylaid by a fine gentleman, 
 kissed, complimented, treated with every sort of insulting 
 familiarity, seemed to him, or had seemed until now, inevit- 
 able. But, then, few of the women he knew made any sort 
 of objection to such treatment. This girl objected very 
 strongly. 
 
 All his life long Hugo could call up that picture. The 
 background of autumn trees in russet and gold, the broad 
 strip of grass by the roadside, dotted here and there with 
 bramble-bushes, the little child with a face of astonishment 
 and horror, and, in vivid contrast, the red-visaged squire 
 and the victim of his rude attentions, her blue eyes wide 
 with fright and bright with indignation, her cheeks pale 
 the short rings of sunny brown hair lightly stirred by the 
 wind and unprotected by the brown hood which had fallen 
 back from her head. 
 
 Sir Peregrine, nettled by her resistance, grew more rude 
 and importunate. 
 
 " No, no, no !" cried the girl. " Evelyn, call for help 1" 
 
 But, even as she said the words, she knew that they were 
 useless. Every one was at work gathering apples in the 
 orchard, and the orchard was half a mile away. 
 
 It was at that moment that Hugo woke up. Had Sir Per- 
 egrine guessed what would be the first results of that 
 waking he would have prudently left his wish unuttered ; 
 for, al] at once, in a way which absolutely took away his 
 breath, he was aware of an apparition in Lincoln green 
 which thrust itself between him and the object of his admi- 
 ration, a pair of strong arms encircled him, an adroit push 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 9 
 
 and jerk came at that one vulnerable point, the back of his 
 knee, and in a trice he was sprawling on his back among 
 the grass. 
 
 " There ! run off while you can !" said Hugo, rather 
 breathlessly, turning to the rescued maiden. He was evi- 
 dently well taught in all gymnastic feats, but out of train- 
 ing. 
 
 " Oh," she faltered, " how shall I thank you enough ?" 
 "By getting into safety now," he said, smiling, and mo- 
 tioning her back from the road. 
 
 It was the first time he had ever spoken so decidedly, or 
 assumed such an air of command ; he felt altogether a 
 different creature stronger, freer, but less peaceful ; for 
 once in his life, indeed, positively anxious. 
 
 Both Randolph and Denham. had now dismounted. Den- 
 ham was trying to conceal his silent convulsions of laugh- 
 ter, while Randolph, with an air of great concern and a 
 crease in his brow which boded ill for Hugo's future, bent 
 over Sir Peregrine, who was struggling again to his feet. 
 
 " The impudent, meddling puppy !" he exclaimed, pour- 
 ing forth a whole volley of oaths. " You shall pay dearly 
 for this, sir ! I'll call you out for this, sir !" 
 
 Randolph looked not a little discomposed at this an- 
 nouncement. It was quite in accordance with the customs 
 of the times, but, somehow, he had never contemplated the 
 possibility of a duel for his brother. 
 
 "You would never fight a mere school-boy like that, 
 Blake ! I promise you he shall have a sound thrashing to- 
 night for his impudence. Come here, Hugo ; apologize to 
 Sir Peregrine at once." 
 
 Hugo moved a few steps forward, but did not utter a 
 word. Denham watched his face curiously. All its dreamy 
 content was gone, all its unquestioning calm dispelled ; 
 there had come to him one of those terrible moments which 
 occur in most lives when suddenly, without the slightest 
 warning, we are called upon to choose between two courses, 
 both painfu to us, both apparently evil. Was he now, at 
 last, to disobey his guardian, or was he to own himself in 
 the wrong when he knew that he had been right ? Either 
 decision would, as he was even now dimly aware, involve him 
 in a great danger. If he obeyed his brother's command his 
 moral bearing would be forever degraded. If he disobeyed, 
 his physical being would be in mortal peril ; for he was 
 quite well aware that, although by mere agility he might 
 manage to throw Sir Peregrine, he had no chance in an 
 
10 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 actual duel. But to disobey Randolph, and to do so with 
 nothing but death staring him in the face ! The habit of a 
 lifetime was not to be easily broken ; the habitually sub- 
 missive will could not assert itself without a violent and 
 most painful effort. There was a dead pause ; not a sound 
 was to be heard save the autumn wind sighing among the 
 trees and the munching of the horses as they grazed by the 
 roadside. 
 
 "What do you mean by hesitating like this?" said Ran- 
 dolph, laying a heavy hand upon his shoulder. " Do as I 
 tell you, apologize at once." 
 
 "I can't apologize," said Hugo, at last, in a quick, agi- 
 tated voice. " I am sorry to have had to throw Sir Pere- 
 grine, but it was a disagreeable necessity." 
 
 " You meddling, conceited jackanapes, what do you mean 
 by a necessity?" thundered Sir Peregrine, purple with 
 rage. 
 
 " Leave him to me, Blake," interposed Randolph. " I'll 
 bring him to his senses. Now look here, Hugo, you know 
 well enough that I never go back from what I have said. I 
 command you to apologize. I am your guardian, and I in- 
 sist that you shall do your duty and obey me." 
 
 Another pause. Hugo had grown deathly white. At 
 last he spoke with a great effort. 
 
 " I obey you in all things, air ; but you must stand 
 second to my conscience." 
 
 "Conscience!" 
 
 There was a shout of Uughter, 
 
 " He'll turn conventicler next/ 5 shouted Sir Peregrine. 
 " You idiot, don't you know that you're uttering pestilent 
 heresy substituting your beggarly private judgment for 
 authority ?" 
 
 " Will you obey me?" said Randolph once more, press- 
 ing yet more heavily upon his shoulder, and speaking in a 
 tone which, owing to certain old memories, made the blood 
 curdle in Hugo's veins. 
 
 He looked right up into the fierce gray eyes, however, 
 and answered firmly, 
 
 "No, sir, I will not." 
 
 There was a touch of dignity in his manner which start- 
 led Denham. Perhaps it was owing to the entire absence 
 of defiance, the mingled regret and respect of his tone. 
 
 "Then go to your destruction !" said Randolph, furious- 
 ly. " Blake,*! am happy to act as your second. I hope 
 you'll give this impudent rebel a good lesson." 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 11 
 
 " No delay, then," roared Sir Peregrine. " We'll have it 
 out, now that my blood's up. Coine, look sharp, Wharn- 
 cliffe !" 
 
 " My man has the choice of weapons," said Denham, 
 stepping forward, and voluntarily taking the part of second 
 to his friend. 
 
 Sir Peregrine laughed. 
 
 " Let him take it, then, and be quick. Tell him that 
 both my sword and my pistol have seen good service, and 
 have settled better men ere now." 
 
 Denham rejoined Hugo, who had retired to a little dis- 
 tance, and delivered the message. 
 
 " And you'd best choose swords, old fellow, for Blake is 
 such a confounded good shot that you'd not stand a chance 
 that way," he added. 
 
 " All right," said Hugo, mechanically drawing his wea- 
 pon from its scabbard and examining its edge. 
 
 At that time a sword was part of the ordinary dress of 
 every gentleman, but Hugo's had till the present been orna- 
 mental rather than useful. He had grasped the hilt each 
 Sunday when the women courtesied in the Creed, but the 
 action had been purely mechanical. It had never occurred 
 to him that he might one day be called on to defend his 
 faith. 
 
 Denham crossed over once more with the decision, then 
 returned. His merry face looked n trifle graver than usual, 
 and his jokes came with a slight effort. 
 
 " By Heaven, I wish I could go in instead of you!" he said. 
 "That hot-tempered squire is as strong as an ox, and a 
 practiced hand, while you " 
 
 He broke off, and glanced at his companion, who had 
 thrown aside his riding-cloak and doublet, and now stood, 
 straight and slim, in a close-fitting vest of dark-green cloth, 
 loose breeches, and crimson stockings, his ample white 
 shirt-sleeves tied at the wrist with bunches of crimson rib- 
 bon. He seemed ridiculously young, and most obviously 
 unequal to his challenger more fit to be quietly pouring 
 over books in some library than preparing for a duel. 
 
 "Look here, old fellow," said Denham, forcing a little 
 merriment into his voice, which he was far from feeling, 
 "you must pluck up heart of grace! If you go in as spirit- 
 less as you are now you'll be a dead man in five minutes 
 and then you'll be bodiless, which will be worse. Come, 
 cheer up. Think you are going to kill him." 
 
 Hugo shuddered at the idea. 
 
12 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 " Good Lord ! what a thing it is to have an imagination ? 
 Now, I can go in for a duel and enjoy it. Why can't you 
 expect the best for once ?" 
 
 " I'm not sure which is the best," said Hugo, reflectively. 
 "However " smiling a little "it's waste of time to think 
 of it. Of course, he's more than a match for me. Seems 
 odd to have been born and bred for this to throw away 
 one's life in a dispute. A waste of good material! 
 Though Mr. Newton says there's no waste in nature." 
 
 " Was there ever such a fellow ?" exclaimed Denham, al- 
 most ready to shake him, and yet feeling all the time a cu- 
 rious sense of awe. " He's already begun to picture him- 
 self as worms'-meat ! Thank Heaven, I'm a practical man, 
 and not a visionary ! Can't you get up even a spice of 
 anger to warm you ?" 
 
 Hugo shook his head. 
 
 " Sir Peregrine has anger enough for the two of us," 
 he said, with a touch of humor in his tone. " I did feel 
 angry when the girl cried, but that's all over now. There 1 
 time's up. We must come. Thanks, Denham, for your help." 
 
 They walked a few paces in silence, Hugo's eyes invol- 
 untarily turned, not to his antagonist, but to his brother. 
 He looked at him for a moment keenly, then turned to 
 Denham with a sigh. 
 
 " If only Randolph had not deserted me !" he said, wist- 
 fully, "I should care very little for the rest." 
 
 The seconds spoke a few words to each other, and led the 
 way to the smoothest bit of turf at hand. Hugo followed 
 in a dull, mechanical way. Whether it were cowardly or 
 not, he could not candidly own that he felt anything but 
 heavy-hearted. 
 
 To be compelled to lay down his life by the barbarous 
 custom of the time was not to him a very inspiriting thing. 
 
 Never before had the world seemed so beautiful to him, 
 never had the mere joy of existence thrilled through him 
 as it did now. He took one long, searching glance all 
 around. Good-bye to the blue skies with their fleecy white 
 cloudlets, good-bye to the autumn woods, good-bye to 
 beautiful nature, of whom he knew so little and wanted to 
 know so much ! A familiar whinnying sound reminded 
 him of his favorite horse; he turned quickly, and, seeing 
 that Sir Peregrine was not quite ready, he walked to the 
 woodside where the animal was fastened up to a silver- 
 birch tree. Just once more he would speak to his beloved 
 chestnut. 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 13 
 
 All at once, as he caressed the steed, he became aware 
 that at no great distance, crouched down among the thick 
 bramble-bushes within the wood, there yet lurked the 
 pretty girl and her little sister, the cause of all his trouble. 
 
 " Joyce ! Joyce 1" he heard the little one exclaim, in a 
 loud whisper. " Look there !" 
 
 And then for a minute the sunny brown head was lifted, 
 and he caught a vision of a lovely, tear-stained face, of 
 innocent blue eyes which met his fully, eyes which were as 
 the windows from out of which a pure soul looked forth. 
 
 " Mr. Dryden would call them watchet blue 1" he re- 
 flected ; and then all at once there rushed tumultuously 
 into his mind the thought that those same blue eyes would 
 watch the duel, would perhaps sadden were he to fall in 
 her cause, would even perchance weep for him. 
 
 What a curse, what a shadow to fall upon so young and 
 pure a life, thus innocently to have caused the death of a 
 stranger 1 What if he could, after all, vanquish Sir Pere- 
 grine ? Fight so well as to win the admiration of sweet, 
 blue-eyed Joyce ? 
 
 Wonderful vision of a child-like face ! Wonderful man- 
 hood touched into life by the first appeal to its protective 
 power ! 
 
 He turned away and walked briskly across the turf to 
 the appointed place ; his heart beat high with hope, a 
 steady, quiet determination took possession of him. What 
 if he were fighting against great odds ? Men had so fought 
 before now and had conquered ! In any case he would do 
 his best. For a moment his heart failed a little as he 
 glanced at his brother. Well, he must try to dismiss that 
 cold, stern, unsympathizing face from his thoughts, he 
 must think only of the sweet, anxious face that would be 
 watching him from the wood. 
 
 Sir Peregrine was ready ; each combatant drew his 
 sword ; standing there face to face, each took the measure, 
 as it were, of his antagonist. In truth they were a strange 
 contrast. Sir Peregrine, a man of great strength, short, 
 thick-set, bull-necked, a splendid type of an English squire 
 of the times, and a man who had fought at least a dozen 
 duels. Hugo, tall, slight, delicate, with much more of the 
 student than the duelist about him. In one respect only 
 had he the advantage. Sir Peregrine was still in a tower- 
 iug passion, his red face was many degrees redder than 
 usual, his eyes seemed all ablaze. Hugo, on the other hand, 
 looked perfectly calm and self-possessed. It was a calm far 
 
14 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 removed from the dreamy indifference, the philosophic 
 serenity which had hitherto characterized him, the calm of 
 strong resolve, full of power and dignity because concerned 
 rather with the welfare of others than with his own fate. 
 
 Then in that quiet country-side, amid the soft sighing of 
 the autumn wind, and the faint rustle of the yellow leaves 
 as* they fell to their last restirg place, and the singing of 
 the robins, and the quiet munching of the horses, there 
 rose another sound, the sound of the clashing of swords. 
 In the wood little Evelyn hid her face and trembled, but 
 Joyce dried her tears and watched eagerly, anxiously. It 
 was frightful, and yet it fascinated her. Would her " brave 
 knight," as she called him, conquer that horrible man who 
 had tormented her ? Alas, he was in comparison to him 
 but as a reed to a sturdy oak ; that he should conquer 
 seemed barely possible. Joyce had, however, a firm belief 
 in poetic justice ; she watched hopefully. 
 
 Fast and hard fell those fearful blows ; Hugo, who at 
 present was acting purely on the defensive, parried them 
 adroitly. So far all was well. The only question was how 
 long his strength would hold out. He was well-taught, 
 quick, agile, and acquainted with a few modern devises of 
 which the squire was ignorant, but there was no denying 
 that they were very ill-matched. Twice when for a minute 
 they each retired a few paces, Joyce noticed that her cham- 
 pion, in spite of the warmth of the struggle, was growing 
 ominously pale, and when, for the third time they paused 
 for a moment's rest, she could hear, even at that distance, 
 how he was gasping for breath, could see how he leaned 
 for support against his second, who encouraged him with 
 words of warm praise. 
 
 But Joyce was so much taken up with watching her 
 "knight" that she did not notice very critically the condi- 
 tion of his opponent. Sir Peregrine had grown, not pale, 
 but purple, he was beside himself with rage, could scarcely 
 see clearly. Once more the two closed in deadly combat. 
 The level rays of the afternoon sun glinted on the flashing 
 blades, and lit up Hugo's white, set face; exhausted, al- 
 most fainting, he yet struggled on. But to act on the de- 
 fensive against such a foe as Sir Peregrine needed all his 
 faculties at their very best. A violent thrust in an unex- 
 pected quarter very nearly proved his ruin; he managed 
 partly to avert the blow, but was conscious even at the 
 moment that with a wound in his sword-arm he could not 
 hold out much longer. Sir Peregrine, with an uncontroll- 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 15 
 
 able shot of triumph, struck wildly. Joyce sobbed aloud 
 but dashed the tears from her eyes that she might see 
 what befell. 
 
 Ah, what was this ? Blood was dropping slowly to the 
 ground from her champion's right arm ; but he had seized 
 his sword in his left hand, parried Sir Peregrine's blow, 
 taken the squire utterly by surprise, and, with the strength 
 of despair, made one more desperate thrust. Sir Pere- 
 grine's sword wavered for an instant. Joyce could look no 
 longer ; actually to see which sword would enter which 
 body was more than she could endure. A moment which 
 seemed to her like eternity, then a fearful oath ringing out 
 into the still air, and a crash as of some one falling heavily 
 on the turf. She looked up in an agony. Both the seconds 
 were bending over a prostrate form ; close by there stood 
 there stood oh ! why did this horrible mist come be- 
 fore her eyes and blind her ! yes, it was indeed her " brave 
 knight." He stood gravely watchiDg his vanquished foe 
 for a minute, then, as if a thought had suddenly occurred 
 to him, he made his way from the smooth bit of turf into 
 the wood, as though searching for something. Very un- 
 steady were his steps. Joyce watched him anxiously. Ah, 
 yes ! it was as she had expected. He had sunk down ex- 
 hausted among the thick brushwood. 
 
 " Come, Evelyn, come !" she exclaimed. " He is hurt, 
 wounded !" 
 
 Shyly and yet unhesitatingly she made her way through 
 the tangled undergrowth of the wood ; shyly, but yet with 
 gentle graciousness, she stooped over him. 
 
 " Sir, I am afraid you are hurt," she said. " Can we help 
 you in anything ?" 
 
 Hugo looked up, and saw the sweet, pure face looking 
 down on him. It would have been like heaven just to re- 
 alize that he was still alive and still near to those " watchet 
 eyes," could he only have freed himself from the recollec- 
 tion of the man whom he had wounded perhaps mortally. 
 
 " I was looking for water," he said, faintly. " I thought 
 I heard a brook hard by." 
 
 " Yes, our brook is near," she replied. " Bun, Evelyn, 
 quickly, fetch some water in your hat." 
 
 The little child ran away as fast as her legs would carry 
 her, snatching off her large straw hat as she went. 
 
 " Your arm is hurt," said Joyce, clasping his wrist with 
 one of her soft little hands, and with the other gently un- 
 tying the crimson ribbon which secured his shirt-sleeve. 
 
16 IN THE GOLDEN DATS. 
 
 " It is not much/ 5 said Hugo ; " a mere scratch." 
 
 But he could make no objection to having it examined ; 
 it was so sweet to be treated as though he belonged to her, 
 as indeed, by right of her womanhood and his wound he 
 did for the time. 
 
 " Ah, what a pity Elizabeth is not here !" ejaculated Joyce 
 when the dripping shirt-sleeve had been turned up and the 
 wound exposed. 
 
 Hugo did not re-echo the sentiment 
 
 " Why ?" he asked, smiling a little. 
 
 " Because Elizabeth is so clever, and she says my fingers 
 are all thumbs," said Joyce, humbly. " But, indeed, I think 
 I can tie it up rightly, if you'll trust me." 
 
 " With my life," said Hugo. 
 
 She took his handkerchief and tied it tightly below the 
 wound, then she took her own and bound it securely round 
 the arm from wrist to elbow, producing a funny little house- 
 wife from her hanging pocket out of which, after a minute's 
 search there emerged needle and thread. With these she 
 elaborately stitched up her bandage. 
 
 Before it was quite finished, Evelyn returned with the 
 high-crowned hat full of water. 
 
 "There!" she said, triumphantly, holding it to his lips. 
 " Scarcely any is lost." 
 
 "Not for me," he said, still rather breathlessly. "'Twas 
 for Sir Peregrine. Oh, do you think you could carry it to 
 him ? He's past doing any harm now." 
 
 It was impossible to refuse his request, but Evelyn 
 thought she could exactly sympathize with King David's 
 followers when, after they had taken so much trouble to fetch 
 him the water, he poured it all out on the ground. It was 
 hard that he should send it away, not using a single drop. 
 She went off, however, obediently, not much liking her 
 errand, but setting about it bravely, nevertheless. 
 
 "But I shall carry off your handkerchief," said Hugo. 
 " Will you spare it me as a keepsake ?" 
 
 " 'Tis a very poor one," said Joyce, " for you have done 
 so much for me. And I fear that the wound will be a dis- 
 agreeable reminder for a long time." 
 
 " It can't be disagreeable if it serves to remind me of 
 you," said Hugo. " There ! we will exchange tokens ;" and 
 he .placed in her hands the crimson ribbon which had tiea 
 his wristband. " Do you know that in Queen Elizabeth's 
 days the court ladies used to give their friends little hand- 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 17 
 
 kerchiefs as keepsakes, and the men used to wear them in 
 their hats?" 
 
 " No, I never heard that. Do they do that at court now." 
 
 "No, not now." 
 
 " Have you been to the court ?" 
 
 " Oh, many a time." 
 
 "How I should like to see it!" said Joyce, with a child's 
 eager curiosity. " It is very, very fine !" 
 
 " Very fine ; but I would not have you there for the 
 world." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Because it never could be a fit place for you. You are 
 good, you see." 
 
 "Good! Why, no," said Joyce, opening her eyes wide; 
 " I am not good at all, not even when I try Damaris says 
 she fears I'm not in a state of grace." 
 
 "I am sure you are!" said Hugo, smiling. 
 
 "I don't know," said Joyce, with a sigh; "for I never 
 quite understand what it means. But I do hope I'm one 
 of the elect, don't you ?" 
 
 " I never thought about it particularly," said Hugo, much 
 amused. "But I've no objection, if they're a nice set of 
 people !" 
 
 Joyce looked so amazed at this daring reply that he half 
 wished he had not made it. At that moment, however, 
 Evelyn returned, having run a second time to the brook 
 to refill her hat. 
 
 " That is good of you '."said Hugo, drinking thirstily. 
 " How is Sir Peregrine ?" 
 
 "'Is that the wounded one ?" asked Evelyn. " They have 
 helped him on to his horse, and will take him to Mondis- 
 field, to the inn." 
 
 " Did he speak ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes," replied the child, " but a good deal of it I 
 couldn't understand. I heard him say, though, that he 
 would be right enough with a few days' rest, and that he 
 had never expected the young devil to get the better of 
 him. Is the devil young, though ? I always thought he 
 was as old as old can be ?" 
 
 Hugo laughed aloud ; even Joyce smiled. 
 
 Ah, how sweet it was to rest there in the quiet wood, lis- 
 tening to the talk of these two innocent, fresh, country 
 girls ! Should he ever again see any one so pure, so good, 
 so amusingly unsophisticated ? What a gulf lay between 
 their world and his ? Why, they barely understood each 
 
18 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 other's languages? With a sigh he struggled to hia 
 feet. 
 
 "I must not trouble you longer," he said. " Good-bye: 
 don't quite forget me." 
 
 " We could never do that," s.iid Joyce, blushing. " And 
 we do thank you, sir, for your help." 
 
 He did not say another word, but just raised her hand to 
 his lips, waved a farewell to little Evelyn, and made hia 
 way back to the road. 
 
 Sir Peregrine and Kandolph had disappeared. His own 
 horse was still tied to the silver-birch tree. Denham had 
 apparently gone back for something, for he was just now 
 appearing round a curve in the Newmarket road. The 
 only trace of the eventful afternoon lay in the trodden and 
 blood-stained grass by the wayside. He had just mounted 
 when Denham rode up. 
 
 " Where in the wide world have you been all this time ?" 
 he exclaimed. " I've been hunting high and low for you. 
 Ah! I see. The fair lady has been bandaging her cham- 
 pion's wounds. How now, old fellow ! Are you properly 
 and desperately in love ? The fair one was 
 
 " Spare your jests for once, Denham, there's a good fel- 
 low. How is Sir Peregrine ?" 
 
 " Oh, the old sinner will do well enough. He was so as- 
 tonished at being worsted that he's quite forgiven you 
 sung your praises between his groans. You should have 
 heard him ; 'twould have melted even your heart of stone ?" 
 
 Hugo smiled. 
 
 " I'm glad he's all right," he remarked, with a look of 
 relief. 
 
 " Yes ; I knew you would have gone into eternal mourn- 
 ing if he'd given up the ghost," remarked Denham. " You're 
 too good for this wicked world, mine Hugo." 
 
 Hugo raised his eyebrows, remembering what he had felt 
 like beside Joyce. He made no reply, however, and just at 
 that moment there came a sound of running feet. He 
 glanced round and reined in his horse. Evelyn came up 
 panting. 
 
 " Oh," she said, in her childish, treble voice, " 'tis only 
 that I just brought you two of our apples ; they are the 
 biggest king pippins, very sweet ones. " 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 19 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 MONDISFIELD HALL. 
 
 These days are dangerous; 
 
 Virtue is choked by foul ambition 
 
 And charity chased hence by rancor's hand. 
 
 Foul subornation is predominant, 
 
 And equity exiled your Highness' land. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 "Die he take them, Evelyn?" asked Joyce, when the last 
 glimpse of the two horsemen had been hidden by a bend 
 in the road. 
 
 "Yes, and seemed pleased," said Evelyn. "There was 
 such a funny man with him who called me a cherub. I 
 thought cherubs were in heaven and devils in hell. They 
 seem to mix us all up." 
 
 "We must go home," said Joyce, "and tell them all 
 about it. I hope mother won't be vexed; I think it was no 
 fault of ours. Let us come by the road." 
 
 They picked up the almost forgotten basket of blackber- 
 ries and walked briskly on for about half a mile, taking 
 the same direction followed by the horsemen. The road 
 lay now between inclosed fields fields which belonged to 
 Joyce's father. Presently they reached the park gate ; 
 Joyce closed it belaud them with a feeling of relief and 
 protection which she had never before known, and in silence 
 the two girls made their way up a smooth, well-kept drive. 
 Cattle were grazing in the broad grassy avenue sheltered 
 by the stately elm-trees ; everything looked orderly, peace- 
 ful and homelike. They crossed the deep moat surround- 
 ing the house by a drawbridge which, since the close of the 
 civil war, had been allowed to remain perpetually down, 
 and over which grew a tangled mass of ivy and creepers, 
 then passed on between two smooth grass plots, the larger 
 of which was used for a bowling-green, making their way 
 as fast as might be toward the dear home which, though 
 she bad always loved it, had never before seemed to Joyce 
 so welcome. 
 
 It was a large three-storied house, washed a sort of sal- 
 mon color, which was relieved by beams of dark-colored 
 wood, and by a dark, tiled roof. There it stood, and there 
 it had stood since the reign of Edward III., though how 
 far the original house lesembled the present it was hard to 
 
20 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 say, since there had been many restorations, almost 
 amounting, perhaps, in the long run, to rebuilding. 
 
 " Mother will be in the south parlor," said Joyce. " Let 
 us go there first, Evelyn. Mother will not be hard on us, 
 I am sure, and Elizabeth, you know, might be shocked." 
 
 As she spoke, she opened the heavy front door which 
 led into a nagged passage, divided by a wooden screen 
 from the large, old-fashioDed dining-hall on the right 
 hand, while upon the left folding doors led to the kitchen 
 and offices. At the other extreme of the passage 
 facing the front door, lay the back entrance leading into 
 pleasance, and close to this was the door of the south parlor, 
 the coziest room in all the house. Here in the morning 
 Colonel Wharncliffe read and wrote, while the mother was 
 seeing well to the ways of her household like the good wife 
 in the Proverbs. Here in the afternoon Mrs. Wharncliffe 
 was always to be found sitting with her needkwoik, and 
 always with ample leisure to hear every one's troubles, or 
 to give counsel in some preplexing matter which had 
 been of too great moment to be decided by the elder girls. 
 Here in the evening the father and mother sat together, 
 Colonel Wharncliffe being too much of a recluse to be able 
 to bear the company of all six children at once, liking them 
 better by instalments, or, better still, singly, when he could 
 teach them or talk to them at his leisure. 
 
 Very peaceful and homelike did the room look to Joyce 
 that afternoon, with its paneled walls and shining polished 
 floor, its square table covered with the new Turkey carpet, 
 which in those days was considered far too good to tread 
 upon, and its stately high-backed chairs. In the window- 
 seat, a large work-basket open before her, sat Mrs. Wharn- 
 cliffe. She looked up with a smile as the two girls entered, 
 but put her finger to her lips with a warning " Hush," for 
 her husband w r as reading the news-letter aloud. Written 
 in London some time ago, it had but just arrived at Mon- 
 disfield Hall, having been read and reread by at least half 
 a dozen households. It was their nearest approach to a 
 newspaper in those rural districts, and its arrival which 
 was usually on a Wednesday, but varied much according 
 to the punctuality of the various families who passed it on, 
 and to the state of the weather was in that quiet house- 
 hold a great event. 
 
 Evelyn ran up to her mother and nestled down by her 
 side, Joyce stood beside her father listening to the epitome 
 of the week's news. It somehow interested her less than 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 21 
 
 usual. She could not feel any very great concern on hear- 
 ing of the comet which had been observed near Cancer, 
 and which probably foreboded grave evils to the state. 
 She did not care about the progress of the new Royal Hos- 
 
 Eital which was being built at Chelsea. Even when the 
 jtter went on to describe how the king and his court were 
 amusing themselves at Newmarket, a place not more than 
 ten miles from Mondisfield, she failed to show the eager 
 curiosity which might have been expected from her. Some- 
 what lifelessly the words fell on her ears: 
 
 "His majesty has been well entertained with music. 
 The Bury men, the Cambridge men, and the Thetford men 
 have all had the honor of performing before the king, 
 coming in their cloaks and liveries very formally. His 
 majesty highly commended them and bestowed upon each 
 company the sum of two guineas. Her majesty the queen 
 has consented to witness the performance of a wonderful 
 mare, the property of one of the officers. This marvelous 
 beast will walk on three legs, will pick up a glove in its 
 mouth and give it to its master while he is upon its back, 
 will feign death, and perform divers other feats of skill. 
 The king amuses himself much with hawking. The weath- 
 er has been fine. We learn that Sir George Jeffreys has 
 been sent down to Chester to inquire into the truth of the 
 late riot in favor of the Duke of Monmouth. The Duke of 
 Monrnouth has, in consequence of this riot, been forbidden 
 to go to Whitehall or St. James's. Many of the Whigs are 
 extremely indignant that while their meetings are prohib- 
 ited as " Seditious" (notably the great Whig banquet which 
 was to have been holden on the 21st of April in this year, 
 which, as our readers will remember, was riot permitted to 
 take place, constables being at their posts, and even the 
 militia under arms to give due force to the prohibition), 
 yet the Tory meetings are all connived at. The influence 
 of the Duke of York increaseth daily." 
 
 " Does a comet tell troubles coming, father ?" asked little 
 Evelyn. 
 
 " It does not need a comet, my child, to foretell trouble 
 to this nation," replied Colonel Wharncliffe. " God only 
 knows what the end of it will be." 
 
 " We have something to tell you, mother," said Joyce, a 
 little tremulously, and then, helped out by Evelyn, she told 
 faithfully all that had happened to them that afternoon. 
 
22 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 Both parents were more concerned than they cared to ap- 
 pear, but they thought it expedient not to make too much 
 of it before Joyce. 
 
 " Probably they were a set of gallants coming back from 
 Newmarket," said Colonel Wkarncliffe. "It must have 
 given you a sad fright, my little Joy. Don't go outside 
 the ground again without either Tabitha or some of your 
 sisters." 
 
 "I think they must have been courtiers," said Joyce. 
 "At least our knight said he had been to the court often." 
 
 " Any gentleman can go to the court he need not neces- 
 sarily be a courtier. What did he s&y to you about it ?" 
 
 " I asked him what it was like, and he said he wouldn't 
 have me there for the world I think because it was a 
 wicked place. Is it wicked, father ?" 
 
 " A hell on earth !" said Colonel Wharncliffe, speaking so 
 much more vehemently than usual that Joyce was almost 
 frightened. " A hell on earth, my child ! I would sooner 
 see you in your coffin than at Whitehall." 
 
 " Did you hear the names of any of the gentlemen ?" 
 asked Mrs. Wharncliffe. 
 
 " Only of the bad one who was conquered ; he was Sir 
 Peregrine we didn't hear his surname. They were going 
 to take him to the White Horse." 
 
 " Well, do not trouble your little heads any more about 
 them. Only remember not to go alone again into the 
 lanes." 
 
 " Oh, dear !" sighed Evelyn. " And the very best black- 
 berries do grow there. What a sad pity, Joyce, that your 
 face is so very pretty, and that the bad man told you 
 so." 
 
 Colonel Wham clifte stroked his mustache to hide a smile. 
 
 " Is my face pretty, father ?" asked Joyce, lifting her 
 blue eyes to his in grave and earnest inquiry. 
 
 It was against all his principles to tell her the truth in 
 this case. 
 
 " That, my little Joy, is a matter you need not trouble 
 yourself about," he said. " Eun and look in the last chapter 
 of the Proverbs, and see what King Solomon said about 
 beauty." 
 
 Joyce went without another word, flew through the long 
 hall to the north parlor, the room which was used as the 
 general family sitting-room, and, disregarding her sisters, 
 ran up to a small book-case and took down the family 
 Bible. Ah ! here was the verse : 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 23 
 
 "Favor is deceitful and beauty is vain : but a woman 
 that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised." 
 
 Did that .answer her question ? She went and stood in 
 front of a sloping glass which hung between the two win- 
 dows, and looked at herself critically. She knew that if it 
 had been a picture instead of a reflection, she should have 
 thought it rather nice. And yet the Bible said that 
 " beauty " was " vain." 
 
 " Elizabeth," she said, half turning round, " what does 
 'vain' mean ?" 
 
 " Looking in the glass," said Robina, the youngest but 
 one, unable to resist the temptation of turning the laugh 
 against Joyce. 
 
 " I mean here," said Joyce, coloring and showing the 
 words to her eldest sister. 
 
 Elizabeth read them and thought for a minute. 
 
 " I can tell you," interposed Damaris, a tall, pretty-look- 
 ing girl of nineteen. " It conies from the Latin vanus 
 empty. Now, Betty, allow that there is some good in learn- 
 ing Latin." 
 
 " How can it be empty," said Joyce, looking puzzled. 
 
 " I suppose," said wise Elizabeth, with that slow, sure 
 judgment of hers which made her the referee of the family 
 " I suppose it means that beauty is only like the shell of 
 a thing, and if it is empty, is of little worth. I suppose it 
 ought to be just the outside covering of all that is really 
 good." 
 
 Joyce sighed. It seemed to her that everything harped 
 round to that one theme, that one supreme difficulty being 
 good. And she was not good, though her knight had 
 thought her so. 
 
 " Shells don't get full of water by lying on the beach and 
 thinking how empty they are," said Frances, the third sis- 
 ter, looking up from her embroidery. " They must let the 
 great sea rush over them." 
 
 Frances had a way of saying things in parables which 
 always appealed to Joyce's ready imagination; she went up 
 to her room thinking. 
 
 "Shall you send down to the White Horse?" said Mrs. 
 Wharncliffe to her husband, when the children had left the 
 south parlor. " I should like to know who these gentlemen 
 are." 
 
 "The mischief-maker must be Sir Peregrine Blake," re- 
 plied her husband. " I recognized him at once from the 
 child's description." 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 "What, Sir Peregrine Blake, the magistrate?" 
 
 " Ay, more shame to him. He's a bad man, and a dan- 
 gerous neighbor for me. I'm thankful there are a dozen 
 miles between the houses." 
 
 " That youth must have been a noble fellow. I should 
 like to know who he is." 
 
 " Yes, 'tis no light thing for one moving in such a set to 
 own to keeping a conscience. He must expect hard times. 
 I would gladly go myself and see him, aye, and thank him 
 heartily; but to-night I dare not risk it. I expect Ferguson 
 and two others." 
 
 " Will they stop here ?" asked his wife. 
 
 " No, they will ride over quite late. I shall admit them 
 myself, and they will all be gone again before the household 
 is astir. The servants must not know anything of it, I 
 can't trust their tongues." 
 
 " Is there indeed need of all this secrecy ?" 
 
 " The utmost need. Even the quietest meeting of friends 
 to discuss the future of this unhappy nation may be counted 
 treasonable in these days. Were any of my enemies to get 
 wind of it I might be in great peril. To such a pass has 
 'Free Eagland ' corne 1" 
 
 He sighed heavily. 
 
 " But can you do any good by these discussions ?" said 
 his wife. 
 
 "Who can say!" he replied, mournfully. "But so long 
 as the people are denied their rightful share in the govern- 
 ment of the country, so long will there be private confer- 
 ences between those who love justice and hate despotism." 
 
 "Bat you would not lend yourself to any rising in favor 
 of the Duke of Monmouth ?" * 
 
 "In the present state of affairs, certainly not," he replied. 
 "Insurrection is only justifiable when there is a fair chance 
 of success, and of that, at present, there is none. The peo- 
 ple at large have not yet perceived how fast the king is 
 robbing them of their liberties." 
 
 " But this Mr. Ferguson they say is much with the Duke 
 of Monmouth. Is it well to have him coming here ?" 
 
 I have no great liking for him," replied Colonel Wharn- 
 cliffe. " He is one who likes intrigue for its own sake. 
 But he is everywhere and in everything, and is a bold pur- 
 veyor of news. You see, dear heart, living in this quiet 
 countryside, one needs a better and more trustworthy 
 news-bringer than such letters as these." He indicated the 
 news-letter which he had just read. 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 25 
 
 " Not content with so full an account as that !" exclaimed 
 his wife. 
 
 " Dear heart," he said, smiling, "I have a vision of what a 
 free press in a free country will some day prove, and as yet 
 I can be by no means content. 'Tis by the discontent of 
 the few that the many are at last awakened, you know." 
 
 She sighed. If only this discontent, this noble discontent, 
 did not lead him into danger ! But the times were evil, 
 and she knew that both his religious and political views ren- 
 dered him an object of dislike and suspicion to the domi- 
 nant rjarty. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 OVERLOOKED. 
 
 If thou ask me why, sufficeth, my reasons 
 Are both good and weighty. 
 
 Taming of the Shrew. 
 
 " UNDERSTAND, once for all, that I expect implicit obedi- 
 ence, and, what is more to the point, that I will have it. 
 You have behaved like an unruly child, and I shall treat 
 you as such !" 
 
 Hugo did not notice the astonished face of the landlady 
 of the White Horse, as they passed her on the stairs, nor 
 the terrified look of the country girl who showed them 
 which room was vacant. It did not occur to him that other 
 people could possibly be frightened by the violent manner 
 and the harsh voice to which he had from his childhood 
 been accustomed. Randolph was extremely angry. He 
 regretted it, was troubled by it. It pained him to have an- 
 noyed his brother, whom he worshiped to a degree almost 
 inconceivable, considering the way in which he was treated 
 by him. But then, had he not expected this all along ? 
 Had he not known quite well what the manner of his greet- 
 ing would be ? He accepted it as inevitable, and, indeed, 
 was so well prepared for the violent push which hastened 
 his entrance, that, instead of measuring his length on the 
 floor of the bedroom, he merely entered somewhat quickly, 
 having calculated the precise moment when passive resist- 
 ance, concentrated in his shoulders, would avail him. 
 
 The door WAS sharply closed, and locked from the out- 
 side, which, as Hugo was quite well aware, meant for him 
 a dismal evening without lights or cupper. It was cer- 
 
26 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 tainly a little ignominious, a tame ending to the day on 
 which he had fought his first duel, and \vorsted a Suffolk 
 magistrate old enough to be his father. But then Hugo 
 did not at present keenly feel humiliations of this sort ; he 
 was too quiet, too much wanting in self-assertion, too slow 
 to think of his own rights, too ready to acquiesce in the 
 stronger will which had hitherto, whether for good or for 
 evil, ruled him with a rod of iron. Resistance would have 
 been a trouble had been a grievous trouble that day. 
 And Hugo loved peace of all things, hated strife and con- 
 tention, hated any kind of noise ; he would have liked to 
 please all parties, or, still better, to be left in unmolested 
 quiet with books instead of people. 
 
 To-day, however, a strange and unforseen disturbance 
 had occurred in the even tenor of his quiet existence ; 
 whether he could ever again settle down to the old, peace- 
 ful yielding indifference was a question. 
 
 With characteristic coolness he proceeded to examine his 
 temporary prison with a view to making the most of its 
 advantages. It was a good-sized room ; the floor was 
 cleaned and well scrubbed, the oaken chairs were good of 
 their kind, the four-post bed was hung with gay, red cur- 
 tains, while the walls were covered with tapestry * represent- 
 ing scenes from Scripture history. On the whole, the room 
 was a good deal more comfortable than his own gloomy lit- 
 tle chamber in the Temple. It had not been used lately, 
 however, and was stuffy in the extreme. He crossed over 
 to the casement- window, and flung it open, pausing to take 
 a look at the village. Mondisfield was a fairly large parish, 
 but the houses were scattered, and there was nothing that 
 could be called a village street. The inn seemed an extra- 
 ordinary good one for such a place. But in those days 
 English inns were celebrated, and did their best to make 
 up for the badness of the roads and the discomforts of slow 
 traveling. Exactly opposite stood the church, with its 
 square, gray tower, while the cows grazing in an adjoining 
 field all stood with their heads towards the setting sun, 
 which threw a ruddy glow over the peaceful scene. 
 
 "'Twill soon be dark," reflected philosophic Hugo. "I 
 may as well read while I can." 
 
 And, taking a small book from his pocket, he stretched 
 himself comfortably on the window-seat and was soon 
 oblivious of all around him. 
 
 The room was growing dusk, and the evening air blew 
 in coldly. Hugo read peacefully on, however, until a hand- 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 27 
 
 ful of gravel was flung against the window, some of winch 
 fell right in and alighted upon his book. 
 
 "Denham," he said to himself. " How exactly like him." 
 
 He sprung up and looked out. 
 
 There stood his merry-faced companion. 
 
 "I've been trying to come this half hour," he ex- 
 claimed, " but your brother would stand ranting by the 
 window down below. They've drawn the curtain, and put 
 up the shutter now, so all's safe." 
 
 " How is Sir Peregrine ?" asked Hugo. 
 
 " Oh, well enough. There isn't a leech to be found nearer 
 than St. Edmondsbury, so he'll have to bide his time. Don't 
 trouble your foolish pate about him letting blood is the 
 best cure for a hot temper. Look here ! I forgot to give you 
 your precious herbs. Catch !" 
 
 And, so saying, .he threw up the bundle of specimens 
 which Randolph had snatched from the saddle-bow that 
 afternoon. 
 
 "How in the world did you get them?" asked Hugo, 
 looking much pleased. 
 
 " Went back while your lady-love was bandaging your 
 wound, and looking for you, lighted by chance upon these. 
 I say, aren't you hungry ?" 
 
 " Awfully," returned Hugo. "I didn't know duelling 
 would be such appetizing work." 
 
 " There's a glorious dish of eggs and bacon making ready; 
 do you think I could pitch it up to you." 
 
 "No," said Hugo, laughing. "And I wish you'd go, old 
 fellow; Randolph would be furious if he caught you." 
 
 "That for Randolph !" said Denham, with a contempt- 
 uous snap of the fingers. "Sha'n't I throw you up some 
 bread?" 
 
 " No, no, I shall do well enough. I'm dog tired, and shall 
 go to sleep. There, I shut up shop, you see! Good night!" 
 and suiting the action to the words, he closed the casement, 
 and soon had the satisfaction of hearing the incautious 
 Denham return to the inn parlor. 
 
 It was something to have regained his specimens, though 
 it was too dark to do anything with them now. What a pity 
 Denham had reminded him how hungry he was ! And 
 why should the smell of a savory supper in preparation 
 rouse such uncomfortable cravings in one's inner man ? 
 True, he had tasted nothing since they had left Newmarket, 
 and had since then gone through much. Ah, by the bye, 
 he had at any rate little Evelyn's king-pippins. Having de- 
 
28 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 voured these hungrily enough he made his preparations for 
 the night, then, in gathering gloom, knelt reverently while 
 reciting the Lord's Prayer at a pace which was truly surpris- 
 ing. This was a ceremony which nothing would have in- 
 duced him to give up ; it did not convey very much to him, 
 and yet the mere physical act did in a vague way meet a 
 scarcely conscious demand for worship in his heart. 
 
 Just as he was falling asleep, a question flashed across 
 his mind Would the good Sir Hugo, his ancestor and 
 ideal, have approved his conduct that afternoon? This 
 brave German knight had from his very childhood been 
 his hero ; he felt it a sort of responsibility to have been ac- 
 tually named after him, and rejoiced that his father had not 
 modernized him into Hugh. To be in ever so slight a de- 
 gree like this ancestor had always been his ambition. How 
 would he have reconciled the conflicting duties of obedi- 
 ence and honesty? Would he have obeyed the lawful 
 authority or the inner voice ? 
 
 Meanwhile, in the room below, Randolph and Denham 
 were making a hearty meal. Neither the thought of Sir 
 Peregrine groaning in the best bedchamber, nor the recol- 
 lection of Hugo supperless and weary, could in the least 
 interfere with their hearty enjoyment of the excellent sup- 
 per provided by the smiling landlady. Nor was Denham 
 at all anxious to quarrel with his companion, though he 
 thought his treatment of Hugo unjust in the extreme. 
 
 Bather he sought to make him enjoy himself, hoping to 
 improve his temper, and to render some service to his friend 
 in this way. It was Eandolph himself who first mentioned 
 the duel. 
 
 "I confess," he said, at length, "that, apart from his dis- 
 obedience, which I shall not readily pardon, I don't alto- 
 gether regret what happened. Hugo showed himself more 
 of a man than I expected. It has done him a world of good 
 to be with you." 
 
 Denham laughed and shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " It's a case of a prophet in his own country," he said, 
 refilling his huge tankard with the excellent home-brewed 
 ale. * " Now if you were to ask my people, they would say 
 that Hugo was more likely to better me than I to better 
 him." 
 
 " Opinions differ," said Randolph, dryly. "With all due 
 deference to Sir William Denham, I am not anxious that 
 Hugo should turn into a scientific hermit. That sort of 
 thing is well enough when a man's past fifty. But I've 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 29 
 
 other views for the boy; I wish him to make his way at 
 court." 
 
 " I'll lay you any wa^ger you like that he'll never do it," 
 said Denham. " For all his fine voice and his handsome 
 face, there's that in him which will never do for Wiute- 
 hall." 
 
 " How can you tell what's in him? Why, we none of us 
 thought it was in him to act as he acted to-day he who 
 was ever one to give the wall and take the gutter." 
 
 "Well, you ought to know him better than I; but, for all 
 that, I'll bet you a hundred to one that you'll prove wrong 
 and I shall prove right. Come, will you take it? We'll 
 sup together after the next autumn races, and see what the 
 year has brought forth." 
 
 " Agreed," said Bandolph. " But you must in no way in- 
 fluence him against my wishes." 
 
 " Certainly not; I would far rather see him high in the 
 king's favor. "Tis always well to have a friend at court, 
 and, as you say, it is a shame that with his talents he should 
 not make his way in the world." 
 
 As he spoke the door opened, and the landlord of the 
 White Horse ushered in a traveler who had just arrived. 
 
 " They will shoe the horse, sir, as quickly as may be ; 
 but it is already late, the roads will be dangerous, and, if 
 your honor will stay the night you shall have every com- 
 fort," 
 
 " I tell you I can't stay the night," said the new-comer, 
 in a harsh and most unprepossessing voice. "I've other 
 things to do than to sit by inn fires drinking ale, I can tell 
 you." 
 
 There was a mixture of contempt and boastfulness in his 
 tone and manner which angered the landlord. He was de- 
 termined to press his hospitalities no further, and abruptly 
 left the room, giving the blacksmith a private hint that he 
 need not hurry himself over the traveler's horse, for he 
 was the sourest cur that had ever darkened his doors. 
 Left to shift for himself the new guest approached the fire 
 of which he had spoken so disdainfully, bowed stiflly to the 
 two gentlemen, and remarked that it was a cold evening. 
 
 Denham, ever ready to talk, endeavored to draw him into 
 the conversation ; but the stranger seemed not at al] 
 anxious to cultivate their acquaintance, and before long 
 produced a shagreen pocket-book, in the contents of which 
 he appeared to become absorbed. 
 
 Bandolph watched him furtively, yet keenly. Surely it 
 
30 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 was a face he knew ! Buddy and ill-favored, with lantern 
 jaws and restless, carious eyes, a face which for its very 
 hideousness lingered in one's meinory. It was clever, un- 
 doubtedly, and bold ; but the boldness bordered on rash- 
 ness, and the cleverness was overshadowed by the owner's 
 intense self -consciousness and air of importance. Who in 
 the world could he be ? And where had they met ? Ah ! 
 at last he remembered. He had never met the fellow, but 
 he had read such a minute, such a graphic description of 
 him, that not to recognize him would have been impossible. 
 Ha was Ferguson, the Presbyterian, the mysterious man 
 who was mixed up with all kinds of conspiracies, who was 
 al \vays suspected of being involved in half a dozen plots, 
 wliose personality was known to every one, and who always 
 managed, by extraordinary good-fortune, to be at large. It 
 was currently reported that he bore a charmed life, and in- 
 deed his hair-breadth escapes were often almost miracu- 
 lous. Where could he be going ? Was it possible that he 
 was going to see Colonel Wharncliffe ? At all hazards he 
 must find out. But he knew better than to risk a direct 
 question. It was not until Denham had drunk himself 
 stupid, and the landlord had returned to announce that the 
 stranger's horse was at the door, that he took any definite 
 action. He quietly left the room then, took his hat and 
 cloak from a stand in the passage and made his way into 
 the dark road. 
 
 " Who are those two gentlemen ?" asked Ferguson, turn- 
 ing to the landlord as they emerged into the passage. 
 
 " I'm sure I can't inform you, sir," replied that worthy, 
 much pleased that he was really unable to give the desired 
 information to his disagreeable guest. "They are but 
 passive travelers just come to-day from Newmarket." 
 
 Ferguson made no comment, but, mounting his horse, 
 bade his host good-night, and rode off. When he had 
 heard the inn door close he reined in his horse for a 
 minute and looked round. A small boy was passing by ; 
 he hailed him. 
 
 "Which is the way to Mondisfield Hall?" he asked, in a 
 slightly lowered voice. 
 
 " Bight on," replied the urchin. " Over the brook yon- 
 der till ye come to the cross-roads, then to the right till ye 
 come to the park gate on the left." 
 
 "How far is it?" 
 
 " A matter of two miles," replied the boy, touching his 
 hat as the stranger thanked him and rode on. 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 31 
 
 When he was well out of ear-shot Kandolph calmly 
 emerged from behind the church-yard wall, and, striding 
 irreverently over the grassy mounds, made his way back to 
 the road. 
 
 " First to get Denham settled," he said to himself. 
 
 And in a matter-of-fact business-like way he walked into 
 the parlor, coolly assured his drowsy companion that it was 
 very late, and that he must go up to bed, saw him safely 
 upstairs, and then with equal coolness and precision drew 
 the key of Hugo's prison from his pocket, fitted it with 
 some difficulty iu the clumsy lock, and quietly admitted 
 himself into the room. He had not expected to find Hugo 
 in bed, still less to find him asleep, for it was not nearly so 
 late as he had represented to Denham. Drawing aside the 
 red curtains, he looked down with an expression of mingled 
 impatience and anxiety at his brother. He was fond of the 
 lad in spite of his austerity, and Hugo looked so weary, 
 yet so comfortable, that he was loath to disturb him. But 
 Kandolph was not the man to deny himself in any way. 
 Hugo was the only available helper, Sir Peregrine being 
 wounded and Denham far from sober; moreover, he could 
 trust his brother as he could trust no other living soul. 
 
 "Wake up!" he said, authoritatively, shaking him with 
 one hand, and holding the candle close to his face with the 
 other. 
 
 Hugo started up and rubbed his eyes. 
 
 "What is it?" he said, sleepily. 
 
 " Put on your things and come out with me," said Ran- 
 dolph, concisely. 
 
 There was no need to say " Be quick !" for Hugo was up 
 before he could have spoken the words, showing no trace 
 of ill-temper at being thus roused, strangling his yawns 
 while he dressed, half-asleep, but, as usual, promptly and 
 unquestioningly obedient. 
 
 Not a word passed between the two brothers, they were 
 never a talkative pair, and Hugo know tbat be was still in 
 disgrace and would not have presumed to speak before he 
 was spoken to. Kandolph watched him with a certain ad- 
 miration, he was so quick, so well trained, so wonderfully 
 loyal. In a very few minutes he was ready and the two 
 went down-stairs, Hugo much wondering what was about 
 to happen, and half fearing tbat Sir Peregrine must have 
 died. A question trembled on his lips, but he would not 
 put it, only when they met the landlord down below iu 
 the passage he listened eagerly for Randolph's explanation. 
 
32 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 " We shall be out for a time, don't lock up till we re- 
 turn." !-:-W-:3 
 
 " Certainly, you honor," said the host, bowing obsequi- 
 ously. " 'Tis a fine night, gentlemen, but cold." 
 
 He opened the door for them, Randolph pausing for a 
 minute to light his pipe, then strolling out leisurely as 
 though he were merely going to take an evening ramble. 
 "When they had gone a few hundred yards, however, he sud- 
 denly quickened his pace, walking so fast indeed that Hugo 
 had as much as he could do to keep up with him. Where 
 could they be going ? The night was dark and cloudy 
 enough to make walking along the rough roads no easy 
 matter ; they hailed the light which yet lingered in a lew 
 of the way side cottages. Ah, here was the brook which he 
 and Denham had forded on horseback that afternoon. It 
 flowed right across the road, but there was a narrow plank 
 at the side for foot passengers. They crossed this, and 
 walked on in silence to the cross-roads. With great curi- 
 osity Hugo waited to see which turn they should take. 
 
 " Eight wheel !" said Randolph, shortly, and they mounted 
 the slight hill. 
 
 Was he, perhaps, going to the scene of the duel ? And 
 if so, why ? Randolph cleared his throat. Was an expla- 
 nation at last coming ? 
 
 " I have brought you with me to-night, Hugo," he began, 
 "because you are one of the few people whom I can in all 
 things trust." 
 
 Hugo's heart beat quickly. This from Randolph was 
 indeed high praise. 
 
 " We will say no more about your behavior this after- 
 noon. For this once I overlook it. What is more, I now 
 give you an opportunity of proving your loyalty tome." 
 
 " What are we going to do ?" asked Hugo, unable to 
 keep the question back any longer. 
 
 " That is at present no concern of yours. Suffice it to say 
 that I hope to-night's work will be useful both to you and 
 me, and what is of more importance to the king himself. 
 Now, can I depend upon you ?" 
 
 " Yes," said Hugo, eagerly. 
 
 " This is all I ask of you," continued Randolph. " Ob- 
 serve, remember, and hold your tongue till I bid you 
 speak." 
 
 "I will," said Hugo, inwardly wondering what Randolph 
 had in hand. 
 
 Again they walked on in silence, picking their way as 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DATS. 33 
 
 best they could among the ruts. At length they reached 
 the gate which led to Mondisfield Hall. Eandolph softly 
 opened it, cautiously closed it. They stood within the park, 
 and, with something of awe, Hugo glanced around. It was 
 all so solemn and still. The broad avenue, within its grassy 
 glades and its giant elms, looked like the nave of some 
 vast cathedral ; the night wind sighed and moaned. Hugo 
 shivered. Somehow a feeling of unconquerable distaste, 
 even of dread, arose within him. To what had he pledged 
 himself? What was this mysterious work which was to 
 benefit the king ? As he mused, Randolph turned. 
 
 " Tread lightly, and don't so much as whisper. Merely 
 follow me." 
 
 "What was this work which could lead his brother to steal 
 like a thief toward an unknown dwelling ? Well, he was in 
 for it now, and there could be no turning back. 
 
 By this time they had reached the moat, and were within 
 easy sight of the house. There was no very great risk of 
 being seen, for the night was cloudy. Randolph bent 
 almost double, however, as they crossed the draw-bridge, 
 nor did he venture to walk upright till they had reached 
 the comparative shelter of the high hedge overshadowed 
 by stately fir-trees which bordered the lesser of the two 
 lawns. Stealthily, almost noiselessly, they crept on, Ean- 
 dolph keenly anxious, Hugo utterly miserable. His whole 
 nature rose up against this mysterious work, whatever it 
 might be. To observe, to remember, and to hold his tongue I 
 Well, he could hardly help keeping the first two injunctions; 
 naturally his eyes were sharply watchful at such a time, nor 
 was he likely to forget anything which might come under 
 his notice in this objectionable way. Most assuredly, also, 
 he was not likely to mention to any living soul a proceeding 
 which even now, dimly as he understood it, caused him 
 such shame. 
 
 Softly Randolph approached the window on the left to 
 the door, crept in among the bushes which surrounded it, 
 looked and listened. There was neither a sound nor a ray 
 of light. He emerged from the shrubs, and led the vray 
 past the great door, over the smooth approach, to the 
 grassy terrace beyond. There were no more shrubs now, 
 nor even a border to betray their foot-marks ; the grass 
 grew to the very wall, and, what was better, the next 
 window was protected neither by curtain nor shutter. It 
 was somewhat high from the ground, but on a convenient 
 level for their eyes. With much curiosity, Hugo looked in. 
 
34 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 He saw, in the dim light, a large wainscoted hall, set round 
 with stately old furniture. As far as he could make out, 
 there was the usual minstrel's gallery at one end, but at 
 the opposite end, both he and his brother instantly per- 
 ceived that rays of light were streaming through the cracks 
 in a door-way which apparently led to some other room. 
 Kandolph beckoned to him to come on. A second huge 
 window looked into the same hall, then the outer wall pro- 
 jected a little, and there were two more windows, much 
 narrower and much nearer the ground. This was clearly 
 the room from which the light had proceeded ; and now, 
 indeed, drawing quite close, they could see that light 
 streamed through two large cracks in the window-shutter 
 as well, and, in the stillness of the night, could detect a low 
 hum of voices. Noiselessly they both crept close to the 
 glass, so close, indeed, that their eyelashes actually brushed 
 the panes. 
 
 The whole of the room was distinctly visible to each. It 
 was a large, long room, wainscoted in a sort of yellow- 
 brown color, and hung with oil paintings, evidently por- 
 traits of the family. The fire had burned low; on the table 
 in the middle of the room was a lamp, and at one end the 
 remains of supper. At the opposite end, facing the win- 
 dows, sat four men talking together. One of them was 
 Ferguson. Randolph recognized him again in a moment. 
 He was speaking in his harsh voice, apparently with great 
 earnestness, while the two younger men seemed to hang 
 upon his words as though he were some oracle. The eldest 
 of the party, and evidently the master of the house, sat 
 with his head resting on his hands, and in his grave, dark 
 face there was nothing of the eager hopefulness plainly 
 visible in the looks of the others. With his long, dark 
 hair, his stern features, his expression of quiet sadness, he 
 might have sat as a typical representation of sorrow with- 
 out hope. Ferguson waxed more loud and eager. His 
 words reached the two listeners outside. 
 
 " The people can not, shall not and mark me, will not, 
 endure a Popish tyrant. You all of you know that, and 
 would fain fight again for the Exclusion Bill, were there 
 but a Parliament. And once more mark my words ? The 
 king is but a Papist in disguise, and in that worse than his 
 brother, who at least is an honest man." 
 
 Apparently the master of the house strove to moderate 
 the speakers energy. He bent forward, and said some- 
 thing, which was inaudible to the two invisible *pectator. 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 35 
 
 After that, only a low hum of voices reached them. Fer- 
 guson produced his shagreen pocket-book, and began to read 
 them extracts, and once the master of the house crossed 
 the room, and, opening a book case with glass doors, 
 took down a volume to search for some reference. This 
 brought him so n*ar to the window that Hugo's heart be- 
 gan to beat at double time. The man had such a noble 
 face that he could not endure the idea that Randolph medi- 
 tated denouncing him to the government. Worse still, 
 that he himself might be used as the second witness. 
 
 Suddenly his heart almost ceased to beat. With eyes open- 
 ed to their widest extent, he stared at the apparition which, 
 with gliding, ghostly motion, appeared upon the scene. 
 Noiselessly the door had opened ; noiselessly there walked 
 in a white-robed figure. The two younger men uttered ex- 
 clamations of terror, even Ferguson looked startled as the 
 figure advanced slowly toward the book-case, and seemed 
 about to open it. Good heavens ! it was no apparition. 
 It was Joyce herself Joyce, whom Hugo had thought 
 never to see again. And better far, so he bitterly felt, 
 that he had never again seen her, rather than see her in 
 such a manner. Alas ! alas ! had he been brought to play 
 the spy on her father ? 
 
 " Tis but my little daughter," he heard the master of the 
 house explain to his guests. " She has the habit of walk- 
 ing in her sleep, but 'tis many years since she was troubled 
 with it." Then going up to her, " Joyce, dear, come with 
 me." 
 
 " She'll wake up and discover us," suggested one of the 
 party, looking much concerned. 
 
 " I don't think it," said the father. " But keep still. 
 Joyce, my love, come." 
 
 The girl instinctively turned toward him. He took her 
 hand in his arm, and quietly led her out of the room. 
 
 Hugo felt a touch on his arm. Randolph motioned to 
 him to come, and stealthily they crept back through the gar- 
 den, across the moat, and out into the park. It was not 
 till they were safely in the road again that Randolph 
 spoke. 
 
 " You have done extremely well," he said. " and shown no 
 small self-control. That ghostly looking maid was enough 
 to put a fellow off his guard." 
 
 " Tell m now why you brought me here," said Hugo, in 
 a voice which even to himself sounded unnatural. 
 
 " Because I wanted a second witness, and had reason to 
 
36 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 believe that we might be able to hunt down a nest of con- 
 spirators." 
 
 " What do you know about the master of the house ? 
 Why do you wish to get him into trouble ?" 
 
 Randolph gave a short laugh. 
 
 " Shall I tell you his name ?" he said. " His name is 
 Francis Wharncliffe." 
 
 Hugo almost gasped. 
 
 " And that was his daughter ?" he asked. 
 
 " Ay, that was one of his six daughters, and you and I 
 may thank a merciful Providence that he has no son, other- 
 wise I should never come into the property." 
 
 At last Hugo understood the reason of his brother's con- 
 duct. A few days, nay a few hours before it would scarcely 
 have shocked him, he would not have troubled himself to 
 think twice about the matter. But that afternoon he had 
 been awakened, sharply and thoroughly. A vision of good, 
 a vision of evil, had presented themselves to him, and the 
 spirit of manly independence had been roused within him. 
 He felt like one who rises from dreams of blissful and 
 luxurious ease, to find that all the pleasant existence was an 
 illusion, while life, hard, perplexing, full of cares and con- 
 tradictions, has to be faced and fought. 
 
 " Mind this," said Eandolph, after a pause. " You must 
 on no account betray our name to any one at the inn. No 
 one must suspect that we are kinsmen to the lord of the 
 manor." 
 
 " Is there need for all this mystery ?" said Hugo, in a 
 tone of disgust. 
 
 " Certainly there is need of it if I say so. You forget 
 yourself," Randolph spoke angrily, and Hugo thought it ex- 
 pedient to make no reply. Wearily he plodded on, almost 
 too tired to feel very acutely, or to wish very much for any- 
 thing but that they were back at the White Horse. 
 
 x " You are faint," remarked Randolph at length, noticing 
 with what an effort he kept from lagging behind. And 
 with rough kindness he drew his arm within his. Hugo 
 winced. 
 
 " Good Lord !" exclaimed Randolph, really concerned. "I 
 had forgot Sir Peregrine struck you. Here, come the other 
 Bide. Is it much ?" 
 
 " Oh, no, a mere scratch," said Hugo, beginning to step 
 out briskly. 
 
 In all his life Randolph had never spoken to him with so 
 much solicitude, nor had the two brothers ever before 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 37 
 
 walked arm-in-arm. It made up to Hugo for all the trouble 
 and perplexity of the day, and his heart throbbed with 
 eager delight as his guardian added : 
 " "Zou fought well and I was proud of you." 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A WARNING. 
 
 The generous Christian must as well improve 
 
 I' th' quality of the serpent as the dove; 
 
 He must be innocent, afraid to do 
 
 A wrong, and crafty to prevent it too, 
 
 They must be mixt and temper 'd with true love; 
 
 An ounce of serpent serves a pound of dove. 
 
 FRANCIS QTLARLES. 
 
 THE next day was a Sunday. Hugo slept late, was in fact 
 only roused by the bells of the village church chiming for 
 morning service. The sun was shining brightly, the sky 
 was cloudless ; it was one of those still autumn days when 
 winter seems yet far off, and Nature enjoys a sort of halcyon 
 calm. Hugo's wound was painful, much more painful than 
 on the previous day; spite, too, of the sunshine, and the 
 gayly pealing bells, and the country quiet, he awoke with a 
 heavy consciousness of coining trouble, which waa curiously 
 foreign to him. He dressed rapidly, and went down to the 
 inn parlor. The sanded floor, the blazing fire, and the well- 
 laden breakfast-table looked tempting. His brother was 
 not there, only Denham was at the table, dividing his atten- 
 tions between a dish of excellent trout and a comely serv- 
 ing-wench. 
 
 He waved the girl aside as Hugo entered, and the two 
 friends were left to themselves. 
 
 "So, mine Hugo!" ejaculated Denham, "are you recov- 
 ered from your duelling ?" 
 
 " Nearly," said HugoT " Where is Randolph ?" 
 
 "Somewhere between this and St. Edmondsbury; at 
 what exact point I am unable to inform you." 
 
 "What has he gone there for?" asked Hugo, astonished 
 and slightly alarmed. 
 
 " Well, you must know that while you were in the arms 
 of Morpheus, and, by the bye, you must have more than 
 slept the clock round, the leech from St. Edmondsbury ar- 
 
38 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 rived. Such a pompous apothecary as you never saw . Sir 
 Peregrine will do well enough, don't alarm yourself. " 
 " But, Randolph 
 
 " Went to St. Edmondsbury on his own behoof and not 
 on Sir Peregrine's, I'll warrant you. Look here ! and you 
 can keep a secret and will swear not to tell Randolph that 
 I told you, you shall hear the whole matter. After Sir 
 Peregrine had been well physicked, bled, bandaged, and 
 so forth, the worthy leech came down and breakfasted 
 with us. We talked of one thing and another, and pres- 
 ently he let fall that he knew the family at the Hall and 
 had in former years oftentimes visited them." 
 
 " What kind of a man is Colonel Wharncliffe ?" asked 
 your brother. 
 
 " Said the leech, ' A most dangerous man, a known re- 
 publican, and what is worse, he has without let or hind- 
 rance given his biggest barnt o a set of vile conventiclers 
 who meet there unmolested every Sunday.' 
 
 " Said your brother, ' Why is it allowed when contrary 
 to law?' ' 
 
 " Said the leech, shaking his head, * Colonel Wharncliffe 
 was a pleasant-spoken man and respected by the people, 
 and none in those parts would inform against him.' 
 
 " By and by, when the leech had gone to have a last look 
 at Sir Peregrine, Randolph told me what, doubtless, you 
 know, that he hated this kinsman of yours like sin, and 
 wanted to oust him. He says this may be a stepping- 
 stone, and will at least get the colonel heavily fined, if not 
 imprisoned. Moreover, it will put a stop to the conventi- 
 cle, which is safe to be a den for breeding Protestant plots." 
 " And Randolph has gone to St. Edmondsbury to in- 
 form?" 
 
 " Ay ; though of course not under his own name. Then 
 this morning, when the good folks are on their knees, there, 
 will be a dramatic entertainment enter a dozen wolves in 
 soldiers' clothing, who disperse the lambs and arrest the 
 shepherds. I've a good mind to be there to see." 
 
 Hugo made scarcely any comment on this long speech. 
 His 'reputation for dreamy indifference stood him now in 
 good stead, and Denham had not the faintest idea that 
 while he quietly discussed his plateful of fish and drank 
 the home-brewed ale, he was racking his brain for some 
 means of frustrating his brother's scheme. Dared he do 
 it ? Dared he absolutely work against Randolph, check 
 him in a matter for which he cared so much and must have 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 39 
 
 swallowed down so many scruples ? It seemed as if he 
 were always fated to have Randolph on one side and Joyce 
 on the other, as if he were to be forced to choose between 
 them. What was worse, it seemed to be justice and inde- 
 pendence pitted against tyranny and lawful authority. 
 In the small arena of his private life he had to fight the 
 same battle, make the same choice which lay before the 
 nation at large. 
 
 " Going to church ?" asked Denham. 
 
 " Yes," said Hugo, mechanically. 
 
 " Then you had best look sharp about it. And, look here, 
 just give the serving-wench a call ; she may as well clear 
 the decks." 
 
 " And amuse you/' added Hugo, with a smile. 
 
 He was not sorry to be rid of his companion, and, taking 
 up his broad-brimmed hat fringed all round with ostrich 
 feathers, he left the inn and crossed over the way to the 
 church. He took a seat close to the door, mechanically 
 holding his hat before his eyes for a minute, after his usual 
 custom, but too much engrossed with thoughts of Colonel 
 WharnclinVs danger to attempt anything but the outward 
 gesture. The parson and the clerk were reading the 
 Psalms between them ; so few of the people could read 
 that they could hardly be expected to make many of the 
 responses. Perhaps merely because the words fitted in 
 with the subject of his thoughts one verse startled him into 
 sudden attention : " Thou has not shut me up into the 
 hand of the enemy, but hast set my feet in a large room." 
 
 What distinct thought the words brought to him it would 
 be hard to explain, but a consciousness that God would 
 have freedom, breadth, and, above all, no persecution, 
 somehow dawned upon him. The " I " of the Psalms be- 
 came to him the distant kinsman whose fate was practically 
 in his hands. 
 
 " I became a reproof among all mine enemies, but espe- 
 cially among my neighbors; and they of mine acquaintance 
 were afraid of me ; and they that did see me without con- 
 veyed themselves from me." 
 
 " Fear is on every side, while they conspire together 
 against me, and take their counsel to take away my life." 
 
 " My time is in thy hand ; deliver me from the hand 
 of mine enemies, and from them that persecute me." 
 
 " Oh, how plentiful is thy goodness which thou hast laid 
 up for them that fear thee." 
 
 " Thou shalt hide them privily by thine own presence 
 
40 IN THE GOLDEN DATS. 
 
 from the provoking of all men; thou shalt keep them 
 secretly in thy tabernacle from the strife of tongues." 
 
 Thus here and there sentences flashed forth with new 
 meaning in the old words words which, true at the time 
 to human nature, must be true throughout the ages. 
 
 But then as to Randolph ? If he found out who had 
 frustrated his plans, his wrath would be something barely 
 endurable ! And, after all, why should he defend a man 
 with whom he did not agree, and defend him at such risk 
 to himself? 
 
 It has been left for a modern thinker to frame the noble 
 maxim : " Conscience is higher than consequences," but 
 yet it was the dim perception of this truth, a truth which 
 he could not have put into words, which made Hugo at 
 last decide that come what might he would warn the con- 
 gregation in the barn. He tore a leaf from his pocket- 
 book, and, during the reading of the lessons, wrote the 
 following lines : 
 
 " Sir, An informer has this morning lodged an inform- 
 ation against you at St. Edmondsbury, as one who fre- 
 quenteth conventicles. The informer will endeavor, and I 
 doubt not will succeed, to bring over sufficient force to 
 scatter the congregation and to arrest the leading members. 
 Be advised by one who loveth not persecution, and for the 
 present discontinue your meetings." 
 
 Having folded and directed this missive, he sat patiently 
 waiting for the end of the second lesson. Through the 
 pointed windows the sunshine streamed brightly, glorify- 
 ing the simple Gothic arches and pillars. The village 
 church was plain enough and bare enough to please a Pur- 
 itan; there was not a vestige of color in it, and, contrasted 
 with his glorious Temple Church, it seemed to Hugo cold 
 and even ugly. And yet, as he sat there looking at the 
 golden sunshine flickering among the shadows of the trees 
 cast on the chancel wall, he felt a strange love for the 
 place, the sort of love we bear to all places where we have 
 had a glimpse of something which was before unknown 
 to us. 
 
 " He that is not against us is on our part," read the old 
 clergyman. " For whosoever shall give you a cup of cold 
 water to drink in my name, because ye belong to Christ, 
 verily I say uuto you, he shall not lose his reward." 
 
 The congregation stood up to sing the " Jubilate," such 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 41 
 
 of them, at least, as did not turn to look at the young gal- 
 lant who, having behaved strangely enough all the service, 
 now got up and left the church, a proceeding which caused 
 the village worthies to shake their heads. 
 
 " Better have stayed to ogle the girls through the sermon," 
 they agreed afterward, " than go out just when parson 
 had given forth, * Oh, be joyful in the Lord all ye lands, 
 come before his presence with a song.' " Instead of " com- 
 ing," the graceless gallant " went." 
 
 There was not a minute to be lost, he almost ran for the 
 greater part of the two miles indeed, by the time he 
 reached the large barn which stood by the wayside not far 
 from the entrance to the Mondisfield farm yard, he was so 
 much out of breath that he was obliged to wait some min- 
 utes before he was cool and collected enough to enter the 
 place and deliver his letter. In the meantime, through a 
 hole in the wooden wall, he looked in at the congregation. 
 
 The barn was large and lofty ; at one end was stacked a 
 quantity of golden corn, in the center at a wooden desk 
 stood a little, insignificant man, preaching. Before him, 
 some sitting on rough benches, some on the floor, were 
 ranged in rows about forty men and women, all listening 
 to the discourse with rapt attention. When the words 
 found any special echo in their hearts, notably when the 
 preacher alluded to the need of courage and patience under 
 present persecution, there was a low hum of agreement, 
 a sort of subdued applause, which surprised and somewhat 
 amused Hugo, who was utterly at a loss to understand 
 how sane people could prefer to worship in a draughty 
 barn, at serious risk to their lives and to their property, 
 when the village church had been built on purpose for 
 them. There was something very remarkable, however, 
 in the spectacle. They were all so desperately in earn- 
 est, religion was to them such a tremendous reality. As 
 he watched their serious faces, their expression of intense 
 listening, he was reminded somehow of a day in West- 
 minster Abbey when he had watched the deeply rever- 
 ential manner of good Bishop Ken. Each sight stirred 
 within him a dim perception that there were more 
 things in heaven and earth than were dreamed of in 
 his philosophy. Could it be that as in childhood he 
 had cared only for flowers because of their beauty and fra- 
 grance, knowing nothing of their structure nor dreaming 
 that science could open his eyes to a new world of beauty 
 within could it be so also with religion ? Had he as yet 
 
42 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 only a vague satisfaction in something that seemed to him 
 beautiful? Was there, indeed, for him the possibility of a 
 deeper knowledge, a clearer revelation. If so, what in these 
 matters was the microscope ? and who stood in the position 
 of Mr. Robert Hooke, perpetual secretary to the Royal So- 
 ciety, and the author of " Micrographia ? " 
 
 " Men can rise above the circumstances in which they are 
 placed," urged the preacher, with an emphasis that roused 
 Hugo from his own thoughts. " Look at Paul, read what he 
 tells of his hard times. Was he conquered by 'em, think 
 you ? No, no, he rose above 'em, turned 'em into means of 
 glorifying the. Master. You must rise -above the circum- 
 stances in which you are placed ! if you don't, your cir- 
 cumstances will swallow you up, will drag you down lower 
 and lower." 
 
 Here the good man fell to talking of " election," and 
 consequently Hugo's attention flagged, the speaker no 
 longer appealed to him. He shifted his position and look- 
 ed through a a fresh hole. Ah ! there was the man he 
 wanted ! and close beside him there sat Joyce, sweet Joyce, 
 with her grave blue eyes fixed on the preacher perhaps 
 still wondering whether she was one of the " elect." Good 
 heavens ! and he was lingering here in the luxury of 
 watching her, when de]*iy might mean danger to her 
 whole family ! Feeling more like a black sheep and an out- 
 sider than he had ever felt in his life before, he opened 
 the door of the barn, and, with slightly heightened color, 
 walked right through the space which lay between the 
 preacher and the rows of listeners until he reached the 
 bench where, with his wife and his six children, sat his un- 
 known kinsman. 
 
 The congregation, in their sad-colored clothes, stared 
 suspiciously at the new-comer. Dark green and rich crim- 
 son, flowing locks and fantastic feathers, seemed very 
 much out of place in the barn. What did the stranger 
 mean by composedly stalking right through their assem- 
 bly in this way ? It was an untoward event, and doubtless 
 boded no good to the wayside conventicle. Looks of sus- 
 picion, looks of fear, looks of uncontrollable dislike, fell 
 upon him as he quietly made his way on. He was fully 
 conscious of them, but, as usual, whatever inward pertur- 
 bation he might have felt was veiled entirely by the calm, 
 indifferent manner which invariably characterized him. 
 
 "Read it without delay," he whispered, handing the 
 note to Colonel Wharncliffe, who in undisguised astonish- 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 43 
 
 ment glanced first at the missive, then at the bearer. One 
 swift look at Joyce, one recognizing return glance from 
 her clear, child-like eyes, then again he ran the gauntlet 
 of the doubtful and perplexed Nonconformists and quitted 
 the assembly. 
 
 Scarcely had he closed the great wooden door, however, 
 with elaborate care, courteously anxious to make as little 
 disturbance as might be, when it was hastily reopened 
 and Colonel Wharncliffe hurried after him. 
 
 "I have to thank you, sir, for your very considerate 
 communication/* he said. " I hope you will be good 
 enough to let me know to whom I am indebted ?" 
 
 " Not to me," said Hugo, " but to the spirit of justice 
 which, though you may not think it, does find a dwelling- 
 place in the heart of many a Churchman." 
 
 " I can well believe that," said the colonel. " We do 
 not wish to assume any superiority, merely to claim our 
 right as free Englishmen to worship God in our own way. 
 But, pray, let me know your name, for I hav* a notion that 
 you must be the same gentleman who courteously succored 
 my little daughter but yesterday." 
 
 " That, sir, was an act for which I need no thanks," said 
 Hugo, quietly. " The reward lay in the doing. As for my 
 name, I would rather withhold it, and I pray you to par- 
 don me." 
 
 " It must be as you think best," said the colonel, with 
 some regret in his tone. " I thank you none the less heart- 
 ily; your information will have saved many a heart-ache 
 this day." 
 
 Hugo seemed scarcely to hear him, he was listening 
 intently to a sound of distant hoofs, far away as yet, but 
 certainly approaching them along the St. Edmondsbury 
 road. 
 
 "For God's sake, sir, disperse the meeting instantly," 
 he exclaimed. "I hear horsemen drawing near. And 
 show me some hiding-place for the moment I am undone 
 if my guardian sees me." 
 
 " There ! under the willows," said the colonel, pointing 
 to the other side of the road, where across fertile fields 
 wound the Mondisfield brook, surrounded by a thick jun- 
 gle of rushes, willow herb, and low bushes. 
 
 Without another word Hugo sprung across the broad 
 ditch which bordered the field, and was soon lost to sight 
 among the tangled labyrinth. The colonel did not pause 
 to watch him, he had the safety of the whole congregation 
 
44 IN THE GOLDEN DATS. 
 
 to think of. Promptly lie returned to the barn, shut and 
 barred from within the double doors, and signing to the 
 minister to pause, said, in a clear, authoritative voice : 
 
 " My friends we are in great danger. We must disperse, 
 and that instantly. Hurst," turning to one of his men, 
 " throw open the doors into the stack-yard. Now make all 
 speed into the park, and keep not in one body, but scatter 
 yourselves in groups. Let the women and such as cannot 
 run follow on to the Hall, where we will shelter them." 
 
 The words produced a chorus of exclamations, but the 
 Nonconformists showed nothing like panic ; with grave, 
 anxious faces, with prompt submission, they obeyed the 
 colonel. There was little if any confusion, only great 
 speed, great quietness, while through the stack-yard, in 
 different directions fled the peaceable congregation, who 
 but a few minutes bef ore had been gravely listening to the 
 assurance that " men can rise above the circumstances in 
 which they are placed." 
 
 Mrs. Wharncliffe hurriedly led the way to the house 
 helping on a poor woman who was burdened with two 
 little children; five of the daughters followed her, each 
 guiding or assisting one of those who were deemed too old 
 or infirm to make their escape. Only Joyce still lingered: 
 she could not bear to leave before her father, who, like the 
 captain of a vessel, stayed to the very last. Her heart 
 beat so fast that it nearly choked her, and yet all the time 
 she was conscious of the Bort of pleasure she had felt once 
 when her pony ran away with her, a sense of risk, a de- 
 mand for high courage and strength and coolness. 
 
 And now the sound of horses' hoofs had stopped, but 
 only to give place to a much more alarming sound, the 
 sound of men's voices. Loud voices declaring " that this was 
 the place, this the accursed conventicle, this the vile preach- 
 ing shop." 
 
 "Joy! are you here?" exclaimed Colonel "Wharncliffe, for 
 the first time becoming conscious of her presence. "We 
 are to late now to run, child. Here this way!" and seiz- 
 ing her hand, he dragged her after him into the nearest 
 outhouse. 
 
 "The loft," he whispered, motioning her toward a rough 
 ladder. Joyce could climb like a squirrel, she was up in 
 the loft in less than a minute, crouching down among the 
 hay with her father's arrn round her. 
 
 Heavy blows were being dealt on the barn doors ; at 
 length they gave way, and from their place in the loft, 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 45 
 
 which was on the side of the yard immediately facing the 
 barn, Joyce and the colonel could see that a body of about 
 twenty men broke in. There was a murmur of disap- 
 pointment when they found that the place was empty. 
 
 " I made sure we should have been in time," said the 
 leader, turning to a gentleman richly dressed in crimson 
 and wearing a long peruke. " Some one has given them 
 notice of your intention, your honor, for you see, spite of 
 our hot haste, the birds are flown." 
 
 Randolph frowned. Inwardly he was in a towering 
 rage ; but he answered, with cool composure. "It is im- 
 possible that they can have been warned. Who could 
 have warned them?" 
 
 "Your honor knows best to whom you imparted th&, 
 fact of your mission to St. Edmondsbury." 
 
 Denham. ! could Denham have betrayed him ? Coul<3 
 Hugo possibly have got wind of his intention, and once 
 again have been troubled by a conscience, that truly unde- 
 sirable possession ? It was barely possible, and yet who 
 else could have done it ? Vowing vengeance on the un- 
 known destroyer of his hopes, he turned once more to the 
 chief constable. 
 
 "What are those idiots doing ?"^he asked, angrily point- 
 ing to the men who were smashing up the benches and 
 splintering the desk which served as pulpit into a hundred 
 fragments. 
 
 "We have orders, your honor, in every case to strip the 
 conventicle," returned the man; "we always break up the 
 pews and pulpit, but i' faith there's little enough to wreck 
 in this poor place. It will serve to remind them though 
 another day." 
 
 " But we waste time," said Randolph, impatiently. "Why 
 not order the men up to the Hall, where there might be 
 some hope of catching this fanatical colonel?" 
 
 "We can up to the Hall, sir, an you will," said the con- 
 stable. "But I can't arrest tlie colonel unless he be found 
 a-praying or a-preaching, or a-worshiping somehow with 
 over the lawful number." 
 
 "Confound your scruples !" said Randolph, angrily; "I 
 tell you he's a pestilent treason-monger, a vile conventicler, 
 one who harbors heretics and preachers." 
 
 "Very like, sir, very like," said the constable. "But I've 
 only a warrant to arrest such as be found a-worshiping in 
 unlawful ways. I can't go beyond my warrant, sir." 
 
 " Confound you and your warrant too," exclaimed Ran- 
 
46 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 dolph, furiously. "Bring your men on to the Hall at once. 
 Perchance we may yet find the knave on his knees." 
 
 The chief gave the word of command, and instantly the 
 men formed in a column and marched through the stack- 
 yard, passing close under the loft where the colonel and 
 Joyce lay crouched among the hay. Joyce hid her face in 
 sudden panic as the slow tramp of their feet drew nearer 
 and nearer. It was hard to realize that they could see and 
 yet not be seen, and not until the steps were retreating in 
 the distance did she dare to look forth. How strange it 
 seemed that their own stack-yard, where only the day be- 
 fore yesterday they had been merrily playing at "Barley 
 Break," should now be the scene of such an alarming in- 
 cursion ! Tramp, tramp, tramp gradually the sound of 
 the many feet died away into silence, and the last glimpse 
 of the crimson hat of the hot-tempered gentleman disap- 
 peared. 
 
 " Oh, father ! " exclaimed Joyce. " Who can that be, 
 and why does he so hate you ? " 
 
 " I know not, child. 'Tis a face that is wholly strange 
 to me," replied the colonel. " Doubtless he is the guar- 
 dian of whom that brave lad spoke to me but now. See, 
 we will come from our hiding place now that they are well 
 out of view. They can do no mischief, thank God ! up at 
 the house. Come with me, child, we must keep out of the 
 way till they have dispersed." 
 
 Together they emerged from the outhouse, and, passing 
 out of the yard, crossed the road and made their way into 
 the field where Hugo lay hid. Joyce breathed more freely 
 when they were safely sheltered by the willows. Till then 
 she hardly dared to look behind her. Suddenly she paused 
 and clutched her father's arm. 
 
 " I see a man's head ! " she whispered. " There, hid low 
 among the bushes." 
 
 " It is our loyal preserver," said the colonel. " I must 
 speak a few words with him. From what passed between 
 the constable and my unknown foe, I fear he will get into 
 trouble." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Joyce, "then t'will be the second time he 
 has suffered through helping us. Can you not save him, 
 father warn him of the danger." 
 
 " Thank Heaven ! you are safe !" exclaimed Hugo, raising 
 himself as they approached him. "I greatly feared my 
 warning had been too late." 
 
 " We are safe, thanks to you," replied the colonel, warmly; 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 47 
 
 " and now it is solely on your account that I am anxious. 
 Tell me where it would raise least suspicion for your guar- 
 dian to find you." 
 
 'At Mondisfield Church, were there time to reach it," 
 said Hugo. " But I fear to try, least he should overtake me 
 on the road." 
 
 "We will show you a much nearer track across the 
 fields," said Colonel Wharncliffe. " See, as the crow flies it 
 is but a short distance. The congregation are, I trust, all 
 escaped by now, and I and my daughter cannot do better 
 than take a quiet walk in the fields, for which at present no 
 man can arrest us." 
 
 "I hope, sir, your wound is doing well," said Joyce, 
 shyly, as they walked rapidly on. 
 
 " Thanks to your skillful bandaging, it is healing fast," 
 he replied. And then Colonel Wharncliffe referred to the 
 duel, and a desultory conversation ensued which afterward 
 Hugo could not recall, though he could remember every 
 change in Joyce's face, every glance from those heavenly 
 eyes, every tone of her clear, childish voice. 
 
 Yet ever mingled with the rapture of being near her was 
 a miserable sense of unworthiness, a wretched conscious- 
 ness that against his will he had watched them last night 
 when they little suspected it. Worse still, that at any time 
 he might be required to give evidence against the colonel. 
 His usually tranquil face bore traces of trouble and anxiety 
 which did not escape Colonel Wharncliffe. He felt sorry 
 for the boy, drawn to him strongly, unaccountably. Would 
 he in his life of temptation manage to " rise above the 
 circumstances in which he was placed ?" Recalling the far 
 stronger face of the guardian, and realizing how much it 
 had cost the lad to go against him that day, he could not 
 feel very hopeful. 
 
 All too soon they reached the end of their walk ; sadly 
 enough Hugo raised Joyce's little hand to his lips, and 
 turned to bid farewell to her father. 
 
 "I shall never fail to think of what you have done for us 
 this day," said the colonel, grasping his hand; " God grant 
 the rest of your life be in tune with this beginning." 
 
 Hugo turned away, feeling positively choked. Oh, God! 
 that this had been the beginning ! That blind obedience 
 had not landed him in such a strait ! that habitual sub- 
 mission had not almost paralyzed his will ! And Joyce 
 sweet, blue-eyed Joyce ! He should never see her again, 
 never be able to tell her of his love, never, never in the 
 
48 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 most distant future dare to dream of her as his wife. Over- 
 whelmed with the new consciousness of his weakness he 
 re-entered the village church. The sermon had been long, and 
 now there lingered some half-dozen country people, for it 
 was the first Sunday of the month, " Sacrament Sunday," 
 as they called it. At first Hugo could not make out what 
 had happened, but it was a relief to find that the service 
 was not over, and that for the present he was safe from 
 Bandolph. How strange it seemed that while the old cler- 
 gyman had been slowly proceeding with the morning ser- 
 vice he should have lived through what seemed like half a 
 life-time ! 
 
 How it happened he never quite knew, but as he me- 
 chanically knelt on in one of the high pews, dimly con- 
 scious that the old man in the chancel was reading some 
 prayer, two words seemed to separate themselves from the 
 unintelligible surroundings. " Do this !" 
 
 In his misery, in his shame, in his hopelessness, it oc- 
 curred to him for the first time that here was a command 
 which he had neglected. And so it came to pass that behind 
 all the villagers, pausing even for the old cripple in the 
 smock frock, the stranger walked up the aisle and knelt at 
 the altar rails. 
 
 He came so quietly that the villagers did not notice him, 
 but the holy clergyman was sorely perplexed. Here was 
 a stranger who had behaved very oddly, who had come in 
 late, left in the Jubilate, returned in the middle of the com- 
 munion service, and, having missed both confession and 
 absolution, presented himself at the altar, though in all 
 probability he was the very man who had fought the duel 
 by the roadside, which was already the talk of the village. 
 What in the world was he to do ? Moving from one to 
 another of the communicants, he had arrived at XLO definite 
 conclusion when he found himself opposite the new-comer. 
 Involuntarily he paused, half hesitating. The stranger's 
 head was bent low; he raised it now, however; the clergy- 
 man gave him one searching glance, and after that hesita- 
 ted no more. 
 
 " I* fear me you have done an illegal thing," said his 
 wife, as they walked home to the vicarage together. 
 
 "Confound legality!" said the old parson, who was not 
 at all above swearing. " I tell you he had the face of a 
 Christom child ! I couldn't have refused him." 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 49 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 HUGO MEETS A PATRIOT. 
 
 GLOUCESTER. The noble'and true-hearted Kent banished I his 
 offense, honesty ! 'Tis strange. 
 
 FOOL. Sirrah, you were best take my coxcomb. 
 
 KENT. Why, fool ? 
 
 FOOL. Why, for taking one's part that's out of favor; nay, an 
 Jhou canst not smile as the wind sits, thou'lt catch cold shortly. 
 Lear. 
 
 IT needed no comet, as Colonel Wharncliffe very truly 
 femarked, to foretell national troubles in the year 1682. 
 Never, perhaps, in the whole history of the country had 
 the political, social, and religious outlook been more 
 gloomy. 
 
 Rivers of blood had been shed scarcely half a century 
 before to preserve the liberties of England and to protest 
 against absolutism and tyranny ; yet in this year the ma- 
 jority of the nation seemed willing idly to acquiesce in 
 the illegal encroachments of the king. The preceding 
 generation had dearly bought the nation's right of repre- 
 sentative government ; yet tamely, miserably, contempti- 
 bly, the succeeding generation submitted once again to 
 the Stuart despotism. The Exclusion Bill had been re- 
 jected by the Lords, mainly through the king's influence. 
 The general election of the year 1681, which had produced 
 so much excitement, so much eager expectation, in the 
 country, had proved worse than useless. The new parlia- 
 ment summoned by the king to Oxford in the month of 
 March was dissolved by him in April ; while so great was 
 the fear and distrust of both parties that the Commons 
 thought it prudent to surround themselves with a strong 
 escort, and the king was accompanied by his guards. 
 
 From this time dated the era of the " Second Stuart 
 Tyranny," to be ended as all tyrannies must be ended by 
 a revolution. 
 
 How it came to pass that Englishmen endured such a 
 state of things for years it is indeed difficult to surmise. 
 Perchance the chief blot on the annals of the Common- 
 wealth the execution of the king at length avenged it- 
 self, the bad seed bearing now its bitter fruit in a certain 
 inexplicable attachment to the son of the beheaded mon- 
 arch a man who deserved such attachment even less than 
 
50 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 his father. However it was, the fact remains that the 
 country submitted to be ruled by a tyrant, to be without a 
 parliament, to lose the high position among European na- 
 tions gained for England by Cromwell, and to be bought 
 by Louis XIV. into political slavery, the price of which 
 served partly to keep the king's mistresses. 
 
 One greal barrier still stood, however, in Charles's way. 
 There could not be absolute government while the char- 
 ters of the city of London and of the other cities re- 
 mained. Consequently all his efforts were bent to induce 
 the cities, either by fair means or foul, to cede their an- 
 cienfc privileges, and the journals of the time show all too 
 plainly with what criminal speed they complied with the 
 royal suggestion, and surrendered their charters. 
 
 The social outlook was even worse than the political. 
 The reaction from Puritan intolerance and ultra-gravity 
 had of course come about at the Restoration, and liberty 
 had degenerated into license. But this alone is insufficient 
 to account for the blatant wickedness of the reign of 
 Charles II. A wave of vice seemed to pass over the coun- 
 try ; vice became the fashion. If any one dared to con- 
 demn the fashion he was set down as a narrow-minded 
 Puritan, and speedily snubbed. Shame was in those days 
 an unknown quantity. " The quality of mercy " was men- 
 tioned now and then by Portia in the play-house, and by 
 the priest in the church, but was rarely cultivated by any 
 one ; while cruelties which sicken the nineteenth-century 
 reader were permitted and even countenanced by educated 
 men and women. 
 
 As to the religious outlook it was the most glocmy of 
 all. The Church taught the doctrine of passive obedience, 
 and truckled miserably to the court. Brave and outspoken 
 Churchmen, who would not wink at wickedness even in 
 high places, had sooner or later to seek safety in exile ; 
 while others, who would fain have followed in the steps oi 
 Christ, were thwarted on every side, and from the smallness 
 of their numbers proved nearly powerless. The Latitudi- 
 narians the followers of Jeremy Taylor in vain strove to 
 show that a good life was to be desired even more than an 
 orthodox belief, that a broad-hearted toleration could alone 
 bring about Christian unity. They were unable to stem 
 the current of fierce, selfish intolerance, of Pharisaical self- 
 contentment, of blind indifference to the sufferings of 
 others. 
 
 The country was drenched with the blood of Roman 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DATS. 51 
 
 Catholics, barbarously murdered merely for their opinions. 
 The prisons were crammed with Nonconformists, eight 
 thousand of whom died of the hardships they there met 
 with in the miserable time which elapsed between the Res- 
 toration and the Revolution. Worst of all, there sprung 
 up a gross, heartless, selfish materialism, an atheism which, 
 compared with the secularism of modern times, was as the 
 prodigal wallowing among the swine, to the prodigal strug- 
 gling laboriously to his father. 
 
 It was the 6th of November. All London was in a state 
 of tumult and commotion, bells were ringing, bonfires pre- 
 paring, crowds assembling in all the chief thoroughfares. 
 Gunpowder-Plot Day had this year fallen on a Sunday, and 
 in consequence was to be kept on the succeeding day in- 
 stead. Rumor had gone abroad that the king disapproved 
 of the observance and would fain have stopped it altogether, 
 but no edict had been published, and the rumor only served 
 to stimulate the zeal of the citizens who had not as yet re- 
 covered from the panic caused by the Popish plot. 
 
 The vast majority of the nation still believed in the real- 
 ity of Gate's revelations, and in any case this was certainly 
 the very last time to neglect the National Thanksgiving 
 day. The 'prentices donned their best clothes, and sallied 
 forth on merry-making intent ; the housewives prepared 
 candles stuck in clay to be set out at nightfall on the win- 
 dow sills ; and the Temple students, with scarcely an ex- 
 ception, turned out into Fleet Street to take their part in 
 the night's proceedings. 
 
 At one of the chambers in King's Bench Walk, however, 
 Hugo sat buried in his books, not feeling at all inclined to 
 stir for any recollections of Guy Fawkes and the nation's 
 memorable deliverance. Randolph was out, and was not 
 likely to return that night; he had the premises to himself, 
 and was blissfully enjoying the peaceful quiet, and the un- 
 divided possession of the camp, the table, and the sea-coal 
 fire, when the door was opened. He looked up quickly, not 
 feeling at all inclined to welcome a visitor,but only Jeremiah 
 stood there, the old servant who had been in the family more 
 than twenty years, and who had done everything for Hugo 
 since the great plague year, when father, mother, nurse, 
 indeed all the household save the two brothers and the 
 old servant, had been swept away in less than a week. 
 Jeremiah was a strongly-built, hard-featured man, and at 
 first sight would have seemed to a casual observer the very 
 last man to accept the post of general care-taker to a deli- 
 
52 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 cate child of three years old, just recovering from an attack 
 of the deadly malady. He had proved, however, the most 
 faithful and the most devoted attendant. It was to Jere- 
 miah that the boy invariably turned for comfort when 
 Randolph, for some childish fault or misadventure, had 
 mercilessly thrashed him. It was to the old man's stimu- 
 lating stories about the civil war that he owed a vast ad- 
 miration for all deeds of courage and endurance, deeds 
 that were naturally but little in accord with his quiet and 
 over-bookish tendencies. Jeremiah was one of the old 
 Cromwellian'soldiers, and had fought at Marston Moor and 
 many other bloody encounters. Disbanded at the Resto- 
 ration, the Ironsides had quietly retired into various trades 
 and services, and Jeremiah had faithfully served the house 
 of Wharncliffe, and had proved the best influence in Hu- 
 go's life. 
 
 "Still at thy books, lad?" he said, in a tone of disap- 
 proval. " Thou'lt never be a man of action, if thou'rt ever 
 reading." 
 
 "We can't all be men of action, Jerry," said Hugo, resign- 
 ing himself to the interruption with his usual sweetness of 
 temper. 
 
 "Nature didn't mean us all for Ironsides, and you well 
 know that you will never turn me 'nto one. Draw your 
 chair up and fetch your pipe, 'tis- mighty pleasant by the 
 fire, and I'll warrant your den is as cold as charity. 
 Randolph will not be back to-night." 
 
 The old servant drew one of the heavy oaken chairs to 
 the hearth, shaking his head, however, in a meaning way 
 over Hugo's last words. 
 
 " 'Twould break my heart, lad," he said, after a pause, 
 " wert thou to take to such doings." 
 
 "W uld it?" said Hugo, smiling a little. "What a 
 staunch old Puritan you are, Jerry! Well, I must try not to 
 break your heart then." 
 
 " Broad is the road to destruction, and many there be 
 that walk along it," said Jeremiah, shaking his head. 
 
 ",Come now, Jerry, don't begin a second 'Book of 
 Lamentations,' for in truth one is quite enough." 
 
 "Broad is the road, and with your guardian leading the 
 way I fear me thou'lt follow." 
 
 " Now, look here, Jerry !" Hugo started to his feet, and a 
 glow of color overspread his iisually pale face. " There's 
 just one tiling that I'll never stand from you. Say what 
 jou like against me, but as to my brother, please to hold 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DATS. 53 
 
 your tongue. I'll not hear one word against Randolph. 
 Do you think that in all London you would find a master 
 whose life would fit in with your rigid notions ?" 
 
 "Belike not," said the old servant, sententiously. 
 
 There was a silence. Hugo speedily repented of his 
 momentary anger. 
 
 " I have vexed you. I am sorry," he said. " ' Twas a 
 graceless speech from one whom you had tutored. But as 
 you love me, Jerry, speak no more of the duchess and my 
 brother. As for me I think you may trust me that 111 
 not break your heart in the fashion you speak of I would 
 sooner break my own any day." 
 
 Jerry's stern face relaxed, but what he would have said 
 in reply remained forever unknown, for as he was about to 
 speak there was a knock at the outer door, which he 
 hastened to open. 
 
 A rush of cold air from the staircase, and a loud, cheer- 
 ful voice saluting the old soldier, then a vision of many- 
 colored raiment, and Denham's merry face. 
 
 " You old hermit !" he exclaimed., " I might have known 
 I should find you up to the eyes in books. What, man, 
 have you forgot that 'tis Gunpowder-Plot Day, and the 
 duty of all good Protestants is to be abroad anathematiz- 
 ing pope and devil." 
 
 " They'll do it well enough without my aid," said Hugo, 
 yawning. "And of all things I hate a street uproar." 
 
 " Bookworm, 'tis the best possible thing for you. Come, 
 own that you've not stirred abroad this day." 
 
 " Not once only, but twice," said Hugo, smiling. 
 
 "Ah, I can guess the length of your tether though. 
 From King's Bench Walk to Pump Court, there to pore 
 over your lessons like the good boy, then later on per- 
 haps as far even as the Devil, to hear the news." 
 
 " As far as the Grecian," corrected Hugo. 
 
 " Marvelous !" exclaimed Denham. " Do you hear, Jerry; 
 \Our young master has actually walked nearly to Temple 
 Bar and back. Come now, Jerry, you back me up and tell 
 him he ought to sally forth this fine evening." 
 
 " In truth, sir, I was but now telling him he would never 
 be a man of action if he did nought but read from morn 
 till night." 
 
 Hugo groaned and tossed away his books. 
 
 " There's a conspiracy between you," he said, laughing. 
 " And when you know I fought a duel on the 5th of last 
 
54 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 month I think it's hard you won't leave me in peace beyond 
 the 6th of this !" 
 
 So saying he took up his sword, leisurely proceeding to 
 fasten his baldrick, while Jeremiah fetched his hat and 
 cloak from the next room. 
 
 " 'Twill do thee good, lad, 'twill do thee good," said the 
 old man, as he opened the outer door for the two to pass 
 out, speaking much as a nurse might speak while offering 
 medicine to a reluctant child. 
 
 Passing from the quiet purlieus of the Temple into 
 Fleet Street was that night like passing from a peaceful 
 paradise into a pandemonium. To stir was almost impos- 
 sible, so dense was the crowd, and had it not been that a 
 certain weird beauty in the scene touched Hugo's ready 
 imagination, he would speedily have retreated again, to 
 avoid the pushing and jostling which to one of his temper- 
 ament was singularly distasteful. 
 
 But there was undoubtedly a subtle fascination in the 
 dark mass of spectators and pleasure-makers, in the lurid 
 glare of the bonfire already kindled over against the Inner 
 Temple Gate, in the gleaming candles set out in all the 
 windows, and in the flaring links which were borne hither 
 and thither among the crowd. Laughter echoed here and 
 there, amid the roar of many voices; oaths, jests, questions, 
 and sober talk, all mingled in one general medley, and all 
 more or less overpowered by the ever-recurring chorus 
 shouted forth with untiring energy by every one possessed 
 of zeal and good lungs. 
 
 "Remember, remember the fifth of November, 
 Gunpowder treason and plot. 
 I see no reason why gunpowder treason 
 Should ever be forgot 
 
 Holloa, boys ! Holloa, boys ! Make the bells ring. 
 Holloa, boys ! Holloa, boys ! God save the King ! " 
 
 And in truth the bells did ring with right good will, 
 well-nigh deafening every one, till the signal was given 
 that the procession was drawing near, and when the noise 
 of the multitude became slightly subdued, it was just pos- 
 sible to hear the trumpets and drums which formed part 
 of the ceremony. 
 
 Denham and Hugo, who were standing close to Temple 
 Bar, had the benefit of a close and prolonged inspection of 
 the lon^ procession, for on the eastern side a halt was 
 ordered, whilo before the statuo of " Good Queen Bess/' 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 55 
 
 one of the gorgeously arrayed performers sung a patriotic 
 song, extolling the memory of the good queen, the Protes- 
 tant religion, and the Reformation, denouncing all " popish 
 knaves," lamenting the unfortunate Sir Edmondsbury 
 Godfrey, and warning all good citizens to shun the pope 
 and his boon companion. In the meantime, surrounded by 
 hundreds of torch-bearers, heralded by minstrels and trump- 
 eters, the poor old pope, in a most life-like effigy, sat aloft 
 in his chair of state, covered with scarlet, richly adorned 
 with gold fringe and embroidery. On his shoulder sat a 
 dwarf who had consented to play the role of " Devil," and 
 who certaiuly looked most diabolical as he climbed hither 
 and thither, whispering evil counsel in the ear of the effigy, 
 first on one side, then on the other. Immediately behind 
 the pope there followed a bier on which was laid an effigy 
 of the magistrate, who had been murdered immediately 
 after receiving Oates's first revelation of the so-called Popish 
 plot. 
 
 "Poor Sir Edmondsbury!" said Hugo, unable to help 
 smiling a little. "I should have thought that by this time 
 they had used him often enough at these shows. Why 
 can't they let the poor man rest in peace ?" 
 
 " He has but been dead a matter of four years !" said 
 Denha-n, laughing. "And you may be sure that Shaftes- 
 bury has no intention of laying aside his best puppet yet 
 awhile. Hark, how the people groan even now ! Never was 
 such a murder as that for stirring up the populace." 
 
 " I thought Shaftesbury had lost his last chance," said 
 Hugo. " Does any one know where he has taken himself to ?" 
 
 " Some say that he is in Holland; others that he is hiding 
 in the city, and devising mischief in his heart. But no one 
 doubts that he has yet a finger in the pie. Depend upon 
 it, he and his have pulled the strings which make these 
 puppets dance to-night. A notable Protestant is my Lord 
 Shaftesbury!" 
 
 By this time the procession was moving, and the pope, 
 the devil, Sir Edmondsbury Godfrey, the minstrels, the 
 trumpeters, the drummers, the torch-bearers, followed by 
 a disorderly rabble, passed on again. Denham and Hugo 
 were borne on by the crowd whether they would or not, and 
 were just in time to see the devil leap lightly from the shoul- 
 der of his Holiness as the huge effigy was snatched down 
 from its lofty throne and hurled into the midst of the bon- 
 fire. Then there rose a chorus of joyful acclamation, storms' 
 of cheering and huzzaing, while the dwarf, in the character 
 
56 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 of his Satanic majesty, danced a hornpipe around the bon- 
 fire, jeering at the sufferings of his vanquished servant, 
 who crackled gruesoniely in the flames. After this there 
 ensued a regular saturnalia, the result of which was that 
 many found themselves in prison that night, and that strict 
 orders were immediately issued by the king that the 17th of 
 the month, Queen Elizabeth's birthday, was not to 'be 
 observed at all. 
 
 " By the bye," said Denham, as they struggled along 
 through the riotous crowd, " I was to ask you to sup with 
 us ; my father says you have deserted us of late. To-night 
 Colonel Sidney will be with him, and he would fain have 
 you two meet." 
 
 Hugo smiled. It amused him somehow to think that Sir 
 William Denham should think him worth introducing to any 
 one, least of all, to such a man as Colonel Sidney. 
 
 " I have heard Colonel Sidney's praises sung by Jere- 
 miah ever since I can remember," he said. "At least I 
 suppose you mean him that was son to the late Lord 
 Leicester." 
 
 "Ay, he's the man. My father is wondrous pleased with 
 him. In politics of course they are poles apart, but my 
 father is too much of a scientific hermit to care a rush for 
 that. For my part, I can see nought in Colonel Sidney 
 more than other folk, save that he is mighty stern. My 
 father says that both you and he are anachronisms, and 
 therefore he would have you meet." 
 
 " How anachronisms ?" said Hugo, laughing. 
 
 " He has an idea that you should rightly have been born 
 two or three hundred years hence. That in fact you are 
 both of you too far ahead of your surroundings to live 
 comfortably in this wicked world." 
 
 Hugo smiled and disclaimed any wish to postpone his 
 life for so long a period. With all its faults and imperfec- 
 tions he clung to his own time and would not have ex- 
 changed it for any dim, advanced future had it been in his 
 power to do so. For in truth, when brought face to face 
 with the question, few people, even if they are miserable, 
 would exchange their own individuality, and still fewer 
 would accept that magic potion which would enable the 
 partaker to wake up in a different century, even though 
 their own century be chiefly distinguished by wickedness. 
 Universal is the feeling that we would 
 
 " rather bear those ills we have 
 Than fly to others that we know not of." 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 57 
 
 Sir "William "Denham's house was in Norfolk Street, and 
 the two friends, having at length pushed through the dense 
 crowd by St. Clement Danes, and struggled along the 
 Strand, were not sorry to find themselves in smooth waters 
 again. The distant roar of the multitude was to be heard 
 even in the house, but it only served to accentuate the quiet 
 within. This house was Hugo's ideal of comfort, and was 
 indeed almost the only home he knew. The Denhams 
 were all fond of him, and fortunately Kandolph approved of 
 the friendship, only objecting a little when he though Sir 
 William was endeavoring to turn Hugo into a man of science 
 rather than a man of the world. 
 
 The with drawing-room looked very pleasant that cold 
 November evening, and made a very pleasant picture as 
 they came in out of the murky darkness of Norfolk Street. 
 The polished floor, the many-colored Eastern curtains, the 
 Japanese cabinets, the comfortable fire of logs, beside 
 which sat Lady Denham, with her sweet, placid face and 
 snowy curls. The little spaniel on the hearthrug sprung 
 up and barked at them, and was called to order by Mary 
 Denham, Sir William's niece and ward, who sat, embroidery 
 in hand, close to her aunt. On the other side of the hearth 
 Sir William, with his kindly, wrinkled old face, was talking 
 eagerly to a stranger who sat in the great arm-chair. 
 
 Hugo knew that this must be Colonel Algernon Sidney, 
 the anachronism, and he looked at him searchingly. He 
 saw a man of about sixty, in a brown doublet with silver 
 facings and cords, a plain white cravat tied with two small 
 tassels, but not boasting the smallest piece of lace, and a 
 dark brown periwig, not so long as those which had more 
 recently come into fashion. These lesser details came to 
 his notice in the first glance, afterward they sunk into utter 
 insignificance, he could see nothing but the face the 
 strangely fascinating face which from that day forth was 
 to become to him what no other face on earth could ever 
 be. In expression it was sad and somewhat stern, particu- 
 larly in profile, when the strongly marked Eoman features 
 stood out in relief. The forehead was broad and high, and 
 slightly receding, the whole face thin and long, with high 
 cheek bones and a prominent and rather pointed chin. 
 He wore a slight mustache, and there was something in 
 the pose of his lips which betokened an impatient temper 
 that would not easily brook contradiction. This was, how- 
 ever, to some extent contradicted by his eyes, which were 
 
58 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 large, keen, and thoughtful, dark in color, and in shape 
 singularly beautiful. 
 
 He raised his curved eyebrows a little as Denham and 
 his friend approached, an involuntary sign of surprise es- 
 caping him as he looked at Hugo. Indeed, so beautiful 
 and so strange in expression was the boy's face that 
 very few could have avoided such a gesture. 
 
 " Allow me to introduce to you our friend Mr. Wharn- 
 cliffe/' said Sir William, when the ladies had been saluted. 
 " Hugo Colonel Sidney." 
 
 Hugo bowed low. 
 
 " Your name is familiar to me," said Sidney. " Though 
 how I know not. Do you not come of a Suffolk family ?" 
 
 " We are distantly related to the Suffolk Wharncliffes, 
 sir," replied Hugo, and something in his manner showed 
 Sidney that he had touched upon an embarrassing subject. 
 
 " 'Twas a Suffolk Wharncliffe that caused him his first 
 duel," said Rupert, laughing. 
 
 " Ay, ay," said Sir William. " I've been hearing about 
 that, Hugo. Now I should have thought you were one of 
 the few of his majesty's subjects who might be trusted to 
 obey the edict of 79." 
 
 " The duel was not of my seeking, sir," said Hugo, color- 
 ing. 
 
 " No, no," said Sir William, smiling. " We have heard 
 the rights of the story from Rupert here ; you did well, 
 lad, very well, and Sir Peregrine deserved all you gave 
 him. How fares it with him now; have you heard of him ?" 
 
 " Randolph heard, this day was a se'nnight, and he was 
 then walking again. I'm glad 'twas no worse." 
 
 " You were less lucky than I was in my only challenge," 
 said Sidney, who had been keenly watching the lad while 
 he spoke. " 'Twas over in Holland, and our seconds man- 
 aged to patch up a peace on honorable terms. A barbar- 
 ous custom is the duel, but royal edicts will not put an 
 end to it." 
 
 " Do you think, sir, that it will ever be stopped ?" asked 
 Hugo. 
 
 " For certain," said Sidney. " Not by the influence of 
 his majesty, but by the slow development of civilization. 
 As yet, you see, we are half barbarians, and sadly wanting 
 in common sense." 
 
 " When folks in general learn something of science," said 
 Sir William, who never lost an opportunity of referring to 
 his hobby. 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 59 
 
 " When every Englishman has grasped the thought that 
 he owes something to his country," said Sidney. " When 
 human life is rightfully valued, because human rights have 
 been boldly claimed, and human duties realized." 
 
 " But how will claiming of rights touch the matter ?" 
 asked Hugo, instinctively turning to Sidney as though he 
 were some oracle. 
 
 " In this way," said Sidney. " A nation grows great just 
 in proportion as the people making up the nation grow 
 wise enough to do their duty, and bold enough to claim 
 their rights. Take as example any given case, and per- 
 cliaiice you'll see better what I mean. If Lady Denham 
 and her niece will pardon us, and since they are exceptions 
 to the rule, I think they will, we will take the position at 
 present given to women. Women are but treated as the 
 toys of men, treated as though they were fit only to satisfy 
 the senses, and maintain our species. How great an igno- 
 rance is this ! Who cloth not know that every age hath 
 produced some women very excellent in those things for 
 which men most prize themselves ? And yet men despise 
 them."* 
 
 "And is this for want of claiming of rights?" said Hugo. 
 "It is so in great measure. Women have not claimed 
 those helps from study and education which are freely 
 given to men, but in the natural powers of mind they are 
 noways inferior. Indeed, the well-composed ness of a 
 woman's judgment often moves one to envy. In my opin- 
 ion, to whatsoever they apply themselves, either learning, 
 business, domestic or public government, they show them- 
 selves at least equal to our sex. But nought can be done 
 till in the slow development of the ages they awake to a 
 sense of their duties and of their rights ; and until men 
 grow purer and women more cultivated there is but a sorry 
 outlook for this country of ours." 
 
 Hugo was silent, musing over the very novel ideas which 
 had been presented to him. The doctrine of claiming of 
 rights was little in accord with his character or his education, 
 while as to perceiving of duties, it had been dinned into 
 him from his very childhood that the whole duty of man 
 was passive obedience. 
 
 Supper was just then announced, and they went below to 
 the parlor. 
 
 "But were we all to learn languages and science, and all 
 
 *See Algernon Sidney's " Essay on Love." 
 
60 IN THE GOLDEN DATS. 
 
 things that make up a good education," said Mary Denham, 
 " who would order the house, and make the preserves, and 
 oversee the linen ?" 
 
 " And amuse the men," interposed Kupert. 
 Sidney smiled. 
 
 "There must ever be much in either sex that the other 
 sex cannot perform," he said. " We would not if we could 
 turn women into she-men ; all that the wise would claim is 
 that woman be no longer treated as a toy, as an inferior, 
 and that man no longer ape a superiority which exists 
 merely in his own conceit. As to the linen and the pre- 
 serves, why, Sir Thomas More found his chiefest comfort 
 in a daughter who was a prodigy of learning, and I'll war- 
 rant Mr. Roper did not find his house ill-governed." 
 
 " In truth," said Lady Denham, " many a maid would be 
 glad enough to learn more in these days, but, you see, the 
 men like it not." 
 Sidney laughed. 
 
 " Ah, truly they like it not, because they fear their boast- 
 ed superiority would quickly be ended. Be advised by 
 me, Mistress Mary, study science with your uncle, and lose 
 not your chances of- learning for the sake of a lew gibes 
 from Whitehall idlers." 
 
 " Defending the cause of women, Colonel Sidney ; you 
 are not caring for your own wants," said Lady Denham. 
 " Let me give you some of this red-deer pie." 
 
 " Of my own making," said Mary, with a little mischiev- 
 ous gleam in her eyes. She was a brunette with bright 
 dark eyes, a rich, glowing complexion, and brown hair 
 curled all over her head after the fashion of the period. 
 Her face was sweet, pure, and slightly proud. Hugo ad- 
 mired her greatly. For the last two years there had 
 existed between them a sort of Platonic friendship, an 
 admirable thing no doubt for Hugo, but for the girl a 
 somewhat doubtful experiment. She seemed, however, so 
 much older than Hugo, though they were in truth of the 
 name age, that no one dreamed that her friendship could 
 possibly develop into love, and her aunt was only too glad 
 to have Hugo as much as possible about the house, because 
 she knew well enough that he was almost the only steady 
 companion whom Kupert cared for. 
 
 Mary knew what no one else in the world knew at least 
 in Hugo's world that he had warned the conventiclers. 
 She had heard the whole story of his hurried run from the 
 church to the barn, of how he had met Band olph afterward 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 61 
 
 in the church yard just as the service was over, and had 
 escaped without so much as a question, and of how from 
 that day to this no allusion whatever had been made to the 
 heretical kinsfolk down in Suffolk. She had heard more 
 about the duel than any one else, and she had elicited a 
 little a very little information about Joyce. She had a 
 restless longing to learn more about this rescued maiden, 
 and this evening, as they went upstairs again after supper, 
 she hazarded a question. 
 
 " Did Sir Peregrine say naught of fair Mistress Wham- 
 cliffe ?" she asked, with a smile. " Methinks he should at 
 least have mentioned the cause of all the strife." 
 
 Hugo was taken by surprise, and, to say the truth, had 
 been at that very moment wondering what Joyce would 
 think of Colonel Algernon Sidney's notions as to women. 
 He started and colored. 
 
 " I saw not the letter," he replied, hurriedly. " What 
 he may have said of her I know not, but I trust it was not 
 much. I would not have so much as her name fall from 
 his vile pen if it could be helped." 
 
 Never had she seen Hugo so visibly discomposed ; with 
 a little sigh she wondered whether he would mind at all 
 what this Suffolk squire might happen to write about her. 
 It did not at all trouble him apparently that she should be 
 persecuted by the attentions of men quite as bad doubt- 
 less, though not so unmannerly, as Sir Peregrine Blake. 
 Her thoughts wandered back to Eupert's description of 
 the rescued maiden " devilish pretty, with blue eyes "- 
 she wished with all her heart that her own eyes were not 
 so hopelessly and irretrievably brown. 
 
 " Come, Hugo," said Sir William. " You n?ust not cheat 
 us of a song. I hear you have a manuscript one by Mr. 
 Purcell. What do you think, Sidney, of our young com- 
 poser ?" 
 
 " He seems to be nearer to the mark of the Italian musi- 
 cians than any English song-writer," said Sidney. " I hear 
 he is organist at Westminster Abbey. Is that so ?" 
 
 " Ay, 'tis true," said Sir William. " The king also ap- 
 pointed him last July to the Chapel Koyal. He is a fine 
 player and worth your hearing." 
 
 " May be," said Sidney. " But I do not affect public wor- 
 ship, least of all in one of the Chapels Eoyal. Mr. Wharn- 
 cliffe will doubtless render his music well. He has the face 
 of a musician." 
 
 "Ay, indeed," said Sir William, lowering his voice. 
 
62 IN THE GOLDEN DATS. 
 
 "When a trifle older I doubt not he will have the best tenor 
 in all London. Mary, do you accompany him on the spinet, 
 it goes better so than with his lute." 
 
 Rupert was lighting the candles and Mary had already 
 seated herself at the spinet, which stood at the far end of 
 the room. Soon the first bars of an exquisite air rang out 
 into the silence, and then a voice marvelously clear and 
 sweet sung Purcell's new song. Never before had Mary 
 Denham been so well satisfied with the power and expres- 
 sion whieh Hugo threw into the music ; in former times she 
 had been wont to scold him for the want of life and anima- 
 tion in his singing, to-night she felt instead a curious pain 
 at her heart, as she listened to the wild words and impas- 
 sioned music : 
 
 " I attempt from love's sickness to fly in vain, 
 Since I am, myself, my own fever and pain. 
 No more now, fond *ieart, with pride should we swell, 
 Thou canst not raise forces enough to rebel. 
 I attempt from love's sickness to fly in vain, 
 Since I am, myself, my own fever and pain. 
 For love has more power and less mercy than fate, 
 To make us seek ruin, and love those that hate. 
 I attempt from love's sickness to fly in vain, 
 Since I am, myself, my own fever and pain." 
 
 There was complete silence among the listeners. Sir 
 William wagged his foot in time to the music, Lady Den- 
 ham laid aside her embroidery and sat idle, Sidney leaned 
 back in the great armchair beside the fire, his keen, 
 thoughtful eyes fixed upon the singer, but rather as though 
 he were thinking of the lad himself than of the song. He 
 had taken strange fancy to Hugo, strange because in al- 
 most every point their characters were so diametrically 
 opposite. Sydney unbending and stern, Hugo yielding 
 and sweet-tempered, the elder man worn with the hard- 
 ships he had lived through, the younger fresh and unsullied, 
 knowing as yet nothing of life and but little of care. Great 
 differences often prove, however, a curious sort of attrac- 
 tion, and in this case for the first time in his life Sidney 
 thought to himself " Had I had a son I would have had 
 him like that !" 
 
 He had, however, neither wife nor child, most of his 
 kinsfolk were alienated from him, and the life he had lived 
 had to a great extent unfitted him for forming many friend- 
 ships. Old age was not so very far off now, and its ad- 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 63 
 
 vance found him lonely and isolated, with countless foes 
 and but few friends on whom he could thoroughly rely. It 
 was as Sir William had said he was an anachronism ! Like 
 all men who are in advance of tkeir age all honest and 
 outspoken men at least he had met with much bitten op- 
 position, also he had apparently failed, and that is a hard 
 fate for one of his disposition. He had failed to do much 
 for the country he loved so passionately, he had failed to 
 leave his mark on his generation, he had failed in winning 
 love or confidence, or distinction. Watching Hugo he fell 
 to thinking of his own youth his whole life rose in vision 
 before him. 
 
 Good God ! What hopes had been his when in his 
 nineteenth year he had first been put in command of a 
 troop of horse ! Again, what dreams of a grand future 
 for his country had come to him three years later, when 
 the struggle between king and parliament having begun in 
 good earnest, he had volunteered his services in the parlia- 
 mentary army ! How sweet had been the toilsome cam- 
 paign, the wounds, the hardships illumined ever with the 
 thought of the nation's liberties, which must be bought at 
 any price ! But victory had come with disappointment 
 stalking at her heels. 
 
 Another scene rose before him the painted chamber at 
 Westminster a number of men eagerly discussing the fate 
 of the king he himself full of dislike to all violence, wish- 
 ing only that Charles might be deposed and banished by 
 act of Parliament, and in vain urging upon Cromwell and 
 Bradshaw that the king could be tried by no court, and 
 that no man living could legally be tried by that court. 
 Again he saw the looks of aversion and suspicion on the 
 faces of all present as he pleaded for his bitterest enemy, 
 claimed justice for his country's foe. Again Cromwell's 
 words rang in his ears " I tell you we will cut off his head 
 with the crown upon it " again he heard his own reply as 
 he quitted the assembly never to return " You may take 
 your own course, I cannot stop you ; but I will keep my- 
 self clean from having any hand in this business." 
 
 The scene changed ; he was at quiet Penshurst walking 
 in the park, and one brought him word of the king's death. 
 Illegal as he deemed the sentence, the doom had seemed to 
 him but just. It was necessary that Charles should be re- 
 minded that by the ancient law of the land an English king 
 receives his right to reign from the will of the people, that 
 he had been " therein trusted with a limited power to 
 
64 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 govern by and according to the laws of the land, and not 
 otherwise." The king had broken his trust, had done his 
 best to ruin the country, had laid upon the nation a yoke 
 which could not be borne certainly if treason ever merited 
 death it was his treason. But, as civilization develops, the 
 question must recur again and again : Has any human be- 
 ing the right in any circumstances to take the life of an- 
 other. 
 
 Then he wandered on through the years of disappoint- 
 ment which had followed, recalling Cromwell's patriotic 
 zeal and wonderful power, recalling, too, the impossibility of 
 working with one who, in spite of all his virtues, was no" re- 
 publican, but a tyrant. Again, he was in the House of 
 Commons, and a man in plain black clothes and gray stock- 
 ings was walking passionately to and fro with his hat oib s 
 upbraiding the members. He could see once more the 
 sudden entry of the musketeers, the hurried dispersion of 
 the members hear once more the peremptory command 
 to himself to come down, and on his refusal could feel 
 again the hands of Harrison and Wortley on his shoulders 
 as they pushed him out of his place in the House, and in 
 fact out of public life altogether, for five long years. Once 
 more hopes had arisen, once more he was actively at work, 
 carrying on negotiations with Sweden and Denmark. The 
 Restoration had, however dashed all his hopes to the 
 ground, and after that tkere came only a vision of weary 
 years of exile wanderings in Germany, Italy, France, 
 homeless, friendless, often well-nigh penniless, in constant 
 danger of assassination, and ever with the knowledge that 
 the country for which he had fought and bled and suffered 
 was going to ruin. 
 
 Well, his exile was ended, and he was by an English 
 hearth again, able to watch the ruin of his country yet 
 more closely. 
 
 "A sweet song! A charming song!" exclaimed Lady 
 Denham. " Let us have one more, Hugo. It is long since 
 we heard you." 
 
 Hugo sung "In "Woodstock Town," and this time Sidney 
 listened to him. 
 
 " I have not heard such singing since I was in Rome," 
 he said, at the close. " There was at that time a tenor, 
 Geronimo by name, who had a voice much like yours. Do 
 you sing Italian music ?" 
 
 " I do at times to the king; it pleases him more than our 
 English music," said Hugo. 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DATS. 65 
 
 Sidney V face darkened. He made no reply, however; 
 and shortly after the servant came to announce that Jere- 
 miah waited below and had brought a message to his 
 master. 
 
 Hugo, knowing that the message was probably from his 
 brother, hastened down. In a few minutes he returned to 
 the withdrawing-room, evidently not much pleased with the 
 news Jeremiah had brought him. 
 
 " I must bid you good-night," he said, approaching Lady 
 Denham. "The king commands my presence at White' 
 hall." 
 
 " We must see more of one another," said Sidney, as he 
 bade him farewell. A speech which made every pulse in 
 Hugo's body beat at double time, for already Sidney had 
 become his hero of heroes. 
 
 " To think that such as he must go to Whitehall 1" said 
 Sidney, when the door had closed behind him. " What are 
 his people about that they permit it." 
 
 " It is his brother's doing," said Sir William. " A strange 
 man is Wharncliffe, one of the Duchess of Cleveland's 
 devotees. According to Hugo that is his sole weakness, 
 however. He is a bitter sort of fellow, but somehow the 
 lad is mightily fond of him." 
 
 "And he of the lad?" 
 
 " I scarcely know," said Lady Denham. " He is very 
 stern with him, and at times I fancy that he really only 
 cares for him so long as he proves useful." 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 AT WHITEHALL. 
 
 I need not be ashamed of your Majesty, praised be God, so 
 long as your Majesty is an honest man. King Hewry V. 
 
 THE great gallery at Whitehall presented that evening 
 its usual aspect of splendor, gayety, and vice. It was 
 ablaze with candles, and crowded with people, who, in 
 their rich and gay-colored clothes, made the place look 
 like an immense flower-garden. Gostling, the celebrated 
 bass, was singing a song which no modern audience would 
 tolerate, and Signer Giovanni Baptista Draghi dubbed 
 for convenience sake " John Baptist " was accompanying 
 him on the harpsichord. A number of courtiers were ait- 
 
66 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 ting round a table playing at basset, with an immense pile 
 of gold before them. The queen with two of her ladies sat 
 apart, playing her favorite game of ombre. A group of 
 idlers clustered together in one corner to listen to the latest 
 lampoon. The rest talked, jested, flirted, and made merry. 
 The place was very hot ; coming indeed from the sharp 
 November air outside it seemed to Hugo stifling ; also 
 there was something about the moral atmosphere which 
 always oppressed him. He was never happy at Whitehall, 
 never in harmony with his surroundings. These people lived 
 such a different life, thought such different thoughts, cared 
 for such different things, that it was almost impossible to find 
 anything in common with them, nor did he trouble himself 
 to try much, he was too young, and at present too well- 
 satisfied with a quiet, studious " laissez-aller " kind of life. 
 That he owed any sort of duty to those he met did not 
 occur to him. He went to Whitehall because it was his 
 brother's wish ; he sung his best, to please Randolph ; he 
 was quiet and courteous, because it was impossible for him 
 to be anything but a perfect gentleman ; and he never, 
 even at home, showed his dislike to the Whitehall evenings, 
 because he was philosophic, and was in the habit of taking 
 things calmly. But the people ho met were to him only 
 like the puppets in a show, and puppets of whom he rather 
 wearied. He rarely considered them as actual men and 
 women. 
 
 In spite of this he was, strangely enough, already a fa- 
 vorite at the court. People liked him because he was 
 original, and not quite like all the rest of the world, fresh 
 and unspoiled, and void of the smallest particle of conceit. 
 They amused themselves with seeing how he would take 
 things, how he would dexterously avoid singing some 
 lewd song, even when the king asked for it, how he 
 would adroitly parry the questionable jests of the wits, how 
 above all he adored his brother, and cared for nothing so 
 long as he was secure of his approval. 
 
 This evening, as usual, it was not toward the king that 
 he looked with any apprehension. He looked instead at 
 Randolph to see whether he were vexed at his delay. He 
 had, it is true, made all speed from Sir William Denham's, 
 had rushed into his court dress in the space of ten min- 
 utes, and had hurried to Whitehall as fast as possible. 
 But then there was no knowing how slow Jeremiah might 
 have been in bringing the message, for if there was one 
 place the old servant hated his coming to it was the court. 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 67 
 
 Randolph was standing not far from the king among a 
 group of courtiers, idly leaning against the pedestal of a 
 statue, and combing his periwig with a large tortoise-shell 
 comb, a way of killing time which was then much in vogue. 
 He looked as usual, handsome, discontented and btjtse. 
 Was he vexed ? Hugo looked at him questioningly, and 
 Randolph, who had long been watching for his arrival, met 
 his gaze, scanned him from head to foot, and looked at 
 any rate no more discontented than before. There was not 
 the ominous contraction of the forehead which Hugo hated 
 to cause. He breathed more freely, and advanced toward 
 the king, following the usher. Randolph watched him 
 critically. A tall, slim, graceful figure in dark-blue velvet, 
 laced with gold, a manner devoid entirely of courtier-like 
 subservience and adulation a markedly quiet manner, just 
 escaping nonchalance, however, by a sort of inborn dignity. 
 
 Charles was seated on a sort of ottoman, lounging 
 between two of his mistresses, on his right hand the beauti- 
 ful Mrs. Gwynne, and on his left the Duchess of Cleve- 
 land, one of the most deparaved women of the time. Hugo 
 came as near to hating her as he was capable of hating any- 
 body ; he loathed the thought that she held Randolph in 
 bondage, loathed the thought that he was but one of her 
 innumerable slaves, and if he made light of the matter to 
 old Jeremiah it was not because he thought lightly of it. 
 
 " You are late, Mr. Wharncliffe," said Charles, with a 
 good natured smile, extending his hand, which the young 
 Templar knelt to kiss. 
 
 " Sire," replied Hugo, " I made all speed on receiving 
 your gracious message, but I was absent when it arrived." 
 
 " Making merry with the rioters in Fleet Street, I'll be 
 bound !" said Charles, laughing. " Was it not so, eh ?" 
 
 " No, my liege, I was at Sir William Denham's." 
 
 "What! he that is a member of the Royal Society? I 
 remember him, a learned man, and methinks he has a 
 pretty niece, who is a notable heiress. I have torn him 
 away, J u see," turning to the Duchess of Cleveland, " from 
 much more agreeable society. Was the fair maiden wroth 
 with me ?" 
 
 "Your majesty is wholly mistaken," said Hugo, coloring. 
 
 " What ! can you deny that you were sorry to leave ?" 
 said the king, laughing at his face of embarrassment. 
 
 " There was in truth a guest of whom I would fain have 
 seen more," said Hugo, with the transparent honesty which 
 made him so refreshing. 
 
68 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 " Who was that ? Let us hear all about her ? A blonde 
 or a brunette ?" 
 
 *' It was no lady, your majesty ; it was merely a friend of 
 Sir William Denham's." 
 
 " I must know the name of my rival, whose presence was 
 more to be desired than an evening at my court." 
 
 Hugo looked troubled. 
 
 " His name, sire, was Colonel Sidney," he replied, after 
 a brief pause. 
 
 The king started. 
 
 " Upon my soul ! young man," he exclaimed, " you are 
 very bold to mention that man in my presence." 
 
 " It was at your majesty's request," said Hugo, respect- 
 fully, but with a sort of grave dignity. 
 
 Charles smiled. 
 
 " 'Tis true, and "I like you better for not being an adept 
 at lying yet awhile. After all, there's something naive in an 
 honest man nowadays. There ! a jest for you, ladies ! 
 When does an honest man become a knave ? When hon- 
 esty is so old-fashioned that it has a naive appearance." 
 
 He grew thoughtful for a minute, and the lines in his 
 hard-featured face deepened, while he toyed absently with 
 three spaniel puppies on his knee. 
 
 "And so you would fain have seen more of Colonel Sid- 
 ney ?" he said, looking curiously at the young Templar. 
 
 " Yes, your majesty," replied Hugo, lifting his quiet gray 
 eyes to the king's. 
 
 "And why, pray ?" 
 
 "He seemed to me a man of great power, a very noble 
 man, my liege." 
 
 "Are you aware that he is one of the most dangerous 
 men in the country? That he rebelled against the blessed 
 martyr? That he would fain establish a gloomy republic 
 in this merry England of ours ?" 
 
 "Sire," said Hugo, rendered uneasy by the consciousness 
 that Randolph was listening disapprovingly to every word 
 he uttered, yet sturdily determined that nothing should 
 make him false to Sidney "Sire, I know very little of such 
 matters, but one thing I can not doubt, and that is that, be 
 his views what they may, Colonel Sidney is a noble gentle- 
 man." 
 
 " There is not another man in all England who would 
 have the courage to tell me that to my face," said Charles, 
 musing. " Well, lad, I would have you be truer to me 
 than Colonel Sidney has been, for in faith I have but 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 69 
 
 few followers so brave and outspoken. But enough of this 
 go sing me one of your songs." 
 
 Hugo obeyed, feeling thankful enough to have the con- 
 versation ended. It is not the easiest thing in the world 
 to speak out bravely in defense of an unpopular person, ;ind 
 to incur Randolph's displeasure was always keenly painful 
 to Hugo. With a very heavy heart, which could in nowise 
 be elated by the king's compliment, he crossed over to the 
 harpsichord, and handed his song to Signor "John Bap- 
 tist," who was to accompany him. The same song which 
 but an hour ago he had sung at the Denham's house, to 
 how different an assembly ! He sung several times and was 
 warmly applauded. After his last song he looked round 
 apprehensively for his brother, but Randolph had disap- 
 peared and the king, too, was nowhere to be seen. 
 
 Could he have looked into the adjoining chamber, where 
 Charles was in the habit of receiving those who de- 
 sired private interviews, he would have seen his sovereign 
 and his guardian deep in conversation, laying a scheme 
 which was to cost him dear. 
 
 " You say the lad is absolutely obedient, that you could 
 trust him with anything ?" 
 
 " Absolutely, your majesty. I have trained him to be of 
 use, and to serve my ends. He will not question aught 
 that I bid him do." ' 
 
 " Then, if that is so, it were no bad plan that he should 
 learn to know this traitor ; I hear he has great influence 
 with young men. Let him get hand-and glove with him, 
 trusted with his secrets and so forth, and then when the 
 right time comes do you make him reveal all to yourself. 
 You think you can do this?" 
 
 " I am certain of it, my liege. 
 
 " You are very much more confident than I am," said the 
 king, thoughtfully. " He seemed to me just now by no 
 means so docile and yielding as you deem him." 
 
 " Your majesty will pardon his awkwardness, that was but 
 his lack of court training." 
 
 " In dishonesty," said the king, with a sarcastic smile. 
 
 " Moreover," continued Randolph, stung by this remark, 
 "it is possible, if your majesty will pardon my saying such 
 a thing, that he would reveal to myself what he would not 
 reveal to your majesty." 
 
 " Which in plain English means that you are the greater 
 bully. Well, I willingly concede you the palm ! " 
 
 He laughed; Randolph smiled a mechanical court smile. 
 
70 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 " Of course it rests with you, my liege. If it will further 
 your ends, I will gladly let the boy associate with Colonel 
 Sidney; all we desire is to be of service to your majesty." 
 
 " Then be it so," said the king. " Let us lay this attrac- 
 tive net for my enemy." 
 
 They returned to the gallery; the king looked a little 
 regretfully at Hugo, who was to be made an unconscious 
 tool, and used for work which he would abhor. But in 
 another minute he had forgotten all about the matter, and 
 was jesting with the beautiful and witty Duchess of Maza- 
 rine, who was at that time high in his favor. 
 
 Randolph, after a moment's consideration, made his way 
 to the place where Hugo was standing, apparently listen- 
 ing to Gostling's song, but in reality absorbed in his own 
 thoughts. 
 
 " Take a turn with me," said Eandolph, " I have a word 
 to say to you. " 
 
 Under cover of the music, and the general roar of con- 
 versation, which was not much abated even by the singing 
 of the celebrated bass, the two brothers paced the gallery, 
 practically as much in private as in their own chambers. 
 
 "You managed well just now," began Eandolph. "I 
 feared that you would ruin your reputation with the king 
 but luckily for you he took all in good part." 
 
 Hugo was much relieved, he had expected something 
 very different from Eandolph. 
 
 His brother continued. 
 
 " You have done very well indeed, I felt proud of you. 
 Honesty is at times the best policy, there is no question of 
 that. But just one word of caution. I don't object to your 
 following up the acquaintance which you have made to- 
 night at the Denhams, only mention not that unpopular 
 name more than need be. You only harm both yourself 
 and him by bringing his name into notice. Do you under- 
 stand T 
 
 " Ay," said Hugo. " I will be careful. And you do not 
 indeed object to my meeting him again ? He said he must 
 see more of me, and I would fain know him better, for in- 
 deed, sir, he is a great man, the greatest man I ever met." 
 
 Eandolph smiled good-naturedly. 
 
 "Well, well, have a care. Sing his praises to me as 
 much as you will, but to the world without hold your 
 tongue. I doubt not he is an able man, he has traveled 
 much, and knows the world." 
 
 " Who is that beautiful girl standing near the harpsi- 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 71 
 
 chord ?" asked Hugo, diverted from all thoughts of Sidney 
 by a face which somehow reminded him of Joyce. 
 
 " Her in rose-colored satin, mean you ? That is the little 
 Duchess of Grafton, Lord Arlington's daughter." 
 
 " What, is she married already ?" 
 
 " Ay, she was married at five years old, and remarried at 
 twelve to one of his majesty's sons. I'll get her mother-in- 
 law to introduce you to her. " 
 
 Hugo could not make any objection, though it seemed to 
 him a sort of sacrilege to owe an introduction to such a 
 girl to the favor of such a woman. 
 
 "They will just suit each other," said the Duchess of 
 Cleveland, when Eandolph had preferred his request. 
 " The two court innocents ! I marvel they had not become 
 acquainted long eince. My love," turning to the young 
 girl who was standing close by her, and had already colored 
 deeply at the disagreeable, bantering tone "my love, let 
 me introduce you to Mr. Hugo Wharncliffe, a paragon of 
 virtue, I assure you." 
 
 The girl courtesied, Hugo bowed low ; they were both 
 of them too young not to be a good deal discomposed by 
 this uncomfortable introduction ; Hugo almost fancied he 
 saw tears in the eyes of the little duchess, and this made 
 him quickly recover his equanimity that he might come to 
 her rescue. 
 
 " Signor John Baptist is a skillful player, is he not ?" he 
 remarked. " I had not heard him before this evening." 
 
 She looked grateful to him for promptly starting so easy 
 a topic. 
 
 "In truth," she said, glancing round to see that her 
 mother-in-law was safely out of hearing, " the music is the 
 sole thing that makes this place tolerable. I love not 
 Whitehall, and you, methinks, agree with me in that dis- 
 loyal sentiment." 
 
 She smiled, with a mixture of humor and pathos which 
 enchanted him. 
 
 " And yet," said Hugo, meditatively, " 'twould scarcely 
 do to live only among one's books. I should have lost 
 much indeed this night had not my friend Denham ruth- 
 lessly carried me off." 
 
 " Is that a kinsman of Mistress Mary Denham ?" 
 
 " It is her cousin." 
 
 " I know Mistress Mary Denham well, and methinks I 
 have heard her mention you. Are you not he who found 
 Sir William Denham that rare plant of which he wanted a 
 specimen ?" 
 
72 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 " We chanced upon it in Suffolk, a few weeks 
 said Hugo, "returning from the Newmarket races. But 
 indeed it is as much due to Rupert Deiiham as to me, for 
 he found it a second time when I had lost it." 
 
 The little duchess looked at him with a pleased look. 
 She had heard the whole story, and knew that the plant 
 had been lost because the elder brother had snatched it 
 away in a passion and thrown it into a wayside copse. She 
 liked him greatly for keeping silence about that part of the 
 matter. 
 
 " Mr. Evelyn told me once that the king has in his libra- 
 ry a curious book on botany with rare-colored plates. 
 Would you care to see it ?" 
 
 " I should like it greatly, if it were possible," said Hugo. 
 " But I could not ask any favor of the king to-night." 
 
 "But I will ask; it will give him pleasure, for he is 
 always pleased to see his subjects lovers of science. See ! 
 he is at liberty now, I will ask his permission." 
 
 She walked gracefully toward the king and made her re- 
 quest, to which he at once acceded, but as usual could not 
 forbear making one of his jests. 
 
 " Go, by all means ; one of the ushers will show you the 
 way. And we won't say anything of a duenna, since he is 
 such a handsome spark. Odds fish ! she blushes like a 
 carnation ! art in love with the young scapegrace already, 
 I'll be bound." 
 
 But the prudent little duchess had learned enough of the 
 world to take very good care tbat a staid old court lady 
 accompanied them when they left the gallery, with the 
 usher in advance to pilot them through the maze of rooms 
 and passages. The man bore a lamp which dimly revealed 
 to them the costly furniture and the rich hangings of tbe 
 rooms through which they passed. It was not, however, 
 till an exclamation escaped Hugo that they paused in their 
 onward way. 
 
 " Oh," he cried. " Bring the light nearer, sir, an you 
 will. ,What is this beautiful picture ?" 
 
 They were in a room which was filled with all kinds of 
 curious clocks, watches, and pendules, Charles being fond 
 of all clever mechanism ; there were also several beauti- 
 ful pictures, and Hugo had paused before one representing 
 the appearance of our Lord, after His resurrection, to Mary 
 Magdalene." 
 
 "'Tis the 'Noli me tangere' of Hans Holbein," said the 
 usher, " and worth any money, they say." 
 
 He went on talking and criticising, but luckily addressed 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 73 
 
 all his remarks to tlie duenna ; as for Hugo and the little 
 duchess, they could neither of them have spoken, for the 
 unspeakable reverence, the sort of heavenly astonishment 
 expressed in the picture seemed to have taken posession of 
 them. In that silence somehow they learned to know each 
 other ; they had begun, though they did not know it, a 
 life-long friendship. 
 
 "This is the library," said the usher, flinging open a door 
 close by. 
 
 They entered, and found what for that age was a large 
 collection of books, numbering perhaps a thousand vol- 
 umes. Some of them were richly bound, and embossed 
 with gold, but the particular book which they had come to 
 see was in manuscript, a great quarto over three hundred 
 years old and written in French. The plants were most 
 curiously painted in miniature, and Hugo was delighted to 
 have an opportunity of going through them, while the lit- 
 tle duchess, though only fifteen, displayed so much intelli- 
 gence, and such an eagerness to learn from him all that he 
 could tell her, that she doubled his pleasure. 
 
 " You must come and see me," she said to him when they 
 parted, " at my father's house. Then some day you must 
 be introduced to Mr. Evelyn, who often comes there. He 
 would like to know you, I feel sure, and I ever long for all 
 whom I like to know him, for he is so learned and so good." 
 
 Thus ended what had proved for Hugo an eventful 
 evening. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 JOYCE'S JOURNAL. 
 
 Sometimes hath the brightest day a cloud ; 
 And after summer ever more succeeds 
 Barren winter, with its wrathful nipping cold ; 
 So cares and joys abound as seasons fleet. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 I, JOYCE WHARNCLIFFE, have determined for three reasons 
 to write down from time to time what I can remember of 
 our life at Mondisfield. The first of these reasons is that 
 things are really beginning to happen so fast and we 
 never believed till now that anything would happen, only 
 that each day would go on much like the one before, with 
 
74 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 Sundays to keep us from getting too monotonous. The 
 eecoud reason is that, since the fifth of October, when the 
 duel was fought outside the park, Evelyn and I have felt 
 dull somehow, and as if just the first seeing of that bad 
 man, and the seeing of how our brave "knight" fought 
 with him, had made it quite impossible for us to go back 
 to our old ways, fancying stories, and acting people's 
 lives in our own. Somehow things got real to us on that 
 Saturday afternoon, and then the Sunday following, when 
 the congregation had to disperse all in haste, and when we 
 were in terror lest our dear father should be arrested, that 
 made life seem still more real. 
 
 It puzzles me a little that, though it has at last begun to 
 feel so very real to me, yet I do not like a bit better to be 
 what Elizabeth calls " useful in the house." The books will 
 seem still to me realer than the puddings, and the preserves, 
 and the dairy-work, and the needle-work. I said so to 
 Elizabeth to-day, but dear Betty, though she is so wise, 
 does not seem to understand at all what books do for one. 
 She came to me in the north parlor, and said: 
 
 "Oh, Joyce, I wish you wouldn't idle away your time with 
 vain poems and plays." 
 
 I was reading Shakespeare's story of "Romeo and Juliet." 
 It was a pity it was not one of his historical plays, because 
 that would have been easier to argue from, and certainly it 
 did seem, perhaps, a little like wasting time to be reading 
 a love-tale. I read it because it seemed to me that Romeo 
 might have been like our knight he did fight two duels 
 and he was young, and brave, and handsome." 
 
 " But," I said to Betty, " it gives one so many thoughts 
 to read books, and that makes one happy. Whereas, to 
 make puddings and preserves gives one no thoughts at all." 
 
 "No thoughts!" cried Betty. "No thoughts in making 
 a pudding. Why, you have to keep thinking all the time." 
 
 " You have to keep worrying, ' Have I put enough sugar? 
 Is there too much dough ? Will it be heavy ? How long 
 must it boil?" I said, laughing. "But I don't call that 
 thinking." 
 
 " I call it thinking to some purpose," said Betty, with 
 that vexed look which she always has when I say what she 
 thinks unpractical things. " Who is the better for your 
 reading of books, and your thinking of thoughts that have 
 nothing to do with the house, cr with anything that is of 
 use ? " 
 
 I was silenced by that. For, when one comes to think of 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 75 
 
 it, who is the better for it because I read Mr. Milton's 
 " Paradise Lost," or " Komeo and Juliet," or " The Temp- 
 est," or even graver books ? 
 
 " What have you to show for this whole hour that you 
 have been reading ? " she went on. " Whereas if you had 
 been busy in the kitchen, you might have had a pile of 
 manchets ready for the morrow, or you might have made 
 griddle-cakes for every one's supper.'* 
 
 I only felt that I had got something frc m the reading, 
 but whether it was a thing which could be shown definitely, 
 like a manchet or a griddle-cake, I was doubtful. Yet it 
 was to me, after all, more real than either. 
 
 " It makes the world feel bigger when one reads," I said, 
 at last. " It makes you see how little you know, and what 
 a great number of things there are to know. And, oh ! 
 Betty ! " I could have danced with delight at having at 
 length got hold of the right argument " your pudding is 
 made, and eaten, and there's an end of it ; but the book is 
 read, and stays always, and makes one happy, and teaches 
 one things, and there's never any end to it." 
 
 " It is selfish," said Betty. " For you see it is only your- 
 self that is made better, after all. Whereas the pudding 
 would have been for every one's dinner, and the manchets 
 for every one's breakfast, and the griddle cakes for every 
 one's supper." 
 
 This seemed to me unanswerable. I felt very unhappy. 
 Could it be wrong to read ? If so, why did so many great 
 and good people write books ? 
 
 Father had been tying up a climbing rose just by the win- 
 dow, and he must have heard what we were saying, for just 
 then he came in. 
 
 " You foolish children," he said. "One of you talks as if you 
 were all body and no mind, and the other as though you 
 were all mind and no body. Books, Betty, are food for the 
 mind, and it is no more selfish to spend time over reading 
 them than to spend time in eating, sleeping and walking 
 for the good of your body. Nay, it is quite as wrong, 
 perhaps more wrong, to neglect the feeding of your mind 
 as to neglect the healthful keeping of your body. The 
 stronger and better fed the mind, the more use will it be. 
 to other people, sooner or later. As for you, my little Joy," 
 he said, putting his hand on my head, " you will be a wise 
 maid, and let no day pass without doing something in 
 the house to help your mother. For, look you. what would 
 come to us all if Betty were to marry ? Or how would you 
 
76 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 order your husband's house, if you knew naught of house- 
 wifery ?" 
 
 I have written this all down, even our silly talk, because 
 I wanted always to remember what my father said. I shall 
 think of it always when I mind being called away to the 
 kitchen, but somehow I don't think I shall mind again. 
 
 Would Juliet have managed her husband's house well, I 
 wonder, if her story had not ended so sadly ? She was just 
 as old as I am. 
 
 I have been a long time coming to my third reason for 
 writing our recollections. The third reason is that a 
 dreadful thought has come to me, or rather was given to 
 me by my father that perhaps Mondisfield might not long 
 be ours. How I came to hear about it was in this way. 
 The others were all in the orchard at the apple-gathering. 
 I was to go too, but had not quite finished my morning's 
 spinning. The spinning is the house-work I mind doing 
 least. It i* not at all sticky and greasy, like the cakes and 
 puddings, and you need not keep worrying about it like 
 other kinds of work; it is a sort of steady going on, just 
 as monotonous as the whir of the wheel, and I like it 
 because one can think about other things at the same time. 
 Nurse had let me take my spinning-wheel into the musi- 
 cian's gallery, which has always been my own special part 
 of the house. It is only used by other people once a year, 
 though in old times, they say, the musicians played every 
 evening while the family were at supper, and often there 
 were dances. We do not often dance, father's friends 
 mostly think it wrong. But he likes us to dance by our- 
 selves, and once a year that is on the twelfth of May, which 
 is his birthday, and Elizabeth's too we have a great festi- 
 val day, and real musicians come from St. Edmondsbury, and 
 we have songs, and country-dances, and a dinner for all the 
 tenants. Some people wonder at father for doing this, but 
 he says that all extremes are bad, and that, perchance, had 
 the Commonwealth been less strict about the amusements, 
 the people would not have been so eager to get back the 
 king and his wicked court. And once I even heard him tell 
 a grave and learned minister that so long as the hundred 
 and fiftieth psalm found place in the Bible, his daughters 
 should enjoy both timbrel and dance in moderation, only 
 he would ever have an eye to the company they mixed 
 with. 
 
 Well, I was sitting with my spinning-wheel in the old 
 gallery, when all at once, above the whir, I heard a sharp 
 
fij THE GOLDEN DATS. 77 
 
 sound as of something snapping asunder. Looking across 
 to the other end of the hall, where the sound came from, I 
 saw that the picture of the little boy with the dog, which 
 hangs high up above the north parlor-etoor and exactly 
 facing my gallery, was falling down. The string had 
 snapped, and I could do nothing nothing but just watch 
 it, as it fell to the ground, making a great crash on the 
 white flag-stones. When it was down I ran out of the gal- 
 lery, through the little room beyond, and down the steep 
 little staircase, then hurried out beyond the screen and 
 through the hall till I had reached the picture. 
 
 Its frame was badly broken, and in many places the gold 
 had chipped off, but the portrait itself was not hurt. I 
 looked at it curiously, for it was too small a picture to be 
 seen very well at a distance, and my idea of the little boy 
 had been always somewhat vague. I do not know why, 
 but as a little girl I well remember having a strange terror 
 of this picture. It always seemed to be looking at me, and 
 on dusky evenings in summer, or, worse still, on dark 
 nights in winter, by the dim lamplight, I used to rush 
 through the hall, on my way to bed, absolutely trembling 
 at the thought of those eyes which would follow me. That 
 of course was long ago. I almost laughed at the thought 
 now, for on a nearer and soberer view it was such a harm- 
 less sort of picture. A little, innocent, dark-eyed babe of 
 two or three years, in a tight white cap, a long white pin- 
 ner, and bishop sleeves. In one hand it grasped a rattle, 
 with the other it patted a little spaniel. The whole atti- 
 tude was stiff and quaint indeed, it was hard to tell 
 whether he was sitting, or standing, or leaning. Once more 
 I turned the picture over as it had fallen. On the back of 
 the canvas was painted a name in large black characters, 
 
 HUGO WHABNCLIFFE, 
 
 and down below, written in my father's writing " This 
 picture was saved from the Great Fire of London, in the 
 year of grace 1666." 
 
 Who was Hugo Wharncliffe? Had we ever had a 
 brother of whom I had never heard ? That seemed scarcely 
 possible. As I wondered, my father passed through the 
 hall, and seeing that the picture had fallen, came to see 
 how far it was injured. 
 
 "Father," I said, " who is this boy? Who is Hugo 
 Wharncliffe ? Had we ever a brother ?" 
 
 " Never, my child," he replied, sadly. " This is the 
 potrait of a very distant kinsman of yours, brother to him 
 
78 IN THE GOLDEN DATS. 
 
 who is heir-at-law, and will at my death take possession of 
 this house." 
 
 My heart almost stopped beating. 
 
 "What!" I *ried, "will Mondisfield belong to us no 
 more? I thought it was ours for always?" 
 
 My father smiled, and explained to me that, as he had no 
 son, the property went to the next male, one Randolph 
 Wharncliffe. 
 
 " But how came you by this picture, then ?" I asked. 
 
 " That," said my father, " is a long story ; however, you 
 shall hear it. I loved this lad's mother well ; she was a 
 noble lady, and would have brought up her son virtuously 
 had she lived. She died, poor lady, in the plague year ; out 
 of the whole household were left but three Randolph, the 
 eldest, a young man of two-and-twenty, this little lad here, 
 whose portrait was scarce finished and yet in the artist's 
 hands at the time, and one servant. Being in London in 
 the August of the year following when the pestilence was 
 somewhat abated, I was one day waited on by the artist, who, 
 hearing that I was head of the Wharncliffe family, called to 
 explain to me how matters were with regard to this picture. 
 It had been ordered, it seems, by the little lad's mother, 
 who was since dead ; the brother would not take the pic- 
 ture, or pay anything toward the expense, saying merely 
 he had not ordered it. To argue with him was of no avail, 
 and, sooner than have our name dishonored, I paid the 
 artist myself, and brought the picture to my rooms in the 
 city. That day se'n-night broke out the great fire, and 
 how I escaped with all my goods you have oftentimes heard. 
 I wrote it on the back of the canvas, as you see, so that 
 this lad's descendants may prize the picture accordingly as 
 a relic." 
 
 " His descendants !" I exclaimed. " Oh, father, I ever 
 thought we should live here, and after that our children, 
 not other people's." 
 
 " It can not be, little Joy. And, after all, why should 
 we look to the future ? Set your heart on nothing, child ; 
 for indeed it is well if I hold this place through my life- 
 time. Randolph Wharncliffe, they tell me, hath great in- 
 fluence at court, and he accounts me his bitterest foe." 
 
 " You, father ! How can he make a foe of you ?" I said, 
 looking up into his grave, quiet, strong face. How, indeed, 
 could any one help loving and revering him ? 
 
 " It is in this way, child," said my father. "He is one of 
 the Sussex Wharncliffes, and lost his estates, or rather his 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 79 
 
 father lost his estates, in the time of the civil war. These 
 he has never recovered, though he would fain have done so 
 at the Restoration. Can you not understand, then, that it 
 is bitter for him to see one of the Suffolk Wharncliffes, who 
 fought against the late king, still peacefully enjoying his 
 property? Could he get rid of me, he would, you see, come 
 into this estate at once. And, Joyce, these are evil times, 
 and I hold unpopular opinions. You must not set your 
 heart, dear child, on a quiet life here." 
 
 I looked at the innocent little babe in the picture and 
 wondered what this unknown kinsman of mine would be 
 like now. 
 
 "Would this cousin be your enemy too?" I asked, after 
 a pause. 
 
 " He would certainly hold his brother's views of the mat- 
 ter," said my father. " 'Tis many years since I saw him, 
 but I remember well that he was like the little shadow of 
 his brother, following him everywhere, and obeying him 
 most implicitly. It was most touching, I remember, to no- 
 tice his devotion to one who treated him but roughly. Poor 
 lad! he stands a bad chance with such a training." 
 
 "Does he, too, go to the court?" I asked. 
 
 " I should think it very probable," said my father ; and 
 with that he went away, to leave me a new subject for day- 
 dreams. Evelyn and I talked about it almost all the after- 
 noon, while we gathered the apples. Evelyn and I always 
 go together, though she is six years younger, and Eobina 
 comes in betwixt us. But Bobina, all say, should have been 
 a boy. She is now just fourteen, and as tall as I am, and 
 her wrists much stronger. She loves to be ever out-of- 
 doors ; in the farm-yard among the poultry and the pigs 
 and the cows. And she will spend hours in the warren 
 with the conies, who do not fear her ; and the deer in the 
 park will let her stroke them, though, if any one else draw 
 near they rush off like the wind. Eobina is much more 
 clever than I am, and seems older altogether, and never 
 cares for other people to look after her, but will ever be 
 independent. She wishes much she had been a boy, chiefly 
 because she would not then have been forced to wear long 
 skirts, which certainly do get in one's way not a little. The 
 only play of Shakespeare's that I can ever make her hearken 
 to is " Cymbeline," and she cares not for that till it comes 
 to the part where Imogen dons " doublet, hat, hose," and 
 says she is " almost a man already." All which Betty 
 thinks mighty improper, but Evelyn and I think we would 
 
80 IN THE GOLDEN DATS. 
 
 have done harder things than that to win back our hug- 
 baud's trust, and, anyhow, it seemed better than staying at 
 the court to die of a broken heart. 
 
 The day that the picture fell, when we had finished the 
 apple-gathering for that afternoon, some of us shaking the 
 branches while nurse stood below to catch the apples, or 
 else all holding a big cloth below, while Hurst climbed into 
 the trees, and dropped them softly down so that they might 
 not be bruised when all was done, Evelyn and I stayed, 
 walking up and down the apple-walk, which is quite our 
 favorite part of the garden. To begin with, it is quiet, and 
 people do not come there often, for it lies at the further 
 side of the vegetable-garden, and is walled off from the 
 bowling-green. At the end is the pigeon-cote, with its red- 
 tiled roof and weather-vane, and the dear, soft, blue-gray 
 pigeons flying and whirring about overhead. Then, too, the 
 prettiest part of the moat is just in this place. It takes a 
 great sweeping curve just beyond the pigeon-cote, and on 
 the further bank the fir-trees are closer and taller than else- 
 where, and other trees mingle with them ; and, indeed, the 
 wood is so thick just there that we always call it the wilder- 
 ness. After that great beautiful curve the moat is straight 
 for a long way the whole length of the apple-walk, which 
 stretches alongside of it, a broad, grassy walk, with one 
 side sloping down to the water and shaded by the dear old 
 apple-trees. Evelyn and I always fancy that the monks 
 must have walked up and down this path. For in old times 
 Mondisfield was a monastery, and had a chapel belonging 
 to it, which was built close to our north parlor. And the 
 abbot of St. Edmondsbury used to be fond of staying here. 
 
 It was while walking up and down the apple-walk thai 
 day that we decided to write down what happens. I am 
 to write because my writing is easier to read, but Evelyn 
 will help me to remember things, and we shall do it on 
 rainy days. We do it for the sake of those other children 
 who one day, hundreds of years hence perhaps, will live 
 in our dear old home. 
 
 "We are a big household. There are father and mother; 
 Betty, who is nearly one-and-twenty, and has a dear, kind 
 face and clever hands which can make all things from 
 shirts to sack posset; Damaris, who is tall and rosy, and 
 learns Latin, and can even write poetry, yet is skillful at 
 embroidery too; Frances, who is something like Betty, 
 and who, I think, has never done one wrong thing all her 
 life, yet is the kindest of all to us when we have done 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 81 
 
 wrong; Joyce, the one who writes this record; Robina, 
 who has been afore described; and dear Evelyn, our pet, 
 the youngest of all. Then there is nurse, who has lived 
 with us all our lives; and Kezia, the cook; and Tabitha, 
 her daughter, my mother's maid; and Dennis, the serving- 
 man; and Hurst, the gardener; and Melchizedec, the 
 coachman; besides the farm laborers, who live in the cot- 
 tages near by. Evelyn says I have not described myself, 
 and that the " descendants" of the Eandolph Wharncliffes 
 will not know what I am like. But of course there is the 
 picture of me in the north parlor which will perhaps still 
 hang there, that picture which amuses us all so much. It 
 was our grandmother who had it painted when once I 
 stayed with her at St. Edmondsbury, nearly six years ago. 
 I am sitting in a beautiful landscape, in a pale-green satin 
 dress (a dress which was never mine at all), and my curls 
 are smoother than they ever could have been, and every- 
 thing about me most neat and proper, with never a crease 
 or a crumple, while with one hand I caress a meeker lamb 
 than ever lived, with a wreath of flowers round his neck. 
 Our grandmother had the picture painted for her, and 
 when she died it was brought here. Therefore the " de- 
 scendants" can certainly need no more description. There 
 is one other person whom I would have liked to describe, 
 and that is mother. I have tried, but it is of no use, it 
 had all to be scratched out. Somehow I almost doubt if 
 even Mr. Milton could have described his own mother. 
 There are some things will not go into words, though we 
 try ever so much to make them. 
 
 Writing this, in the window-seat of our great nursery, 
 and looking first out of doors at the quiet garden and 
 across the moat to the broad elm-tree avenue, and again 
 beyond that to the wooded hill in the distance, with all the 
 trees so golden and glorious, I can scarcely believe that 
 troubles can seek us out in this dear, quiet home, of ours. 
 Within is nurse, looking through a great basket full of 
 hose warm woolen hose for winter wear and Evelyn on 
 her little stool sits reading Mr. Bunyan's story of the " Pil- 
 grim's Progress," for the hundredth time, and eating a 
 Perry pippin. Mother has just come in with a bunch of 
 fresh-gathered lavender, which we are to make up into 
 bags for the linen-chest, therefore I shall write no more of 
 our recollections at present. Robina and Damaris come in 
 eating apples we all eat apples in these autumn days. 
 Eobina owns to ten this afternoon ! Will the children who 
 
82 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 will live here in the future live the life we live ? "Will they 
 wander about in the sunny autumn days, gathering golden 
 pippins, and golden premettes, and Perry pippins ? Will 
 they, too, pace to and fro under the dear old trees in the 
 apple-walk ? And will they love Mondisfield as dearly aa 
 we love it now ? 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 MARY DENHAM'S COUNSEL. 
 
 He that hath love and judgment too 
 Sees more than any other doo. 
 
 MATTHEW KOYDON. 
 
 HUGO was naturally one of those who, by virtue of a 
 yielding disposition and an absorption in intellectual pur- 
 suits, are somewhat averse to politics. Until he met Alger- 
 non Sidney the affairs of the nation had troubled him not 
 at all, he had thought as little about them as any one in 
 England. Bat the general interest in political events was 
 growing so keen and strong- that it was no longer possible 
 for him to remain indifferent. As usual, the events of the 
 times were represented in the games played by the child- 
 ren. In the days of the disputes between Charles I. and 
 the Parliament, the children had played at " Cross-pur- 
 poses." At the Restoration a new game had been intro- 
 duced " I love my love with an A," etc. At the present 
 time another game had superseded this. The light frivolity 
 of the Restoration days had become overshadowed by the 
 intolerance which made Protestants persecute Romanists, 
 Churchmen persecute Non-conformists, and Tories do all 
 in their power to silence Whigs. Accordingly the children 
 began to travesty the state of things they saw in the world 
 around, and introduced the game of " Neighbor, I've come 
 to torment you; do as I do." This, again, was in its turn 
 to be replaced, in the days ol the Revolution, when all 
 sorts and conditions of men were changing places, by 
 " Puss in the corner." 
 
 As even in their sports the children seemed to be aware 
 of the events which agitated the outer world, so in the 
 quiet of his life of study Hugo could not fail to be aware 
 of the great national struggle which was going on, nor 
 could he fail to take interest in it. Life seemed to grow 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 83 
 
 bigger to him, and he became growingly conscious, as 
 Joyce over her books had become conscious, that he knew 
 very little, and that there was much to know. It is a 
 wonderful tame for all of us when we first begin to take 
 keen interest in matters outside our own small circle ; 
 when, having been duly crammed and unduly disgusted 
 with history in our school days, we wake up one happy 
 morning to find that there is a living history which can 
 be daily and hourly studied a history in which we all 
 have our share, our infinitesimal yet priceless share, of in- 
 fluence and responsibility. 
 
 The autumn had been to him a very happy one. He was 
 fascinated by Sidney, whom he had now met several times. 
 He was as yet only in that pleasant borderland where, with 
 suspended judgment and ready observation, it is our part 
 to listen and learn and study and hold our tongues. 
 Happy nineteen ! when it is a duty, a positive duty, to 
 keep our opinions to ourselves, or, when questioned, to 
 put them forward with all due modesty and confession of 
 ignorance, not confidently as in later days, when the time 
 for action has come and a man must have the courage of 
 his opinions, and be ready, if need be, to pain his dearest 
 friends, or else become a mere cipher, forfeiting his good- 
 ly birthright. 
 
 Westminster Hall had in those days a row of book-stalls, 
 and at one or another of these Hugo would frequently 
 pause on his way to or from the courts. One day early in 
 December he had parted with Denham, who by no means 
 shared his bookish tendencies, and in his student's cap and 
 long black gown was standing at his favorite stall scanning 
 the titles of the books, and now and again taking up some 
 volume which had for him a special attraction. 
 
 The book-seller, a little shriveled man with a great gift 
 of persuasiveness, was crying up his own wares with an 
 entire lack of false modesty and a great many adjectives. 
 
 " The finest work, sir, of the year, I assure you, a mighty 
 fine poem, second in number, but not second in quality, to 
 its immortal, far-renowned, majestical predecessor. The 
 greater part Mr. Dryden's own work, sir, I assure you." 
 
 . Hugo took up the second part of " Absalom and Achito- 
 phel," and glanced through it. As he did so he was startled 
 by a sudden greeting from Randolph. 
 
 " What have you there ? Dryden's last ? Oh, Tate and 
 Dryden mixed, is it not ? Sounds less familiar than Tate 
 and Brady." 
 
84 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 " Have you read the poem ?" asked Hugo. 
 
 "No, but all the world talks of it, when they are not 
 talking of Captain Clifford and Mrs. Synderfin, or of Lord 
 Gray and his Lady Henrietta. We had best buy it, for I 
 hear there is an allusion to a friend of ours, or at least an 
 acquaintance." 
 
 He paid for the book, and putting his arm within Hugo's 
 walked down Westminster Hall, and, crossing Palace Yard, 
 led the way toward the landing stairs. It was not the 
 least happiness of this memorable autumn that Randolph 
 had grown so much less severe, and treated him so much 
 more as a friend and an equal. Hugo, being what he was, 
 never dreamed of taking the slightest advantage of the 
 change ; if possible he treated his guardian witli greater 
 deference than ever. 
 
 They took a boat to the Temple stairs, and as they glided 
 along the crowded river, passing hundreds of boats and 
 barges all gilded with the ruddy gold light of the setting 
 sun, Randolph opened the new book and searched for tho 
 allusion to this mysterious acquaintance. 
 
 " Ha ! I have it at last !" he exclaimed. " Now carry 
 your thoughts back to Mondisfield Hall on the night of the 
 6tk of October, and hearken to this : 
 
 " ' Next these, a troop of busy spirits press, 
 Of little fortunes and of conscience less ; 
 With them the tribe, whose luxury had drained 
 Their banks, in former sequestrations gained : 
 Who rich and great by past rebellions grew, 
 And long to fish the troubled streams anew. 
 Some future hope, some present payment draws, 
 To sell their conscience and espouse the cause ; 
 Such stipends those vile hirelings best befit, 
 Priests without grace, and poets without wit. 
 Shall that false Hebronite escape our curse, 
 Juclas, that keeps the rebel's pension purse : 
 Judas, that pays the treason-writer's fee : 
 Judas, that well deserves his namesake's tree : 
 
 , Who at Jerusalem's own gates erects 
 His college for a nursery of the sects.' 
 
 That is fine and pure Dryden unalloyed by Tate, I darfe 
 swear. How now ! do you grasp its meaning ?" 
 
 Hugo had done his best to forget that night at Mondis- 
 field Hall, and was by no means grateful to Randolph for 
 reminding him of it. 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 85 
 
 " I see not whom lie means by Judas," lie replied, look- 
 ing far away to the west where the river flowed calmly on 
 between the houses and the green gardens to the peaceful 
 country, reflecting on its calm surface the image of the 
 crimson skies. 
 
 " Can not you call to mind the man who was spokesman 
 on that occasion? A hideous, lantern-jawed fellow, red 
 and ill-favored. That was Ferguson, a devil incarnate, and 
 the one whom Mr. Dryden has justly painted as Judas. A 
 pestilent treason-monger who bears a charmed life. He 
 had at one time a training-school for those who would 
 enter the ministry." 
 
 " I mind his face well," said Hugo. " He was the ill- 
 iooking one of the lot." 
 
 " Forget him not, but bear his face ever in mind. That 
 knowledge may prove useful some day," said Randolph, 
 turning over the leaves of the book. 
 
 Hugo made no reply, only a vague sense of discomfort 
 crept over him. He fell into a reverie. 
 
 " ' The good old cause revived, a plot requires ; 
 
 Plots true or false are necessary things 
 
 To raise up commonwealths and ruin kings,' " 
 
 said Randolph, half aloud. Then again after an interval, 
 
 " ' Achitophel still wants a chief, and none 
 Was found so fit as warlike Absalom. ' 
 
 No, this latter poem is not so fine as the earlier. 'Twas a 
 wonderful parallel to Shaftesbury and the Duke of Mon- 
 mouth. Old Dryden has read his Bible to some purpose. 
 This poem fills up some gaps in the other, but 'twill never 
 iiave such influence." 
 
 By this time the boat had reached the landing-place, and 
 the two brothers separated, Randolph to go to his favorite 
 coffee-house, Hugo to go to his chambers to doff his 
 student's cap and gown for the cloak, sword, and broad- 
 brimmed hat which he wore in ordinary life. That refer- 
 ence to Mondisfield Hall had put him into a state of 
 internal tumult which, with all his philosophy and all his 
 easy temper, he could not quell. That he might some day 
 be called upon to make use of the information obtained on 
 that October night was, whenever it occurred to him, a 
 haunting dread. He had a great faculty for dismissing all 
 
86 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 thoughts of disagreeable matters, but every now and then 
 this skeleton in his cupboard would disturb his peace. 
 On this December afternoon he could not quiet it. To 
 read was impossible ; the silence of the chambers in king's 
 Bench Walk was intolerable to him. He at length re- 
 solved to go to his usual haven of refuge, the Denhams' 
 house in Norfolk Street. If any one could exorcise the 
 troublesome fiend it would be Mary Denham ; and fate was 
 kind to him, for Sir William was asleep on a couch at the 
 far end of the withdrawing-room, and Mary sat by the 
 hearth with her needle-work, ready to charm away his mel- 
 ancholy. 
 
 " Stir the fire into a blaze," she said. " The light is grow- 
 ing dim, and methinks there is something in your face to 
 be read. What has happened ? " 
 
 " Naught has happened naught of any note, that is," he 
 replied, taking very good care to stir the fire gently, lest 
 Sir William should wake. " I have just been reading the 
 new part of ' Absalom and Achitophel.' " 
 
 "Has that made you so melancholy? For my part 
 whether agreeing with it or not, I could not help enjoying 
 it. 'Tfs a wondrous satire." 
 
 Hugo made no reply ; he seemed to have fallen into a 
 reverie. That he should show so slight an interest in the 
 new poem was strange, and Mary, who knew him better 
 than any one in the world, felt certain that he had some- 
 thing weighing on his mind. Was he thinking of that blue- 
 eyed Suffolk maiden, she wondered. And, with a little sigh, 
 acknowledged to herself that it was very probable. If only 
 he would have taken her into his confidence, she could have 
 borne it so much better ! And, after all, had they not known 
 each other far too long to let foolish ceremony stand between 
 them ? There was a chance, too, that she might be able to 
 help him, at any rate to cheer him, and her love for Hugo 
 was too deep to admit of selfish considerations coming in 
 to hinder her. She had suffered much during the last 
 few weeks, but this made her only the more anxious that 
 he should be happy in his love. It was of his happiness 
 that she thought her own was a secondary matter. 
 Therefore there could be no jealousy in her love. She 
 loved already this unknown "Joyce," just because she 
 knew that he loved her. 
 
 " Hugo," she said, after some minutes had passed in si- 
 lence, " you did not come hither to stare into the fire, you 
 came to talk to me." 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 87 
 
 " How did you know that ?" lie exclaimed, looking up 
 witH a startled face. 
 
 " You had ' I want to talk with some one ' writ in plain 
 characters on your forehead," she said, smiling. "And 
 the older and wiser part of the family is either out or 
 asleep, you see. Talk to me, Hugo ; tell me what troubles 
 you." 
 
 Her manner was irresistible. 
 
 "It is just that I can speak of it to no one that troubles 
 me," he replied, looking up to her clear, sympathizing 
 eyes. " It is merely a dread a dread that haunts me at 
 times." 
 
 " And it has haunted you since the fifth day of last Oc- 
 tober ?" she said, softly, thinking of the duel and of fair 
 Joyce Wharncliffe. 
 
 Hugo turned ashy pale. 
 
 " How can you possibly know ?" he cried. " Who has 
 told you ?" 
 
 " No one told me, yet, nevertheless, I know," said Mary, 
 quietly. " You love Mistress Joyce Wharncliffe, and you 
 fear that you may never see her more." 
 
 " I shall never see her more, 'tis true ;" his face softened. 
 " I love her ; that also is true." 
 
 He paused. Mary's hands trembled slightly ; she was 
 obliged to let her needle-work fall, and clasp her hands to- 
 gether. That was the only sign of agitation which escaped 
 her, and afterward she was even more quiet in manner than 
 usual, sitting there in her high-backed chair by the hearth, 
 with her hands folded in her lap, and her calm eyes watch- 
 ing Hugo's face. 
 
 "How did you find this out," said Hugo, at length. 
 " You are a witch, Mary, to read a man's private thoughts 
 and innermost heart. " 
 
 " A very bad compliment for my sympathetic penetra- 
 tion," she said, smiling. " I have no desire to try the duck- 
 ing-stool ! But, as I tell you, you bear things writ on your 
 forehead, and I could not help knowing or rather feeling 
 almost sure." 
 
 "Oh, Mary," he exclaimed, "if you could but see her! 
 She is so fresh and fair and lovely. Winsome as a child, 
 and yet with the heart of a woman all the time." 
 
 " And she is beautiful ?" questioned Mary. 
 
 " So beautiful that one would dread to think of her ever 
 leaving that quiet country Lome, where she lives so 
 sheltered a life, Aud she is as good as she is beautifu! 3 
 
88 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 yet there is about her nothing stiff, or narrow, or 
 puritanic, except it be the purity of her heart and life, 
 which might be deemed puritanic at court." 
 
 " You would be the last to wish to take her there," said 
 Mary. " But, Hugo, I see no cause for dread in all this. 
 Just for the present you may not be able to see her again, 
 but what then ? You are both young all is life beforejou. 
 And love can surely overcome a few obstacles, else it were 
 not worthy the name." 
 
 " That is not the dread which haunts me, that is some- 
 thing widely different. Mary, promise not to question me, 
 promise to reveal to no living soul any thoughts which may 
 connect themselves with what I shall say. Of this dread 
 I am not at liberty to speak in plain words. But thus far 
 help me. Suppose to yourself such a case as the following: 
 A father becomes acquainted with certain facts which may 
 be of great use to the Government ; he makes his son ob- 
 serve the said facts, that he may be able to bring him for- 
 ward as a second witness. The son, owing obedience to 
 the Government, and having sworn in all things to obey 
 his father, has grave doubts as to the way in which the 
 information has been obtained thinks it was treacher- 
 ously obtained. Moreover, he, beginning to think 
 for himself, sees that ' oppression ' is the watchword 
 of his father's party, and 'liberty 5 the watchword 
 of the oppressed. This, at any rate, he thinks he sees, 
 but being as yet young, ignorant, lacking experience, he 
 is scarce fit for any sort of action. When the time comes, 
 and he is called upon to bear witness to what he .has seen 
 what course is he to pursue ?" 
 
 Mary was silent. She was too wise a counsellor ever to 
 be in a hurry, and this was a curious and complicated case 
 which Hugo had put before her. 
 
 " 'Tis very hard to see what would be right," she said, at 
 length. " I cannot yet feel sure, but in such extremity it 
 would doubtless be borne in upon a man what he ought 
 to do. His conscience would show him what was right." 
 
 " Conscience," he exclaimed, impatiently, longing for 
 some infallible authority outside himself. " Conscience ! 
 I want something more definite, more unmistakable than 
 that." 
 
 ." Surely," she said, "that is definite, if we train our- 
 selves to listen to it, and ever in all things obey it." 
 
 " But conscience is the plea of the conventiclers ; they 
 profess to suffer for conscience sake." 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DATS. 89 
 
 "And doubtless do," said Mary. "Do you not think 
 that they may truly and honestly be following their con- 
 science, and playing the part in the world's history which 
 God saw to be right and necessary ? And in truth, Hugo, 
 I thought not to hear you of all people speak against this. 
 Unless I am much mistaken, unless Bupert has misled 
 me, there was once a time when you braved the sneers of 
 the on-lookers and took your stand on this same con- 
 science-hearkening." 
 
 Hugo could once more see in imagination that Suffolk 
 roadside, could once more feel that terrible struggle, 
 which, though he did not know it, had rendered it forever 
 impossible for him to return to his old peaceful submis- 
 sion and self-effacement. 
 
 " But then I saw clearly what was right. That was a 
 very simple case. Now, in the case of that son whom I 
 mentioned to you matters are different, there is no plain 
 right and plain wrong." 
 
 "But there will be when the time comes," said Mary, 
 quietly. 
 
 " But how to see it to be sure of it ?" he faltered. 
 " Worst of all, how to do it !" 
 
 " Yes, there will be the hard part," said Mary, thought- 
 fully. 
 
 " The seeing will surely be clear enough, but the doing ?" 
 She was silent for a minute. When she spoke again her 
 face had changed, and there was something of diffidence 
 in her voice. 
 
 " It has made me think of one day long ago when you 
 and Rupert had both got into trouble at school, the time 
 when Dr. Busby set you to learn all the collects and all the 
 articles." 
 
 " And flogged us till we said them without a fault," said 
 Hugo, laughing. "I remember that part well enough, 
 but the collects and the articles I have clean forgot- 
 ten." 
 
 " And I, too, the greater number, though I learned them 
 with you," said Mary. " But there is one that always seemed 
 to me so precisely what one wanted that I never could for- 
 get it, and from that day forth ever used it. It is the one 
 about ' the spirit to think and do always such things as be 
 rightful. " ; 
 
 "I, too, will use it," he said, quickly. "Ah! how long 
 ago those days seem, Mary. Can you not remember how 
 we all three sat up in the attic with Sir William's big 
 
90 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 prayer-book ? I can see the room now and the window that 
 looked out on the river. The only article I have the ghost 
 of a recollection of is 'Original Sin:' 'As the Pelagians do 
 vainly talk' I can say that one sentence; and, as we 
 learned it, I remember the king's barge went past and 
 there came sounds of music and distant babel of voices. 
 I ever think of the 'Pelagians' when in a great assembly 
 one hears the buzz of voices and can distinguish no 
 words." 
 
 Mary smiled, and in another minute their tete-a-tete was 
 ended, for Colonel Sidney was announced, and Hugo, in 
 the happiness of meeting his hero, had no more thought 
 for the skeleton in his cupboard. 
 
 " I have had tickets presented to me for Dryden's new 
 play," said Sidney. " I came to know whether I might 
 have the pleasure of escorting you and your aunt, mistress 
 Mary." 
 
 "We should greatly enjoy it," said Mary, "my aunt 
 was talking of it but now at dinner." 
 
 " They would both fain see the new play," said Sir 
 William, who had been roused by Sidney's entrance. " As 
 for me, I have no time to spare for the theatre, and they 
 are ever glad of an escort." 
 
 " I seldom affect it myself," said Sidney, " but they tell 
 me that this play is so fraught with political design that 
 one ought to see it. Mr. Dryden has become the mere 
 tool of the court of late. 'Tis pity that a man of such 
 parts should so demean himself." 
 
 " And he gains but little by it," said Hugo. " I heard 
 him say but yesternight, at Will's, that his salary as 
 laureate had not been paid for years." 
 
 " Poor devil !" said Sidney. " And in the meantime the 
 Duchess of Portsmouth enjoys 12,000 a year of the na- 
 tion's money ! Well, you will allow me to escort you then? 
 I will be with you presently. And you," turning to Hugo, 
 " you will accompany us, will you not ?" 
 
 After such an invitation from his hero, it was not to be 
 imagined for a moment that thoughts of perplexing cases 
 of conscience, of plots and revelations should trouble Hugo. 
 When that evening he entered Drury Lane with Sidney, 
 Lady Denharn, and Mary, he was probably the happiest 
 person in the theater. Life, with that one exception of the 
 skeleton now securely locked away seemed to him particu- 
 larly bright and hopeful. Mary had spoken cheering words^tq 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 91 
 
 him about Joyce, and had proved herself a delightfully 
 sympathetic listener, Randolph had treated him as an equal 
 and a friend, Sidney had not only asked him to the play, 
 but had insisted that he should go back afterward and sup 
 with him. 
 
 This evening of the 4th December, 1682, was a memor- 
 able evening in the theatrical world. London had at that 
 time two theatres Drury Lane, known as the King's 
 House, and the Duke's House in Dorset Gardens. This 
 latter house was rich in the possession of Betterton, the 
 greatest actor of the day, and they mounted their plays far 
 better than was done at Drury Lane. 
 
 London was not large enough, however, to support two 
 theaters comfortably, and for the last few years the man- 
 agement of the Duke's had done all in their power to 
 cripple Killigrew, the manager of the King's House, so 
 that he might be forced to consent to a union. This had 
 just been effected, and this evening was to witness the first 
 new play brought out by the united companies. The 
 choice was doubtless a wise one, for not only was Dryden 
 extremely popular, but this particular play of the " Duke 
 of Guise " had already been much talked of. It had been 
 in the hands of the lord chamberlain for some months ; he 
 had hesitated whether to license it or not, for the parallel 
 between the Duke of Guise and the Duke of Moumouth, 
 and their representative plots against their kings, was dan- 
 gerously close. At length, however, he had yielded, and 
 on the first night every one rushed to see the long- 
 talked-of piece. The house was crowded in every part, 
 and in the pit was a turbulent assembly, who, if not pleased, 
 would assuredly express their feelings loudly. Sidney 
 studied the audience with his keen, thoughtful eyes ; even 
 now Hugo felt sure he was musing, as ever, on the state of 
 the country, closely watching the people that he might as 
 far as possible know the state of their feelings, and rightly 
 estimate their worth. At length the buzz of the conver- 
 sation was hushed, the roar of the " Pelagians," as Hugo 
 would have put it, was suddenly stilled, for Smith, one of 
 the best actors, appeared before the curtain to speak the 
 prologue. 
 
 He spoke it well, and it was undoubtedly clever, but 
 from the bold beginning, "Our play's a parallel," the 
 whole tiling bristled with bitter allusions to the events of 
 the day, ending with a piece of satire which could not fail 
 to enrage the Whigs. 
 
92 IN THE GOLDEN DATS. 
 
 "Make London independent of the crown; 
 A realm apart; the kingdom of the town. 
 Let ignoramus juries find no traitors, 
 And ignoramus poets scribble satires. 
 And, that your meaning none may fail to scan, 
 Do witat in coffee-houses you began 
 Pull down the master, and set up the man." 
 
 The play opened with a scene representing a meeting of 
 the Council of Sixteen, who were the leaders of the con- 
 spiracy. A reference to sheriffs and charters made the 
 "Whig portion of the audience angry, but they restrained 
 themselves until Bussy, one of the conspirators, utterfyd 
 the words, 
 
 " Our city bands are twenty thousand strong." 
 
 Now, Shaftesbury had been wont to boast of his " twenty 
 thousand brisk boys in the city," whom he could summon 
 at a moment's notice, and a storm of hisses greeted this 
 allusion. 
 
 The following scene between a magician who had es- 
 poused the cause of Guise, and the Devil, rather amused 
 the audience, but signs were not wanting before long that 
 the play would stir up yet greater enmity between the two 
 parties. 
 
 As for Sidney, he sat in his place gravely watching the 
 development of the story, making no sign whatever, till, 
 in the third act, the scene between Grillon and the sheriffs 
 produced a riotous expression of disapproval from a great 
 part of the audience, and a frown upon his calm brow. 
 
 With the fourth act matters only grew worse. The 
 scene in the Louvre, in which the king has an interview 
 with the Duke of Guise, could not fail to offend all who 
 had the slightest regard for Monmouth. The appearance 
 of an evil spirit in the garb of a preacher of the Gospel, 
 and his assurance that " ten thousand devils more are in 
 this habit," also gave great offense ; while the touching 
 scenes between Marmoutiere and Guise were so evidently 
 intended to refer to the Duchess of Monmouth, and her 
 endeavors to restrain her husband, that the audience hissed 
 angrily. At length, Guise having been murdered in the 
 palace, the king pronounced his coldly prudent wish that 
 Fate might bring every traitor to ruin who dared the 
 " vengeance of indulgent kings," and the play closed. 
 
 Then Mrs. Cook, a favorite actress, stepped before the 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DATS. 93 
 
 curtain, and spoke the epilogue, which by its coarse bru- 
 tality could not but disgust every unprejudiced person. 
 
 " Good Lord !" exclaimed Sidney, " what will women 
 come to ? Me thinks jesting about hangmen ill becomes 
 them." 
 
 His words were half lost in the deafening tumult which 
 
 , ensued. Applause from one half of the house, and indig- 
 
 1 nant expressions of disgust from the other. A desperate 
 
 endeavor on the part of the court party to prevent the play 
 
 being damned on its first night, and a storm of groans and 
 
 hisses from the Whigs. 
 
 The house was still all in an uproar when Sidney sug- 
 gested to the ladies that they should leave, and having 
 escorted them to their coach, he put his arm within Hugo's, 
 and with a man . bearing a link in front of them, they 
 walked to his house, never once speaking. 
 
 Hugo had hitherto met Sidney either at the Denhams' or 
 at one of the coffee houses ; he had never before been to 
 his house, and coming that evening from the Egyptian 
 darkness of the streets, which were lighted only by the 
 links which foot-passengers were fain to carry, he was 
 almost too much dazzled by the sudden return to bright 
 light to see. Sidney took him into a room where prepara- 
 tions for supper were being made by a French man-servant. 
 
 " Mr. Wharncliffe will sup with me, Ducasse. Lay covers 
 for two," he said ; then, as the man 1( ft the room, " That is 
 my faithful servant, and at the same time my friend, Joseph 
 Ducasse. I should have fared ill without him." 
 
 " We, too, know what a faithful serving-man can prove," 
 said Hugo. "We have one of Cromwell's Ironsides, as 
 staunch and trusty an old fellow as any in England. 'Twas 
 he that taught me your name as a boy." 
 
 " What ! Was he in my troop ? " questioned Sidney, his 
 face lighting up with keen interest. 
 
 " I think not," said Hugo. " He was ever in Cromwell's 
 regiment. But he mentioned seeing you at Marston Moor." 
 
 "Perchance he is my brave rescuer! " exclaimed Sidney. 
 " Did he ever tell you of the deed of gallantry to which I 
 owe my life ? " 
 
 " Nay, I have heard naught of any rescue," said Hugo ; 
 " but he used to tell of the battle, and of how gallantly you 
 charged that evening at the head of my Lord Manchester's 
 regiment of horse, and how when men were being mowed 
 down beside you like grain you ever kept a good courage, 
 and persevered long after you were sore wounded. 
 
94 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 " Methinks, then, I may at last have found my gallant 
 rescuer." said Sidney. " Draw your chair to the hearth; I 
 will tell you a story. That same evening, on Marston 
 Moor, we had had the sharpest work I had ever seen. I 
 was then but little older than you are now, and had not 
 had overmuch experience, but there are many who main- 
 tain still that the fighting there was more severe than at 
 any other battle during the whole war. It was evening 
 when it began seven o'clock. Well, we had been fight- 
 ing for what seemed an eternity, and, but for Cromwell's 
 timely aid should have been routed. I was in command 
 of a troop of horse in my Lord of Manchester's regiment, 
 and Goring was giving us an ill time of it, when Crom- 
 well, having utterly routed Prince Rupert's troopers, came 
 to our help. By that time I had fallen, desperately 
 wounded. I can well remember coming to after an inter- 
 val of unconsciousness. The sunset light had faded out 
 of the sky; but the moon had risen, and there was light 
 enough to show me that I was within the enemy's power. 
 At that minute, however, there stepped forward from the 
 ranks one of Cromwell's Ironsides, rushed onward to 
 where I lay, seized me in his arms, and bore me off into 
 safety. Seeing his great love and courage I naturally de- 
 sired to know his name, that I might in some way reward 
 him. What do you think the noble fellow replied ? ' Sir/ 
 he said, ' I did it not for that, but merely for the love of 
 you. And therefore, as to my name, I desire to be ex- 
 cused.' " 
 
 " And you never learned who he was ?" 
 
 " Never- To this day I have not the faintest idea. No 
 one noticed him; how could they, in the midst of such a 
 fight ? Among five thousand slain, the rescue of one in- 
 significant unit is little likely to draw notice. It will re- 
 main forever unknown save to him that did it." 
 
 " It would have been just like Jeremiah," said Hugo, 
 musing. " But of course I could never ask him." 
 
 "No, no," said Sidney; "let it remain as the brave fel- 
 low would have it. He shall be forever unknown, yet 
 never forgotten. Come, let -us sup; if that accursed play 
 has not spoiled your appetite." 
 
 " I fear I am too much of a damned neuter for that," 
 said Hugo, smiling and quoting the words of the epilogue, 
 
 " 'Neither fish, nor flesh, nor good red-herring,' 
 
 as Mrs. Cook would say." 
 
 Sidney made no reply for a minute. The speech was 
 
IN THE GOLDEN BATS. 95 
 
 one which he could little understand, and he "was not, 
 as a rule, patient with aught that did not coincide 
 with his own views, while opposition of any sort in- 
 variably called forth that overbearing temper which 
 was well-known to all his acquaintances. But there was 
 something about Hugo which made it impossible to 
 take exception to his words, however little in accord 
 with the hearer's opinions. He was so frank, so out- 
 spoken, and yet so humble, that it was impossible 
 to treat him like the rest cf the world. Moreover, al- 
 though people in general were quite ready to credit Sid- 
 ney with resolute courage, and the " huge deal of wit " 
 which his mother had discovered in him while but a lad of 
 fourteen, they Lad not the insight to perceive the " sweet- 
 ness of nature " which Lady Leicester had chronicled as 
 perceived by all his early French acquaintances. 
 
 Perhaps lie had now to a certain extent been soured by 
 the difficulties and disappointments of a singularly wearing 
 life. Bat there were some few who were able to perceive 
 and to touch into life that tenderness, that lovingness, 
 which was hidden under the stern exterior ; and of these 
 was Hugo. Therefore the two were always happy in each 
 other's society. Each awakened in his companion that 
 quality which was most apt to lie dormant in {Sidney, ten- 
 derness; in Hugo, strength. 
 
 " You will not ever be a c damned neuter/ " said Sidney, 
 after the silence in which he had been thoughtfully watch- 
 ing Hugo's face. "The world can not spare you, Hugo ; 
 jsorne day you will prove worker as well as watcher." 
 
 " And yet, though I know you abhor them, I can not but 
 see some merit in these much-abused trimmers," said Hugo. 
 " Surely the truth doth oftentimes lie betwixt extremes ? 
 Surely there is much to be said on either side ? And then 
 definitely committing yourself to a party, you commit 
 yourself, may be, to much that you do not altogether ap- 
 prove." 
 
 " Life is a long series of minor disappointments," said 
 Sidney. " Every failure to meet with your own ideal, 
 both in private affairs and in the affairs of the nation, 
 is a disappointment. But what then? such things are 
 inevitable ; you must make up your mind to them. 
 You have thought, have studied the case, have arrived 
 at your idea of government ; we will say that it is 
 a republic. Good; then unite yourself with that party 
 which works hard to secure the rights of the people 
 from wrongful invasion. "What though, perchance, they 
 
96 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 go not so far as you would have them in some matters and 
 further in others ? You have to look at the matter in gross, 
 not in detail, you must weigh the advantages with the disad- 
 vantages. Otherwise there could be no national progress ; 
 the spirits that can see a little further than their fellows 
 would all stand aloof so many helpless units of no ser- 
 vice to their country. Union is strength, and to obtain 
 union those who love the people and would fain serve their 
 country must be willing, as far as may honorably be, to sink 
 their differences. Should your party be faithless to the 
 cause of freedom, then leave it and go back to your plow, 
 like Cincinnatus. That is what I myself was forced to do. 
 
 " I want to ask you one question, sir," said Hugo, look- 
 ing up quickly. " There is ever much talk of the Duke of 
 Momnouth's intentions ; what think you, would that be for 
 the good of the country ? " 
 
 "If you mean would I advise any man to volunteer to-day 
 for Monmouth's cause, I would reply no, without hesita- 
 tion, the people love him, but the times are not yet ripe. 
 It behooves all men, however, to watch the signs of the 
 times and to be ready for instant action when the tyranny 
 hath grown insupportable. As for me, it is all one to me 
 whether James, Duke of York, or James, Duke of Mon- 
 mouth, be king, so long as the people regain their rights. 
 Monmouth's chiefest recommendation to me is this ; his 
 title will not be altogether good, therefore he will be sure 
 to rule well and for the benefit of his people ; 'twill be to 
 his own interest." 
 
 " Are you acquainted with him ?" 
 
 " I have but met him twice," said Sidney. " The first 
 time my Lord Howard cozened us both, told me the duke 
 would fain be introduced to me, and told the duke that I 
 had begged him to make us acquainted." 
 
 " Not overscrupulous," said Hugo, smiling. 
 ^ "No ; yet he did it doubtless with a good intent. I be- 
 lieve Howard to be a true patriot, and this he thought was 
 doubtless warrantable for the good of the country." 
 
 "And think you the duke's cause is indeed strong?" 
 
 "Strong, yet not strong enough," said Sidney. "All 
 that wise men can do is to watch and be ready, to know 
 each other, and to know who may be trusted. I am trust- 
 ing you not a Jittle by speaking thus boldly, for in these 
 days I might be sent to the Tower for using such freedom 
 of speech. Yet methinks I would right willingly trust you 
 with my life." 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 97 
 
 The blood rushed to Hugo's cheeks, his quiet, gray eyes 
 shone with a strange light. 
 
 " I' faith, sir, I would gladly die for you," he said, in a 
 low voice, " could that prove my love?" 
 
 There was such perfect sincerity in his manner that even 
 a very hard-hearted person could not fail to have been 
 touched. As for Sidney, his eyes grew soft and humid, 
 and his stern face relaxed into a smile which Hugo remem- 
 bered to his dying day. 
 
 " I believe you, my son," he said, grasping his hand. 
 " And I trust you with all my heart." 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE MASK AT GRAY*S INN. 
 
 Thus Fortune's pleasant fruits by friends increased be ; 
 The bitter, sharp and sour by friends allay 'd to thee ; 
 That when thou dost rejoice, then doubled is thy joy ; 
 And eke in cause of care the less is thy annoy. 
 
 Anon, 1557. 
 
 RANDOLPH watched with some curiosity the process of 
 Hugo's development. That winter he left him very much 
 to himself, exacting implicit obedience as ever, but taking 
 good care to i ssue but few commands. He also increased 
 his influence over him by showing much more interest in 
 his concerns, r.nd oven at times treating him with an affec- 
 tion which bound his brother to him as nothing else could 
 have done. 
 
 Hugo had never in his life been so happy, and insensibly 
 he began to rely less on his books for interest and for com- 
 panionship. The world of realities, the world political, 
 the world of living men and women, began to interest him 
 as it had never done before, and under Sidney's guidance 
 his character rapidly strengthened and matured rapidly, 
 yet to himself, of course, insensibly. 
 
 He found the days of that winter almost too short for all 
 the interests that had to be crowded into them. He was 
 introduced to the Green Ribbon Club, at Chancery Lane 
 end, where the " advanced " men of the time used to meet, 
 much scoffed at by the Tories. He was constantly with 
 Sidney, who, now that his friend Penn had gone to 
 America to carry out the system of government which he 
 and Sidney had devised between them, was glad enough of 
 
98 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 some fresh interest. He was still as faithful as ever to the 
 Denhams. His spare time would often be spent in Sir 
 William's private laboratory or in long excursions into the 
 surrounding country in search of spoils, animal or vege- 
 table, for the use of one or another of his scientific friends. 
 He was asked more than once by the little Duchess of 
 Grafton to meet interesting celebrities -at tier father's 
 house, and Eandolph insisted upon a certain amount of 
 attendance at the court. Thus, with his necessary routine 
 of study, his time was fully occupied, and contact with the 
 world and the necessity of managing for himself began to 
 turn him into something more Hike the man of action after 
 Jeremiah's own heart. Apparently he was going to sur- 
 prise the old soldier after all, and prove himself 
 to be better than a mere visionary. So far all was -well. 
 He had never been a great talker, and he had re- 
 vealed to his brother nothing whatever of the conversation 
 which passed between him and Sidney. Eandolph knew 
 better than to ask him, and was quite capable of playing a 
 waiting game. So all went happily, and had any one told 
 Hugo that a snare was laid for him, and that underneath 
 all this fair semblance was a hideous reality, he would not 
 have believed them. The sincere are always slow to sus- 
 pect insincerity in others. Almost invariably they have to 
 buy their experience, and to pay a high price for it. 
 
 For Mary Denham the time went but heavily; being 
 proud, with that sort of maidenly pride which was per- 
 haps more often to be found in past times, she barely con- 
 fessed her trouble to her own heart even. That it was 
 there she knew full well, but she rarely, if ever, formed it 
 into words in her own mind. Instead she devised a new 
 set of embroidered covers for the chairs in the withdraw- 
 ing-room, and, finding that insufficient, she took Sidney's 
 advice and threw herself into her uncle's pursuits with an 
 ardor which gained for her the nickname of the " Blue- 
 stocking " from Rupert. Perhaps inevitably her manner 
 toward Hugo changed a little. The change was extremely 
 slight, and yet to one of his acute perceptions it could not 
 remain unnoticed. It troubled him a little even in the 
 midst of his happiness, and, in all the excitement of his 
 first entrance into London life ; but, man-like, it never oc- 
 curred to him to connect the change with that talk they 
 had had about Joyce Wharncliffe. 
 
 It was not until Christmas-day that he had an opportu- 
 nity of seeing her alotie. Christmas was not an altogether 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 99 
 
 enjoyable time to him, but he had a certain affection for 
 the day, and this year was his first opportunity of sharing 
 it all through with Randolph, for on the previous Christ- 
 mas he had not been admitted as a student at the Temple, 
 and could not share all the festivities in Hall. 
 
 Service in the Temple Church over, the. gentlemen and 
 students repaired to the Inner Temple Hall, where break- 
 last was prepared a breakfast which from time immemo- 
 rial had consisted of brawn, mustard, and malmsey. But 
 the event of the day was the dinner, to which, as usual, 
 they went in their cloaks and hats, but carefully laying 
 aside their swords, which had never been allowed in Hall 
 since a day long ago when a certain Sir John Davis, after- 
 ward Lord Chief-Justice of King's Bench, had once basti- 
 nadoed a man at dinner. Fromf that time forward no 
 weapon had been allowed to put in an appearance, save a 
 knife or dagger, which was at times indispensable in cut- 
 ting up the meat. Hugo had never before dined at the 
 Christmas dinner; and with Randolph at a little distance 
 among the gentlemen of his standing, and Denham beside 
 him, ever ready with jests and laughter, the time passed 
 merrily enough. The whole assembly uncovered while 
 grace was sung, and had barely resumed their hats and 
 places when the doors were thrown wide, and there entered 
 a procession of serving-men and singers with the boar's 
 head. Then the vaulted roof rang with the strains of the 
 merry old carol, every one joining lustily in the chorus. 
 The words had been sung for many generations, and ran as 
 follows: 
 
 " The bore's heade in hande bring I, 
 With garlands gay and rosemary : 
 I pray you all synge merely, 
 
 Qui estis in convivio. 
 CHOEUS Caput apri defero 
 
 Reddens laudes Domino. 
 
 " The bore's heade, I understande, 
 Is the chief servyce in this lande ; 
 Loke wherever it be fande ; 
 
 Servite cum cantico. 
 CHOEUS Caput, etc. 
 
 " Be gladde, Lordes, both more and lasse, 
 For this hath ordayned our stewarde, 
 To chere you all this Christmasse, 
 
 The bore's heade with mustarde. 
 CHOKUS Caput, etc." 
 
100 [IN THE GOLDEN DATS. 
 
 The quaint old customs, the great bunches of evergreens 
 with which the hall was decorated, the genial good-fellow- 
 ship, all were enjoyable to Hugo; but by and by, when he 
 had been asked again and again to sing, and had done his 
 duty by the assembly; when many had sung themselves 
 hoarse, and many more had made themselves drunk, and 
 those who were still sober enough had betaken themselves 
 to dicing, to the satisfaction of the butler, whose box 
 received a certain percentage of the winnings, and who 
 often made in a single night as much as fifty pounds 
 then he began to weary of his noisy surroundings. Never 
 till now had he passed a Christmas without going to the 
 house in Norfolk Street. He would leave these revelers, 
 and see how matters fared with his friends; he would try 
 to discover the reason of that strange and unaccountable 
 change in Mary. 
 
 All seemed as usual at the Denhams. Mary wore a 
 festival dress of amber satin, and she talked gayly enough 
 to the aunts and cousins who always spent Christmas-day 
 with them. Yet, whenever she turned to him, he was quite 
 conscious that she was making an effort to talk; the ease, 
 the perfect certainty of friendship was gone. It saddened 
 him. What had he said ? What had he done to bring 
 about this change? Was the alteration in him or in Mary? 
 Was the fault his or hers ? He would fain have persuaded 
 himself that the change existed only in his fancy; but his 
 keen perceptions were not to be thus hoodwinked. An 
 indefinable "something" had arisen between them; and 
 in friendship the "indefinable" is far more dangerous 
 than the actual and palpable barriers. Barriers may be 
 surmounted; but who is to surmount that which, though 
 real and unmistakable, is yet incomprehensible? His 
 friend was slipping away from him, and he knew it. 
 
 Christmas evening was not a favorable opportunity for 
 any sort of explanation. He watched in vain for a chance 
 of even a few minutes' talk with Mary. There was snap- 
 dragon for the benefit of the little cousins, and then Sir 
 William said they could not spend the Christmas without 
 one game of Hoodman Blind, and thus, amid much laugh- 
 ter and mirth, the hours slipped by, and, save Hugo and 
 Mary, every one enjoyed the merry-making. 
 
 Matters went on in this way for some weeks. Never 
 could Hugo find Mary alone, and never could he get over 
 that curious feeling of division between them, which made 
 meeting far more of a pain than a pleasure. 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. lOl 
 
 At length came an opportunity, which in a sort of de- 
 spair he determined to seize. It was the 2d of February, 
 and there was to be a mask ball at Gray's Inn. The Den- 
 ham's were personal friends of Sir Eichard Gipps, the 
 Master of the Bevels, and Hugo knew that Mary was sure 
 to be there; he also had received an invitation, and surely 
 the " vain talk of the Pelagians " would afford him shelter 
 sufficient for a private conversation. 
 
 The hall at Gray's Inn, though not so large as the Middle 
 Temple Hall, was nevertheless a capital ball-room, and its 
 carved oak roof showed to advantage in the soft light of 
 the myriad candles ranged in sconces round the walls. 
 Hugo arrived rather late, only just before the royal party 
 indeed, and the scene was picturesque enough to divert 
 him from his anxiety for the time. The blaze of lights, the 
 flashing of the ladies' diamonds, the wonderful richness 
 and variety of color, and the curious effect of the masks 
 worn by every one present pleased him greatly. Almost 
 before he had taken in the scene the people rose at the 
 announcement that the king was approaching, and im- 
 mediately afterward Charles entered with the queen who 
 was passionately fond of dancing, though she danced but 
 ill the Duke and Duchess of York, and the rest of the 
 court. All wore masks, but many of them were easily 
 recognizable to Hugo. 
 
 It was not until the dancing was about to begin that he 
 remembered Mary. His friend was here somewhere in this 
 gay crowd, and he must find her, spite of her disguise. 
 Perhaps explanations might be easier when the face of each 
 would be protected^ and no expression visible save in the 
 eyes. 
 
 But how to find her ? The king had already led out a 
 lady for a single coranto, and by rights Hugo should have 
 been respectfully watching his sovereign. He cast no 
 single glance, however, at the dancers, but sought every- 
 where with eager, restless eyes for the dark-brown curls 
 and the slim figure, a little below the medium height, for 
 which alone in all this multitude he cared. 
 
 " You are searching for some one ?" said a voice at his 
 elbow, a sweet voice, in which there lurked innocent girl- 
 ish laughter. Two bright eyes looked out from behind 
 the mask, smiling at him, and he instantly recognized the 
 little Duchess of Grafton. 
 
 He had not expected to meet her, and was pleased, for 
 she was one of the few pure-minded women whom he knew, 
 
102 IN THE GOLDEN DATS. 
 
 and her youth and her romantic story, together with a 
 certain sweet discretion, very rare in one of her age, made 
 her strangely fascinating. 
 
 " May I have the pleasure of dancing with your Grace?" 
 he said. 
 
 " You have recognized me," she said, laughing. " And 
 yet methinks I was right well disguised. Ay, I will dance 
 with you, and you can pursue your search meanwhile." 
 
 " I was looking for Mistress Mary Denham," said Hugo. 
 " But it is not easy amid a host of maskers to discover 
 even a friend of long standing." 
 
 " Yet 'tis not long since I heard you sing a ditty in which 
 over far greater difficulties you maintained ' Love would 
 find out a way,' " said the little duchess. 
 
 She had already built up a romance for these two friends 
 of hers, and, seeing that her own romance had been all 
 acted out in the days of her childhood, and her fate fixed 
 before she had reached her teens, her innocent match- 
 making was excusable enough. Hugo thought of Joyce 
 he always thought of her when singing that song then, 
 recollecting the connection of the duchess's words, he col- 
 ored crimson, and was thankful that he wore a mask. 
 
 " Mistress Denham has been my friend ever since our 
 childhood," he said, quickly. "But friendship, however 
 keen, however true, gives not that power of which the song 
 speaks." 
 
 The little duchess was disappointed ; she perceived from 
 his manner that he was assuredly in love but not with 
 Mary. 
 
 " You men have not so nice an observation as we of the 
 weaker sex," she said. " Now I perceived Mistress Mary 
 at once." 
 
 "Tell me," said Hugo, quickly, "is she near?" 
 "You are wanting, as I said, in nice observation," said 
 the little duchess, who could tease upon occasion. "I re- 
 cognized her at once by her little feet; she hath the small- 
 est and loveliest in the room. Now, if you were to watch, 
 to exercise your powers of observation." 
 
 She looked at him, laughingly, as he rapidly scanned the 
 feet of the dancers. 
 
 " She wears a dress of white satin, and pearls round 
 her neck," continued the little duchess, " and her cavalier 
 is" 
 
 She broke off, for Hugo, with a start of surprise, at length 
 recognized Mary Denham in the lady who was at that 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 103 
 
 moment dancing the coranto with a gentlemen magnificent- 
 ly arrayed in blue satin slashed with yellow, whom he had 
 discovered to be his old school-fellow, Matthew Prior, now 
 an undergraduate at St. John's College, Cambridge. 
 
 His mind was somewhat preoccupied when his turn came, 
 and he had to lead out the Duchess of Grafton, but, as 
 usual, he danced extremely well ; better at least one per- 
 son thought so than any one else in the hall. Mary was 
 sitting now beside her aunt ; she watched every part of the 
 complicated dance with an absorbed interest, ever follow- 
 ing with her eyes the slight, graceful figure in crimson vel- 
 vet, laced with silver, white-silk hose gathered below the 
 knee with silver braid, and shoes in which there glittered 
 the newly introduced silver shoe-buckles. 
 
 And yet, when Hugo drew near, that curious barrier made 
 itself more than ever felt ; they were no longer the famil- 
 iar friends they had been. She was, nevertheless, glad to 
 dance with him, and when, by and by, he had found at 
 length that opportunity for uninterrupted talk for which 
 he had waited so long, perhaps, even though her heart 
 beat painfully, she was yet glad that the present state of 
 things should have iDeen to him unbearable. She knew 
 quite well what he was going to say ; how she was to an- 
 swer him she could not so plainly tell. 
 
 " Mary," he said, his voice falling very sweetly upon her 
 ear, amid all the uproar of general conversation and the 
 twanging and scraping of lutes and fiddles " Mary, what 
 has come betwixt us of late? I ever deemed our friendship 
 of too long standing to admit of any change save that of 
 growth." 
 
 " Surely it must change as we grow older," she replied, 
 in as matter-of-fact a voice as she could command. "Not, 
 of course, in degree, but in manner. We can not ever be 
 children." 
 
 " Must age stiffen us freeze us into formality ?" ques- 
 tioned Hugo. 
 
 " Nay, I said not so," replied Mary, smiling. " When was 
 I ever stiff or formal in your company ?" 
 
 " Those, perchance, were cold words to describe what I 
 mean. And yet, of late, I have ever been aware of some 
 change in you, in your manner." 
 
 " You are no longer the Westminster boy with whom I 
 used to play; you are a man of the world; you begin to 
 mix much in society ; how, then, should you find all as it 
 
104 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 used to be in the old times? We have both of us left 
 childhood behind us." 
 
 "And must friendship be left behind, too?" he questioned. 
 
 "You mistake my meaning," said Mary ; " I mean only 
 that your changed life, your fresh interests, make you fancy 
 a change in me." 
 
 " Nay," he said, " the change is not in my fancy ; never 
 will you persuade me of that. The change is there, and it 
 has come to this, that, whereas in old times I came to Nor- 
 folk Street, knowing I should find there all I had learned 
 to look for, now I come there in dread, or in an expecta- 
 tion which is ever frustrated." 
 
 " How mean you ?" said Mary, falteringly. Her mask 
 veiled her face effectually, but something of agitation 
 betrayed itself in her voice. 
 
 " There ! I have vexed you !" exclaimed Hugo, full of self- 
 reproach. " Do not for one moment dream that the house 
 will not ever be a home to me, the one home for me in all 
 London ! but yet of late it has come to pass that I no 
 longer can go there feeling sure of you as I once did. There 
 has been some change in you, though you deny it never so 
 much." 
 
 " Hugo !" she exclaimed impetuously, " I have treated 
 you ill. And you are quite right, there has been some 
 slight change in my manner. I tried to help it, but 
 failed." 
 
 " What have I done ?" said Hugo, bewildered. " Has 
 any slanderer come betwixt us with some idle tale ?" 
 
 " Nay, there has been no slanderer," said Mary, smiling. 
 "Think you that I would credit what the idle gossips Lave 
 to charge you with ? Come, Hugo, you have in good truth 
 lost all trust in me if you can think that." 
 
 " But why, then, this change ? " said Hugo, anxiously. 
 
 "It was my own foolish fault," said Mary, speaking 
 quickly, forcibly, and with the manner of one who desires 
 above all things to make matters clear. " I thought you 
 would no longer have need of me ; I thought, after that 
 last talk we had on the night of the play, that sisters I 
 had been a sort of sister to you were no longer needed 
 when brides are found. What should you want with friends 
 when you are in love, you foolish boy ?" 
 
 In truth, had Hugo not been in love he might have no- 
 ticed that the little laugh which ended in this confession 
 was not altogether a natural one. But he was desperately 
 in love, and he was but nineteen ; moreover, the Duchess 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 105 
 
 of Grafton's accusation had been one of the true words 
 spoken in jest he was not by nature observant. 
 
 ' How could you think that ? " he exclaimed. " It is the 
 very reason that makes me need you more than ever. That 
 day you cheered and comforted me made it seem possible 
 that I might at least see Mistress Wharn cliff e once again. 
 But how can even that hope satisfy me, if you turn from 
 me? Do without you, forsooth !" 
 
 Mary's fingers tightened upon the handle of her fan; 
 for a minute she was quite silent, and very still. 
 
 "You will not condemn me to aught so miserable?" 
 continued Hugo, pleadingly. " You will no longer dream 
 that I can spare my best friend ? What do you imagine 
 my life would have been had it not been for you ?" 
 
 " By your own confession I have rendered you misera- 
 ble these two months," said Mary, with a very tremulous 
 smile. " But, Hugo, you shall never again feel that aught 
 has come betwixt us. I will ever believe that you still 
 have need of a sister, and you shall come to our house 
 when you will, and shall learn once more to feel sure of 
 me. Are you satisfied ?" 
 
 Of course he was satisfied. What more could he have 
 desired ? And she herself ? Well, with her matters must, 
 of course, be very different. His perfect happiness in- 
 volved, though he little thought it, her loss. But, fer- 
 vently wishing his happiness, she accepted patiently and 
 contentedly thVpart assigned her. 
 
 Even at that very time, when Hugo led her down the 
 hall to take her place in the country-dance which was just 
 beginning, she was not exactly unhappy. He needed her 
 still, and, moreover, she knew now, what she had never be- 
 fore even guessed, that she had been a power and an in- 
 fluence in his life. That night, in the gay throng gathered 
 in Gray's Inn Hall, there were many who bore a heavier 
 heart and a less innocent conscience than^Mistress Mary 
 Denham. 
 
106 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 PENSHTJKST. 
 
 Detestable bribes ! worse than the oaths now in fashion in this 
 mercenary court. I mean to owe neither my life nor my liberty 
 to such means. When the innocence of my actions will not pro- 
 tect me, I will stay away till the storm be overpast. . . I must 
 live by just means, or serve to just ends, or not at all. 
 
 ALGERNON SIDNEY. 
 
 ONE day toward the end of April, Hugo happened to 
 meet Colonel Sidney in the Park. 
 
 " You are the very man I wanted !" exclaimed the re- 
 publican. "Look you, on the morrow I go down to Pens- 
 hurst for a fortnight's rest and change. Come with me, 
 it would do you good." 
 
 " There is nothing I should so much like," said Hugo, 
 his heart beating high with happiness at the prospect. 
 " An my brother will consent to it, I will assuredly come 
 sir." 
 
 " I had forgot your guardian," said Sidney. " But get 
 his leave, if you can, for I would fain have you with me ; 
 and truly, he can not care so much as you think for your 
 making your way at court, else he would not have permit- 
 ted you to make my acquaintance." 
 
 As he spoke he glanced rather scornfully in the direction 
 of the water, where the king was feeding his favorite 
 ducks; then, his face softening again, he nodded kindly to 
 his young follower, and passed on. 
 
 Much to Hugo's surprise, Randolph gave a ready consent 
 to his request, and the next morning found him riding into 
 Kent by Sidney's side, in the seventh heaven of happiness. 
 
 How often, in after-days, he lived over again that mem- 
 orable visit and how little he thought at the time that 
 the calm enjoyment of those country days, the rare delight 
 of close intercourse with that great mind, were to fit and 
 prepare him for meeting a sea of troubles. 
 
 It was a beautiful spring afternoon when they dismount- 
 ed at the great door- way of Penshurst Place. Lord Leices- 
 ter was at his London house, and Hugo was by no means 
 sorry to hear of his absence, for he knew well that the two 
 brothers were not on good terms with each other, and 
 naturally he was glad to have his friend and master to 
 himself. 
 
 They had dined on the road, but Sidney ordered supper 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 107 
 
 to be served at an early hour in the picture-gallery; then, 
 when they had changed their dusty traveling-dresses, he 
 took Hugo round the beautiful old house. 
 
 " You must learn your way about," he said, with a smile. 
 " *Tis not so hard as you might think to lose your way in 
 this rambling old mansion." 
 
 " I can well imagine missing the way," said Hugo, de- 
 lighting in the beautiful rooms as only a poet can. " I 
 suppose you, sir, know it all by heart ?" 
 
 " Aye," he said, with a sad smile, " I could walk it blind- 
 fold every inph of the house and grounds is graven on my 
 heart and, often, in exile, have I roamed in imagination 
 through these rooms, and grown sick for another sight of 
 the old home. What games of All-hid we used to have ! 
 The place wants children now ; it feels bare and cold. 
 "Why this hall where we now stand I can remember it 
 decked out with greenery for the Christmas feast ! We 
 all feasted together that one day of the year, and after the 
 good old custom, the retainers at yonder side-tables, and 
 my father and mother and the guests at the table on yon- 
 der dais, with such of us brats as could behave ourselves 
 fitly. Ah, well ! Ah, well ! 'tis like enough that fifty years 
 should bring changes ! My father and mother dead 
 Henry dead Philip estranged from me Robert a courtier 
 and a rake pretty Dorothy the beauty of by-gone days 
 Isabella ungrateful and cold, though I did my best for her." 
 
 He seemed to have forgotten Hugo's presence, and to be 
 thinking aloud. Presently he recollected himself. 
 
 " "Tis a fine old hall, is it not ?" he said, looking lovingly 
 round the white walls with their groups of armor. "Yon- 
 der, in that black gallery, the minstrels played on high 
 days and holidays, and through those archways beneath I 
 can well remember seeing the mummers file in on a win- 
 ter's night. 'Twas here, too, that, in Commonwealth days, 
 we acted * Coriolanus,' which same acting made no little 
 stir, and was even construed into a hit at the Protector." 
 
 They left the hall, and Sidney led the way up a winding 
 stone staircase and into a large wainscoted room, where he 
 paused to show Hugo a picture of his ancestor, Sir Philip 
 Sidney. 
 
 " Oh, is that Sir Philip ?" said Hugo, eagerly. " I have 
 offen wondered what the face could have been on which 
 Hoyden bestowed such high praise;" and he quoted the 
 well-known lines beginning, 
 
 "'A sweet, attractive kind of grace.'" 
 
108 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 Sidney, watching him, thought the words would have 
 been quite as appropriate to the speaker, but he only said, 
 
 " Yes, that is Philip Sidney. He was always a great 
 hero with me as a boy. I remember coveting my brother's 
 name, and vexing myself that they had dubbed me with 
 so unwieldy a prefix as Algernon." 
 
 Hugo turned from the young, sweet, intellectual face of 
 the ancestor to another picture, which hung near the 
 hearth. He recognized it instantly ; there was no mistak- 
 ing the auburn coloring, the sad eyes, the grave, austere 
 face of the patriot upon which, even thqn, though the 
 picture had been taken many years ago, sorrow had set her 
 seal." 
 
 "This face for me!" he exclaimed, involuntarily. "'Tis 
 worth fifty Sir Philips !" 
 
 " Shall I tell you why you think so ?" said Sidney, while 
 for the moment something of the sweet, attractive look of 
 his ancestor dawned in his usually grave eyes. "It is be- 
 cause we naturally admire those who are our opposites. 
 No, you must not depreciate my hero for the sake of cry- 
 ing up your very faulty teacher. Philip Sidney had a 
 happy lot ; he was universally beloved, he died a happy 
 death, and his generous thought for another has set a high 
 example to all succeeding generations. "What more could 
 a man wish for ? This room we are coming to was fur- 
 nished for Queen Elizabeth; but we will not linger now, 
 but come to the gallery where I have ordered a fire ; the 
 evenings feel chilly to me after my long stay in southern 
 France." 
 
 The gallery which they now entered was a noble room, 
 and one which Sidney preferred to any other in the house. 
 Like every student, he loved pacing to and fro; he loved 
 air and light and space. Ducasse had arranged his books 
 and papers for him on a table near the great window, 
 while a second table, near the hearth, was prepared for 
 supper. Mellow sunset light filled the whole place, gild- 
 ing the polished floor and the wainscoted walls, lighting 
 up the portraits and the somewhat stiff array of high- 
 backed chairs and carved tables laden with great china 
 vases. Hugo looked down the long vista, and thought he 
 could be very happy here; but, close to the door, a pic- 
 ture of three children brought him to a pause. Sidney 
 smiled. 
 
 " You will not so easily recognize this, I think." 
 
 But even here Hugo was not at fault. Two of the boys 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 109 
 
 were just the conventional painted children of by-gone 
 times, but the one to the right had something vigorous 
 and real about his whole attitude. He was a little red- 
 haired fellow, holding a hound in a leash with one hand, 
 and with the other grasping a staff. There was, even in 
 his childish face, a trace of the strength, the determina- 
 tion, the dauntless spirit of the man. 
 
 Sidney passed on with a sigh. Perhaps he thought of 
 the weary years of sorrow and disappointment which had 
 been in store for the child; perhaps he remembered the 
 unfulfilled hopes of his youth. 
 
 They sat down by the great window at the far end of 
 the apartment, and looked out into the dewy garden, with 
 its fair lawns and well-kept walks. 
 
 " You are satisfied with your life ?" asked Sidney, after 
 a long pause. " You are happy ?" 
 
 " Quite satisfied," said Hugo, quickly. " Quite happy. 
 It has been a wonderful year for me." 
 
 Sidney seemed about to put some other question, but 
 he checked himself. Was it not natural that he should be 
 satisfied as yet ? Life had brought him many fair things 
 during the last few months, and he had not yet realized 
 the hollowness of the world's friendship he lived in a 
 world of intrigue without being aware of it he judged 
 others by himself. The awakening must come ere long; 
 but Sidney would not hasten it, he would only prepare his 
 young follower, as far as in him lay, to face the coming 
 storm. 
 
 And so a peaceful week passed by. They read together, 
 talked together, walked together. Sidney was busy cor- 
 recting a manuscript, written some years previously. He 
 discussed this with Hugo, let him read it through, and 
 help in searching for various references. 
 
 One morning the weather was so mild that they took 
 their books out into the park. 
 
 It was the first of May, and the golden sunshine made 
 the grassy slopes of that lovely place look like a little 
 paradise. The giant beech-trees were in all the glory of 
 the early spring green, while the oaks gave a touch of 
 somber russet to the landscape, with here and there a rosy 
 tinge where the buds were beginning to unfold themselves. 
 All was very still; nothing was to be heard save the splash- 
 ing of the waterfowl in the lake, the singing of the birds, 
 the soft movements of the deer browsing among the brake- 
 fern, and now and then faint strains of very distant music, 
 
110 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 just sufficient to remind the two who were reveliv g in 
 that peaceful quiet that somewhere the country-folk were 
 dancing round the village May-pole, and paying homage 
 to some pretty May-queen. 
 
 Hugo was stretched at full length on the velvety turf, 
 reading the last pages of the manuscript of those " Dis- 
 courses on Government" of which later on so much was 
 to be heard. 
 
 Sidney was leaning back against the trunk of the tree 
 known as Sir Philip Sidney's oak, which grew not far from 
 the lake, and he had in his hand a small volume of Plato. 
 He had read but little, however, being much more inclined 
 to watch the face of the young man beside him and mark 
 his progress through the manuscript. Hugo was fast ap- 
 proaching the end, and the writer wondered a little how 
 the work on which he had spent so many years of thought, 
 so much arduous labor, would affect him. The thought 
 came to him as it must have come to many, that this work 
 of his, which had cost him so much, would, if read by many 
 at all, be read cursorily, would perchance, be the interest of 
 a day or the occupation of a few idle moments, and then 
 would be tossed aside and forgotten. The writer stands in 
 the same position to the creations of his brain as the 
 parent to the child. He alone can quite understand them, 
 because he alone has lived ever with them, and he alone 
 knows all they have cost. 
 
 He wondered how this work of his would strike Hugo 
 Wharncliffe, how far he would gather from his work what 
 he liad intended to be gathered. For, after all, words are 
 but clumsy means of communicating thought, and, more- 
 over, most readers read themselves and their prejudices into 
 every book they handle. 
 
 This quiet week at Penshurst had done much far more 
 than Sidney knew toward developing within his guest the 
 love of country, the love of freedom, above all the love of 
 justice, which had hitherto lain somewhat dormant in his 
 heart. 
 
 The rigid discipline of Dr. Busby, the tyranny of Ran- 
 dolph, combined with the reverential devotion which 
 was ingrained in his nature, had not been favorable to the 
 growth of these virtues. Nor would they ever have sprung 
 into life in Hugo's heart had he not seen them embodied 
 in a man whom instinctively he worshiped. He was not as 
 yet capable of perceiving the true and beautiful in abstract; 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. Ill 
 
 he saw them only, as perhaps most of us see them, when 
 embodied in human beings, either immortalized in history 
 or actually living. But under Sidney's guidance he waa 
 growing rapidly, and to a keen observer nothing is more 
 fascinating than to mark this sort of growth. In all the 
 anxieties, in all the national griefs of that time, Sidney was 
 able to interest himself keenly in the frequent contact with 
 a young, fresh, vigorous mind feeling its way into greater 
 things. Hugo's devotion was very sweet to him, moreover, 
 for he was at that time strangely friendless, and everywhere 
 regarded as one with whom it would be impolitic to culti- 
 vate a close acquaintance. 
 
 Perhaps he was thinking of this when he spoke next to 
 Hugo. The young man had turned the last leaf of the 
 manuscript, had read the last words of the notable " Dis- 
 courses," and was in truth almost burdened by the feeling 
 that beside him stood the writer, this man who had studied 
 the theory of government more deeply than any man of 
 that age. 
 
 " So you have ended your task," said Sidney, with a smile. 
 " How now, are you not somewhat taken aback to find your- 
 self the guest of one who writes what some would account 
 treason ? Bethink yourself! Were it not better to with- 
 draw from the acquaintance of such a one ?" 
 
 " Nay, sir," said Hugo, with a jesture of eager protest, 
 " say not such words even in jest." 
 
 " 'Tis true," said Sidney, " that so coldly prudent a 
 thought would be slow to rise in your generous heart. But 
 in truth, Hugo, I must warn you that there is verily some 
 risk to you in being accounted my friend." 
 
 " If so, then I gladly take the risk," said Hugo, quickly. 
 " And, should it indeed ever be that the giving is not 
 wholly on your side, then I shall be right happy." 
 
 The elder man looked sadly, and yet with much tender- 
 ness, at the eager face of the youth, who spoke so warmly, 
 so promptly, words which would involve so much. 
 
 " I see no cause for immediate anxiety," he said. "But 
 the Whig party is now in grave peril. Monmouth's cause 
 not yet ripe, and even the city won over by foul means to 
 the interests of the court. For the time I see naught that 
 can be done save to keep quiet, and to prepare the people 
 for the next election, that they may perceive their rights 
 and their duties. Yet even now, while the nation groans 
 under the yoke of the Stuarts, there is much servile adu- 
 lation of the king. Heard you the song which was sung 
 
112 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 not long since at the lord mayor's banquet ? A descrip- 
 tion of his majesty, forsooth ! 
 
 "'In whom all the virtues are fitly combined.' " 
 
 The words were such a grotesque mockery that Hugo 
 oould not restrain a laugh. 
 
 " I bear no ill-will to his majesty," he said, after a pause. 
 " But yet this fawning servility doth disgust one." 
 
 " Ay," said Sidney. " And can you wonder, then, that 
 before me is ever a vision of the time when the foul flat- 
 tery, the arrogant pride of such courts shall be forever 
 done away ? Not long since I had with me in this very 
 place the laws which my friend Penn framed in concert 
 with myself for his new province, his fair Utopia over the 
 seas. But I' faith it was ofttimes sad work to copy fair 
 those laws for a foreign land, while my own land was in 
 slavery." 
 
 " Tell me, sir," said Hugo, " what were the chief est im- 
 provements devised in those laws ? How did they differ 
 from our own ?" 
 
 " Briefly I will sketch them to you," said Sidney. " They 
 are to have two legislative chambers, both of them elected 
 by universal suffrage. They are to have annual parlia- 
 ments, and no property qualification for members. They 
 are to have vote by ballot, perfect freedom in all religious 
 matters, universal education, abolition of the death pen- 
 alty for all crimes save murder and treason. Idleness is 
 to be punished as a vice, prisons are to be used as houses 
 of education and industry, in the hope of raising the in- 
 mates, instead of as now hopelessly degrading them, and 
 last, but not least, though your profession may not bless 
 us, fees of law are to be fixed at a low rate, and to be hung 
 up in all courts of justice." 
 
 " 'Twill verily be an Utopia," exclaimed Hugo, amazed 
 at the novelty and the daring character of the reforms, as 
 indeed he might well be, seeing that Penn and Sidney 
 were two hundred years at least in advance of their time, 
 and propounded schemes which were none of them adopted 
 in En-gland till the the nineteenth century, and for want 
 of some of which the nation yet suffers. 
 
 " That will be the basis of the constitution, and the peo- 
 ple themselves will have the power of advancing upon 
 that basis. The power is in their hands. Utopia, you 
 think !" he smiled a little. " Well, perhaps or we will 
 cay a free land, which is the same thing in other words." 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 113 
 
 Hugo was silent for some minutes; the loveliness of the 
 surroundings, the glad spring-time, the sweet sights and 
 gweet sounds filled his heart with a strange pain. Like 
 the hectic beauty of one dying with consumption, fair na- 
 ture seemed but the outer veil of a hideous disease; for, 
 alas ! alas ! in this land, this very land vhere the grass was 
 so green, the landscape so fair, the people were daily fall- 
 ing more and more under the tyrannical power of a mon- 
 arch who was great in nothing but double-dealing, and 
 had not even the courage of his opinions, like the far less 
 popular Duke of York. Faintly he began to perceive the 
 evils of the present, and yet it was well-nigh impossible 
 for one brought up as he had been altogether to agree 
 with Sidney's views. He was not yet capable of grasping 
 them in their entirety, while, as to entering into any sort 
 of action which would be contrary to Randolph's liking, 
 the thought was torture to him. Luckily there was as yet 
 no question as to action; as yet it was possible to stand 
 aloof and study each side. 
 
 Even as he mused, he was watching a figure which had 
 just emerged from behind the clump of trees between the 
 Oak and Lancup Well. It proved to be Ducasse bearing 
 a letter, and the letter was for Hugo. Somehow, as he 
 opened it, a cloud seemed to fall upon the day, and a chill 
 foreboding filled his heart. 
 
 It was from Randolph, and consisted of a peremptory 
 command to return to London that very day. He had 
 need of him. 
 
 He handed the square sheet to Sidney without a word, 
 but it was not difficult to see that the summons was most 
 unwelcome. Moreover, he was now old enough to feel the 
 injustice of sending him no word of explanation, of requir- 
 ing him to forego what he so greatly prized, while giving 
 no reason whatever. 
 
 " You must in truth go ?" questioned Sidney. 
 
 " Ay, sir, and without delay," he replied. 
 
 Sidney was silent for a minute. He in his young days 
 had suffered much from the undue harshness of his 
 father's treatment, and he felt sorry for this youth, who 
 was far less capable than he had been of endurance. 
 Plucking a leaf from the oak-tree to mark his place in his 
 book, he turned to Hugo. 
 
 " My eon, it has long been in my mind to say one thing 
 to you. We have learned to know each other, and I have 
 not had you thus closely with me these days without noting 
 
114: IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 that in you which assures me that you will in many mat- 
 ters have to go through life more or less as a solitary. I 
 too had to learn that lesson early in life. The time will 
 assuredly OCTT>C H^- 701: rail find yourself differing from 
 your brother ; prepare yourself for that time, that when it 
 comes you may be strong to meet it." 
 
 Hugo winced. The mere mention of a difference with 
 Bandolph was keenly painful to him. 
 
 " Yes," said Sidney, marking his expression, " 'tis not 
 always those who give their lives for their country who 
 serve her at greatest cost ; many things are more to be ap- 
 prehended than a hatchet. I mind me long years ago 
 using those very words to my father when the sense of his 
 displeasure and continued neglect weighed far more with 
 me than the risk of secret assassination. You are in some 
 ways more fit to stand alone than I was." 
 
 " More fit, sir !" echoed Hugo, amazed. 
 
 " Ay, though you looked surprised, 'tis nathless true," 
 said Sidney, with a smile. " For the best part of your life 
 has been lived with books rather than with men, like my 
 friend Pallavicini, and therefore loneliness will press on 
 you the less heavily. It was not till I was nigh upon forty 
 that I learned to have my conversation with birds, trees, 
 and books, and to suffice unto myself." 
 
 " Was that during your stay in Italy, sir ?" 
 
 " Yes, during a summer I spent at Frascati. There I fell 
 with some eagerness to reading, and found so much satis- 
 faction in it that though I every morning saw the sun rise, 
 yet I never went abroad till six or seven of the clock at 
 night. Now this hermit life is by nature tasteful to you, 
 and therefore you may perchance mind solitude and en- 
 forced inaction less than I have done." 
 
 They walked slowly toward the house while talking, for 
 Hugo was too promptly obedient to neglect even for an in- 
 stant Randolph's peremptory command. He would not 
 consent to wait even for the one o'clock dinner, but beg- 
 ged that his horse might at once be saddled. Neverthe- 
 less, there was some little delay, for which in his heart he 
 "blessed the grooms, and in the meantime Sidney paced to 
 and fro with him in the avenue, which was called Saccharis- 
 sa's Walk, in memory of Sidneys's beautiful sister Dorothy, 
 immortalized by Waller under that name. But Hugo be- 
 stowed no thought upon the daily walks which the " match- 
 less dame " had been in the habit of taking in that stately 
 aisle ; he could think only of the grave, strong, thoughtful 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 115 
 
 face beside him, grave, even to sternness, and yet to him 
 never lacking tender kindliness. Through the fresh green 
 of the trees there nickered the golden May sunshine, and 
 the birds sung with a joyous recklessness which was just 
 now ill in accord with the heaviness of Hugo's heart. Ho 
 could not have put his dread into words, but it was there, 
 a deadly oppression, weighing down his heart like lead. 
 He put into words the more definite fear which Sidney's 
 speech by Lancup Well had suggested to him. 
 
 " Sir," he said, " I trust I am no coward, but yet I own 
 that the thought of a difference with my brother doth 
 trouble me. I fear that naught could make me insensible 
 to it." 
 
 " He that is not sensible of such things must be an angel 
 or a beast," said Sidney. " And I can well deem that to 
 you the prospect of any difference is a species of torture. 
 For that very reason I spoke to you. What if it be torture ? 
 dread it not ! what if it cripple your life, as mine has been 
 crippled? still, dread it not. Believe me, lad, there is 
 naught in this world to be dreaded save sin and shame." 
 
 Into Hugo's mind there flashed the recollection of that 
 stealthy visit to Mondisfield Hall. Never once during the 
 peaceful visit to Penshurst had his skeleton stalked forth 
 from its cupboard, but now it made itself hatefully appar- 
 ent, walking with him through that beautiful avenue, 
 choking him with its deadly power. 
 
 " What can one do when duties seem to clash ?" he said. 
 " Ah, sir, they must oft have done so in your life, perchance 
 even now they may do so. Tell me in such a case, what 
 do you do ?" 
 
 In his tone was all the suppressed eagerness, the sub- 
 dued emotion of one who, in sore distress, turns to a strong- 
 er, older, wiser nature, with the instinct that in age and 
 experience the true counselors are to be found. 
 
 Sidney walked for a few paces in silence. When he 
 replied, he looked not at Hugo, but far out beyond the 
 trees, where shadows of flickering gleams of sunlight 
 broadened into one wide expanse of uninterrupted bright- 
 ness." 
 
 " I walked in the light God hath given me," he said, with 
 a grave simplicity. "If it be dim or uncertain I must 
 bear the penalty of my errors." 
 
 Before anything more had passed a servant approached 
 to tell him that the horse was ready. Ducasse had col- 
 
116 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 lected Hugo's possessions and there was no excuse for 
 further delay. 
 
 " Take this little volume as a remembrance of your visit," 
 said Sidney, placing in his hand the book he had been 
 reading beneath the oak-tree; it was the "Republic" of Plato. 
 
 Feeling like one in a dream, Hugo uttered thanks and 
 farewells, grasped Sidney's hand, then mounted his chest- 
 nut, and, gathering up the reins, started on his journey. 
 What was this weight at his heart ? Why did this awful 
 foreboding overcome him ? The oppression grew intoler- 
 able, and with a sudden impulse he turned back to the 
 great door-way, where Sidney stood alone, the servants 
 having returned to the house. 
 
 " Has Ducasse forgotten aught ?" questioned Sidney, as 
 the young man dismounted. 
 
 " Naught, sir," said Hugo, once again grasping his hand. 
 " Pardon me, and think me not in very truth a coward, but 
 there is over me a sense of coming trouble, and I can not 
 shake it from me." 
 
 " You are overfinely strung for this hard world," said 
 Sidney, " Nathless all the more for that very reason it be- 
 hooves you to dread nothing. ' Sanctus amor patrise dat 
 animum.' Forget not our motto. We shall meet again in 
 London. Farewell, my son." 
 
 And therewith the strong hand rested on his shoulder 
 for a minute, and in silence a silence which he dared not 
 trust himself to break he bade a last farewell to Algernon 
 Sidney. 
 
 In the dreary numbness of feeling which fell upon him 
 as once more he resumed his way, he raised himself in his 
 stirrups and turned for a last glance at the place. One 
 more look at that noble front, at those battlemented towersj 
 one more look at the great door-way still visible between 
 the beech-trees ; one more look at the figure in the plain 
 brown doublet and broad-brimmed Spanish beaver. Why 
 did those last words, * ' We shall meet again in London," 
 return to him so persistently, and with such a melancholy 
 cadence ? If they met again, then all would be well, and 
 this hateful foreboding which chilled him through and 
 through would prove a device of the fiend's, designed to 
 weaken and depress him. It should do nothing of the kind ! 
 And putting his horse into a hand-gallop, he rode rapidly 
 through the fair Kentish woods, driving out fears for the 
 future with the words of Sidney's motto, " Holy love of 
 country gives courage." 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 117 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 WILL'S COFFEE-HOUSE. 
 
 To mery London, my most kyndly nurse. 
 
 SPENSER. 
 
 THE sun was getting low when Hugo, having ridden as 
 hard as the state of the roads would permit, reached Lon- 
 don. Even the sight of his beloved Abbey could not cheer 
 him; there was no denying that this sudden return was 
 highly distasteful to him, and, weary with his long ride and 
 the heat of the May day, he made his way on with grave- 
 ness bordering on dejection. On past Charing Cross, and 
 along the Strand, with its continuous row of houses and 
 shops on the northern side, and its noble mansions with 
 gardens stretching to the river on the south ; on through 
 the busy throng of people, the clatter of tongues, the 
 ceaseless noise of street traffickers who filled the air with 
 their shrill cries, "Buy a dish of flounders," mingling with 
 the cry of "Ballads, ballads, fyne new ballads;" and "Fyne 
 oate cakes," getting hopelessly mixed with " Quick peri- 
 winkles;" while ever from the busy chapmen at the shop 
 doors there was a ceaseless refrain of " What d'you lack ? 
 What d'you lack?" 
 
 Reaching at length the quiet of King's Bench Walk, he 
 found no one within but old Jeremiah. 
 
 " Glad to see you, master, right glad," said the old ser- 
 vant. "And you look all the better for your stay in the 
 country." 
 
 "Ay, I am well enough,*' said Hugo, somewhat wearily. 
 " What is the meaning of it all, Jerry ? Why doth my bro- 
 ther send for me ?" 
 
 * ' In truth, lad, I know not," said Jerry, brushing the 
 traveler's dusty cloak while he spoke. " He hath not been 
 well the last two days, and may be that is the reason he 
 needs you." 
 
 "Unwell! Randolph unwell!" exclaimed Hugo. "Then I 
 am right glad he sent for me. Did he leave no message 
 for me where to find him ?" 
 
 " Ay, lad, he said an you came before night you were to 
 go to him at Will's he would be there till eight of the clock." 
 
 " Then I will go to him at once," said Hugo, promptly. 
 " No," as Jeremiah would fain have detained him, " I can 
 
118 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 rest there as well as here. Lock up the place, Jerry, and 
 take a turn yourself, these chambers feel stifling." 
 
 He hurried away, and emerging from the quiet regions 
 of the Temple, once more found himself in the realms of 
 noise and confusion. Passing through Temple Bar, he 
 made his way through the ranks of hackney coaches which 
 stood for hire in the open space around the lofty May-pole 
 in the Strand. This had stood there since the Eestoration, 
 but since a great gale in 1602 had been shorn of a third of 
 its height. This evening it was gayly decorated, and a merry 
 throng had gathered round it in spite of the grumbling of 
 the hackney coachmen, who would not budge an inch from 
 their lawful territory, and preferred all the pushing and 
 jostling of the merrymakers to a cession of their rights. 
 Turning into the comparative quiet of Drury Lane, Hugo 
 made his way to Will's coffee-house, \\hich was near Covent 
 Garden, at the western corner of Bow Street. This coffee- 
 house was the great emporium of libels and scandals, but 
 it was one of the best, notwithstanding, and had acquired 
 the sobriquet of the ""Wits' Coffee-House." Hugo of ten fre- 
 quented it for the sake of hearing the talk of the poets, 
 authors, and celebrities who were in the habit of meeting 
 there. This evening, as he made his way up stairs in the 
 fading evening light to the chief room, he found it crowded. 
 There was an air of ease and liberty about the place, while 
 the faces of those who lounged at the tables were, as a 
 rule, worth looking at. Some were supping, others smok- 
 ing, others reading the " Observator," Roger North's spite- 
 ful paper, or the Tory and "Whig journals of the day. Julian, 
 the drunken and disreputable fellow who was in the habit 
 of distributing the latest lampoons, stood near the door 
 with a sheaf of papers in his hand, many of which were 
 already circulating in the room, and which consisted of 
 some disgusting verses on the Duke of Monmouth. There 
 was a buzz of general conversation, and at first Hugo could 
 nowhere see his brother in the crowded room. Looking for 
 him, however, he caught sight of Matthew Prior, rather to 
 his surprise for by rights he should have been at Cam- 
 bridge and the old school-fellows shook hands with each 
 other. Prior was a pleasant fellow enough, but already a 
 little spoiled by his high opinion of his own powers, and 
 by the patronage of my Lord Dorset. 
 
 "Art looking for old Dryden ?" he asked, irreverently. 
 " He was here but a half Lour since. Some one happened 
 to breathe a word of Bose Alley, however, and the old 
 
IN I'HU GOLDEN BATS. 119 
 
 gentleman immediately found the room too hot for 
 him." 
 
 A few years before the poet had been attacked by 
 hired ruffians on his way to his house in Gerard Street, 
 and shamefully beaten. The masked villains escaped, and 
 were never discovered; but every one was aware that the 
 insult had been planned by Rochester, to gratify his pri- 
 vate spite. The laureate never heard the last of it, how- 
 ever, and to his dying day his enemies cast the " disgrace" 
 in his teeth. 
 
 " The Kose Alley ambuscade, disgraced the perpetrators 
 more than the victim, to my mind," said Hugo, quickly. 
 For although Sidney's indignation with "The Duke of 
 Guise" had shaken his former admiration of Dryden, yet 
 he was of too generous a nature to tolerate such a refer- 
 ence to the shameful ill-treatment of one who was no 
 longer young. 
 
 " Have you seen my brother ?" he questioned. 
 
 " Ay, there he is in the balcony, and Dryden, too," said 
 Prior. 
 
 Thither, accordingly, Hugo made his way. He found a 
 group of men lounging about the balcony, smoking and 
 listening to the talk of an old man in a suit of purple 
 cloth, who sat in the midst of them in the arm-chair \*iiich 
 had long been consecrated to his sole use, and which this 
 evening had been moved from the hearth to its summer 
 quarters in the balcony. Apparently they had been speak- 
 ing of his recent poem, " Beligio Laid. ;" and, as far as 
 Hugo could make out, Randolph, who had not yet perceived 
 him, was urging the poet to write a fresh play, and prov- 
 ing that the stage was the real place from which to teach 
 the people. 
 
 " Ay," said the poet, a smile on his wrinkled faoe " Ay, 
 Betterton, thou art the preacher of the Golden Age." 
 
 He had turned to a pleasant-looking man of about eight- 
 and-forty who stood leaning against the window-frame 
 close to Hugo. He was the great tragedian of the day, a 
 man as much beloved for his personal amiability as for his 
 great gifts. 
 
 " Nay," he replied ; " you are the teacher and preacher; 
 I am but the mouthpiece. Nevertheless, Mr. Wharncliffe is 
 right ; the stage is the national pulpit." 
 
 "What would our divines say to such a bold state- 
 ment ?" said Dryden. " They'll be raking up the ancient 
 statute, Betterton, and denying you Christian burial !" 
 
120 IN THE GOLDEN DATS. 
 
 " Nay, that was but in France, an I remember right," 
 said Betterton, laughing. " And it was but of late that Dr. 
 Tillotson said to me these very words. Said he, 'How 
 comes it about that after I have made the most moving 
 discourse I can, am touched deeply with it myself, and 
 speak it as feelingly as I am able, yet I can never move 
 people in the church near as much as you do on the 
 stage r 
 
 " And what reply made you ?" asked Dryden. 
 
 " I replied that it seemed to me easily to be accounted 
 for, since he was only telling them a story, and I showed 
 them facts." 
 
 "A good answer, and true, very true," said Dryden. 
 " The stage is a great power ! Ha ! is not that my silver- 
 voiced youth, catching sight of Hugo, and nodding pleas- 
 antly to him. 
 
 ^Randolph turned to greet him, and was not ill-pleased to 
 see him being made much of by the great poet and the 
 first actor of the day. Hugo took it all, as was his habit, 
 very quietly, and there was a sort of graceful deference in 
 his manner to the elder man which being quite free from 
 flattery or adulation, had a great charm. 
 
 Dryden was pressing him to sing, but the actor, with his 
 ready observation and knowledge of faces, at once per- 
 ceived that he was hungry and tired. 
 
 " Wait till he has supped," he said, " and presently let 
 us ask him for the May-day song." Then, linking his arm 
 within Hugo's, he drew him back into the room. " Come, 
 we will sup together," he said. "I, too, am hungry, and 
 you, an I mistake not, are just off a journey." 
 
 Supper ended, Hugo began to tune the lute which was 
 brought to him by one of the attendants, and then, as Dry- 
 den again besought him for a song, he sung, " Come, lasses 
 and lads," with so much spirit, and with such rare sweet- 
 ness of tone that the whole assembly applauded, and were 
 inclined to grumble when Randolph, at a much earlier 
 hour than usual, took his departure, signing to his brother 
 to accompany him. 
 
 Perhaps, considering that all the world was inclined to 
 treat Hugo almost caressingly in deference to his youth 
 and his unassuming modesty, his great talents and his 
 beautiful face, it was as well for his character that he 
 met with the very reverse of this treatment in his home life ; 
 
 Randolph walked him home in dead silence a silence 
 which, though Hugo longed to know the reason of his sud- 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 121 
 
 den recall from Penshurst, he did not dare to break. But 
 when they had reached the Temple his guardian's stern 
 brow cleared, and, as if returning from an anxious reverie, 
 he said, abruptly : 
 
 " I have somewhat to say to you, boy. Come with me ; 
 we will take a turn in the gardens." 
 
 " Jeremiah saith you have been unwell," said Hugo, ven- 
 turing at last to speak. 
 
 " Tis true, and partly for that reason I sent for you. 
 But chiefly I sent because I have a letter from Sir Pere- 
 grine Blake, and he, very courteously desiring that by- 
 gones may be bygones, bids us both to his house, for the 
 coming of age of his eldest son." 
 
 The brothers were pacing up and down the Inner Tem- 
 ple garden, and Hugo was thankful that the place was 
 almost dark, for he could not conceal his annoyance. That 
 he should have been dragged from Penshurst to go down 
 to the Suffolk magistrate's house seemed to him almost 
 intolerable. 
 
 " Surely," he began, " surely the mere fact of our duel 
 might excuse me from going ; I have no wish to " 
 
 Randolph interrupted him with a volley of oaths. 
 
 " Who asked if you had a wish ? I know naught of 
 wishes in the matter." He paused, wondering whether to 
 tell his plans or not. 
 
 " But " began Hugo. 
 
 " Not another word I" said Kandolph, peremptorily. " Be 
 ready to start with me at noon to-morrow, and let me hear 
 no more of this nonsense." 
 
 With that he hastily left him; but Hugo lingered in the 
 dusky garden, struggling with a miserable sense of coming 
 ill which beset him once again much as it bad done when 
 he left Penshurst. And the river flowed darkly on, and 
 one by one the stars shone forth in the dim gray skies, 
 and the night wind sprung up, carrying on its breath the 
 scent of the early roses in the garden drenched with dew. 
 But Hugo heeded nothing, only wrestled despairingly with 
 this phantom of coming ill which nothing would banish 
 from his mind. At length, worn out, he went back to the 
 rooms in King's Bench Walk, but even in sleep the horri- 
 ble oppression followed him, and he struggled all night in 
 an imaginary net which, as fast as he broke its meshes, 
 closed up afresh, and eternally baffled his efforts at escape. 
 It was with a momentary sense of rapture that he was 
 roused once again to the world of realities by the familiar 
 
122 IN THE GOLDEN DATS, 
 
 bell and the deep voice of the watchman proclaiming, 
 " Past four o'clock, and a fine windy morning." 
 
 That hateful net was gone ! he sprung up and looked 
 forth. He was free and in his own world, and there was 
 the old watchman in the gray morning light, with his 
 broad-brimmed hat and long coat girt in at the waist, tho 
 lantern shedding a sickty yellow gleam on the point of his 
 halberd. There, too, were the familiar trees opposite, and 
 the birds already beginning to quarrel and chatter, and in 
 the distance he could hear the rumbling of market-carts in 
 Fleet Street. Four o'clock and at noon he was to start 
 on his uncongenial journey. Ah, well! the net of his 
 dreams had passed away, and yet he was environed by a 
 strangely tangled web of circumstances, 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A COSTLY MUMMING. 
 
 Oh, that a man might know 
 
 The end of this day's business ero ID come! 
 
 But it sufficeth that the day will end, 
 
 And then the end is known. Julius Ccesar. 
 
 THE fine windy morning heralded by the watchman 
 proved to be one of those glorious spring days when city 
 streets seem well-nigh intolerable, and every one longs for 
 the country. Hurrying to Norfolk Street early in the morn- 
 ing to bid farewell to the Denhams, Hugo met with nothing 
 but expressions of envy, nor did any one but Mary under- 
 stand his reluctance to be the guest of Sir Peregrine Blake. 
 Spite, however, of his reluctance, Hugo was too young and 
 too impressionable not to feel ere long a certain pleasure 
 in turning his back on the streets of London, and riding 
 out into the open country, not, indeed, such exquisite 
 country as he had had around him at Penshurst, but rich, 
 level tracts, beautiful with spring flowers, and full of that 
 sense of life and growth which is typical of a mild morn- 
 ing of early May. Larks singing overhead, sparrows chirp- 
 ing in every bush, lambs bleating in the fields, and huge 
 black rooks swooping about hither and thither with deep 
 caws, supplying the bass, as it were, to the rural symphony. 
 
 Randolph was in an excellent temper, and made no refer- 
 ence to his displeasure of the previous evening. On the 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 123 
 
 contrary, he had never treated his brother more as a friend 
 and companion ; they spoke of Penshurst and of Sidney, 
 and although Hugo said little or nothing of Sidney's 
 
 n 1 Vtical views, Kandolph could perceive that his purpose 
 been carried out, the youth evidently knew much that 
 might prove of great value. This consciousness pleased 
 him so well that he felt more kindly disposed to his ward 
 than he had done for some time, and by the time they had 
 reached Bishop-Stortford, in the cool of the evening, Hugo 
 had quite forgotten the vague dread of the previous night, 
 and was in the seventh heaven of happiness. Very strange 
 was the subtle fascination which attracted him to that 
 strong, perverse nature. The mixture of harsh exaction 
 and real fondness on the part of the elder brother had 
 bound Hugo's loyal heart to his with bonds that nothing 
 could dissever. 
 
 Sleeping that night at Bishop-Stortford, they rode on to 
 Longbridge Hall the following day, arriving just in time 
 for the early dinner. Sir Peregrine had quite recovered 
 from his wound, and treated Hugo with a sort of laughing 
 deference, perpetually referring to the duel in a way which 
 put him to the blush. 
 
 Nothing, however, was said of the cause of the strife, 
 fair Mistress Joyce, nor, indeed, did any one refer to Mon- 
 disfield Hall. Once, when young Peregrine Blake, the 
 eldest son, had ridden over with Hugo and several of the 
 guests to St. Edmonsbury, on a Wednesday, Hugo for a 
 moment fancied that he saw Joyce among the gay throng ; 
 it was market-day, and every street was crowded with 
 country folks. But the face only flashed upon him for a 
 moment, and when he turned to look once more he could 
 discern nothing but the back of a brown hood, and the 
 broad linen collar, puffed sleeves, and straight skirts of a 
 gown, which had in them nothing individual. He thought 
 it was indeed Joyce, but he could not feel sure. 
 
 After that it must be confessed that she was for the time 
 being driven from his thoughts by the perpetual round of 
 gayety and amusement kept up at Longbridge Hall, in 
 honor of the birth day of the son and heir. Long days of 
 hawking and fishing, bowls, basset, dancing, and theatri- 
 cals almost banished from his mind the sweet little puritan 
 maid. Spite of his forebodings, he greatly enjoyed the ten 
 day's recreation, and the jovial atmosphere of the county- 
 house in time of festival was new to him. 
 
 Randolph continued to treat him with all brotherliness, 
 
124 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 and allowed him to see that the general homage which he 
 received from the Suffolk household on account of his fine 
 voice and handsome face was pleasing to his fraternal 
 pride. What wonder if he did not in all things rise above 
 the circumstances in which he was placed ! What won- 
 der that peril, following on the pleasure, found him unpre- 
 pared ! 
 
 One day, when their stay was supposed to be drawing to 
 a close, the whole family were sitting at dinner in the great 
 hall, when, after the meat had been removed and the 
 chaplain had, in accordance with custom, quitted the table, 
 Hugo was startled by receiving from his brother a signal 
 to rise too. He had always felt sorry for the meek little 
 clergyman, who retired from the table when the pastry and 
 sweetmeats were served, only returning at the end to say 
 grace for the family. It had always reminded him of a 
 negro proverb which he had once heard from the lips of 
 one of the Duchess of Cleveland's black servants " Them 
 what eats kin say grace." It had amused him infinitely to 
 see day by day the poor little chaplain decorously giving 
 thanks for what he had not received. But what could this 
 signal mean ? and what was Randolph saying to Lady 
 Blake ? something about the wager he had mentioned to 
 her, mingled with compliments and apologies. 
 
 "And good luck to you!" said Sir Peregrine, who 
 already was far from sober; "good luck to you I We will 
 drink to ^our success." 
 
 Success ! Good luck ! A wager ! What in the world 
 did it all mean ? Bewildered, Hugo followed his brother 
 out of the hall, and upstairs to their chamber, Randolph at 
 present vouchsafing no explanation whatever. Upon the 
 bed lay two suits of fantastic-looking clothes, much the 
 worse for wear, and reminding Hugo of the suits worn by 
 the strolling musicians who had played a night or two 
 since at the ball. 
 
 "Lose no time," said Kandolph, concisely. "Put on 
 those " he motioned to the clothes. 
 
 Hugo obeyed like one in a dream. He knew by Ran- 
 dolph's tone that a question would but call forth just such 
 a volley of oaths as his question in the Temple Gardens 
 had done. He dressed obediently, though not without 
 some uneasy wonder as to the real purpose of this extraor- 
 dinary disguise. Dressing up and all manner of theatricals 
 had, however, been so much the order of the day of late 
 that there was something familiar about it after all, and he 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS, 125 
 
 could not help a little amusement when, on looking round, 
 he discovered his grave elder brother transformed into a 
 very foreign looking fellow, and so altered by the change 
 of wig and dress that he looked a typical strolling musician. 
 Apparently Eandolph was not quite so well pleased with 
 his survey of his ward, for he motioned him to a chair and 
 drew forth his large tortoise-shell comb. . 
 
 " Your hair will never do like that," he said. " Now 
 listen to me for a while, and bestow on what I say your 
 careful attention, for it is of no slight importance." 
 
 Hugo, however, instead of listening, gave a sadden ex- 
 clamation of surprise and dismay, for as Eandolph spoke, 
 in quiet, measured tones, he felt some instrument close to 
 his neck, the edge of which was thinner and colder than 
 the comb, and the next moment at one fell swoop his long, 
 glossy mane was severed from his head. 
 
 " Good heavens ! brother," he exclaimed, " this passeth 
 a joke. Methinks our mumming is like to prove costly." 
 
 In his tone there was some natural indignation, and Ean- 
 dolph, autocratic as he was, thought it well to make all 
 due apologies. 
 
 " Vex not yourself," he said. " I would not have done 
 such a thing an it had not been necessary. And see here, 
 I give you on the instant the full money's worth of those 
 locks of which you have been shorn. Take these fifty 
 guineas, and Eupert Denham shall take you to the crack 
 wig maker in London the instant we return." 
 
 Hugo passively allowed the gold to be placed in his 
 hand, but he was evidently much more annoyed than he 
 had ever appeared to be before, and the elder brother 
 somehow perceived that the days of his absolute tyianny 
 over his ward were likely to draw rapidly to an end. 
 
 " You deserve some explanation of this summary act," 
 he began, diplomatically. " And yet, Hugo, I must ask 
 you in the main to trust me. This much, however, I may 
 tell you. I have accepted an enormous wager successfully 
 to carry out a day's work in the disguise of a strolling 
 musician. Without you I cannot do it ; and believe me, 
 you shall not be the loser if I can manage all that I wish." 
 
 "But" began Hugo, doubtfully. 
 
 "No buts," said Eandolph, peremptorily. "The buts 
 are for me to think of, not for you to suggest." 
 
 " I hate your plans and your mysteries I" broke in Hugo, 
 passionately, as all the vague dread and the dim suspicion 
 returned to him again with double force. 
 
126 IN THE GOLDEN DATS. 
 
 " Hate them, or like them, 'tis all one to me," said Ran- 
 dolph, coldly. " I have need of your services, and I com- 
 mand them. No more of this ; we lose time. Follow me ; 
 and not another word !" 
 
 Chafing under an intolerable sense of injustice, and a 
 consciousness that the toils were closing upon him which 
 he was powerless to break, Hugo followed his brother 
 down a back staircase, typical enough to his mind of the 
 whole proceeding. All had apparently been well arranged. 
 They left Longbridge Hall without encountering a soul, 
 and close to the entrance-gate found their horses waiting for 
 them, ready saddled, and tied to a tree. In dead silence they 
 mounted and rode away, a curious-looking pair Randolph 
 apparently in high spirits, Hugo vaguely miserable. With 
 his short, curly hair, his suit of travel-stained blue cloth, 
 decked here and there with faded ribbons, and a pair of 
 down-trodden boots, of which he was keenly ashamed, it 
 was impossible to conceive anything more unlike the young 
 gentleman of the period. His very reluctance and his air 
 of uneasiness made the disguise yet more effectual, and he 
 looked so precisely the home-sick German whom Randolph 
 desired him to portray that the elder brother could scarcely 
 suppress a chuckle of amused satisfaction whenever he 
 glanced at him. 
 
 " You shall not be forced to tell lies in my behoof," he 
 said at length, with a touch of merriment in his voice which 
 grated on Hugo. " A veritable musician from St. Edmonds- 
 bury will meet us anon, and you and I will turn then into 
 two German minstrels, and borrow the ' ja ' and ' nein ' of 
 our forebears." 
 
 Hugo thought of his ancestor, the brave Count Hugo, 
 and involuntarily he shuddered. 
 
 " Come," said Randolph, " take it not so soberly. Most 
 lads would enter into the fun with some show of spirit. 
 Denham would enjoy the mumming, and be the life of our 
 party. Don't be a fool, Hugo ! Trust me, this shall all 
 turn to your advantage." 
 
 Perhaps the tone of this last speech did to some extent 
 allay Hugo's fears. He brightened up a little, and began 
 to practice fragments of German talk, and to consider what 
 German songs he could sing. A few years before they had 
 visited their German kinsfolk, who still lived in Count 
 Hugo's old castle, and both he and his brother knew the 
 language well. 
 
 Before long they came in sight of a small wayside inn/ 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DATS. 127 
 
 and here Eandolpli reined in his steed, and dismounted, 
 bidding Hugo follow his example. A hostler appearing, 
 Bandolph gave orders that the horses should be put up, 
 and Hugo, wondering much what was about to happen, en- 
 tered the inn reluctantly enough. Two men came to meet 
 them in the nagged passage, the landlord, who proved to 
 be one of Sir Peregrine Blake's old retainers, and the 
 musician from St. Edmondsbury, a round-faced, jovial 
 looking man, by name Peter Pierson, wearing a dress al- 
 most exactly similar to that donned by the two brothers. 
 Randolph had told him about the great wager for which he 
 was undertaking this masquerade, and the little man quite 
 entered into the spirit of the thing, and had, of course, 
 sworn the strictest secrecy. He had brought with him his 
 fiddle, and a viol da gamba for Randolph. Hugo had, at 
 Randolph's request, brought his own lute. Having slung 
 their instruments across their shoulders, and tasted the 
 landlord's home-brewed ale, they set off on their expedition, 
 forsaking the high-road, and following Peter Pierson across 
 country. 
 
 Whither ? That was the question which filled Hugo's 
 mind. A terror had taken possession of him that Mondis- 
 field might in some way be connected with this strange un- 
 dertaking. And yet how should strolling musicians have 
 aught to do with that sober Puritan household ? It was 
 scarcely possible, and yet the haunting dread would recur 
 to him, and he found himself continually remembering 
 that hurried walk to the Hall on the night of the 5th of 
 October. In vain he tried, however, to distinguish any 
 feature of the landscape which would prove to him that 
 they were in the same neighborhood. It was just the same 
 slightly undulating country that stretched on and on for 
 miles throughout Suffolk, nor could he anywhere see the 
 gray tower of Mondisfield Church, or the four cross-roads, 
 or the brook. He plodded on heavily in his uncomfortable 
 boots, following his brother and Peter, and ever with a 
 growing distaste to the work which lay before him. At 
 length Randolph turned back to him. 
 
 "Carry this veil for me," he said ; "'tis mighty heavy,' * 
 
 Hugo quietly accepted the additional burden, but im- 
 patience and vexation as to the expedition itself unloosed 
 his tongue. 
 
 "^ Where are we going?" lie said, shortly, and in a tone 
 which demanded an answer. 
 
 " Only to a house whither honest Peter is in the habit of 
 
128 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 going every year," said Randolph, cheerfully. " Another 
 coining-of-age party, and a feast for the tenantry. Odds- 
 fish ! boy, keep up your heart, 'tis no great thing I have 
 asked of you." 
 
 " What if our disguise be discovered ? " asked Hugo. 
 " An impossibility," replied Eandolph. " And i' faith 
 there is no disgrace in a little masquerade. Why, it was 
 but lately that the Duchess of Cleveland attired herself as 
 an orange-woman and came down to the Temple. And you 
 yourself know that the queen even dressed up as a peasant 
 woman and went to a fair." 
 
 " Yes, and was speedily discovered," said Hugo. 
 
 Randolph's tone suddenly changed. 
 
 " If you lead to our discovery I'll thrash you within a& 
 inch of your life ! " he said, through his teeth. Then, re- 
 covering himself, he added, "But all will go well. Do 
 merely as I tell you ; speak only in German, and discovery 
 is impossible." 
 
 With that he left him and rejoined Peter, while Hugo, 
 relieved of his fears about Mondisfield, followed wearily 
 across fields and through woods, until they emerged into 
 into a park where deer were grazing under the oak trees. 
 Ah ! there at last was the house ; an avenue of oaks in front, 
 a moat with a slight wooden bridge crossing it, a long, ram- 
 bling, irregular Suffolk hall, and surely not Mondisfield. 
 For had not Mondisfield an avenue of elm-trees in front of 
 it ? And was not the moat much further from the house, 
 and spanned by an ancient draw-bridge leading to the bowl- 
 ing green ? 
 
 Hugo gave a sigh of relief as he followed the others 
 across the bridge and up the well-kept garden path to the 
 door, where Peter knocked loudly, and Randolph resumed 
 his viol. 
 
 A maid opened to them. 
 
 " Ah, the musicians from St. Edmondsbury !" she ex- 
 claimed, looking well pleased. " Glad to see you again, 
 Master Peter; here's a fine doings to-day with us." 
 
 " Ay, ay," said Peter, entering and signing to the other 
 two to follow him. " In our old quarters, my lass ?" 
 
 " Ay," she said, looking curiously at Hugo, " ay, up in 
 the gallery, master. Why, you've brought some new com- 
 rades." 
 
 "Yes," said Peter, with a laugh; " foreigners fresh from 
 Germany, and I'll warrant you they'll play you some merry 
 tunes anon." 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 129 
 
 "Lord !" exclaimed the girl. "Did they come from for- 
 eign parts? Take some ale, master, before you go up," 
 she said, turning to Hugo, evidently much struck with his 
 boyish good looks. 
 
 He crimsoned, and uttered two or three words in Ger- 
 man which entranced her. 
 
 " Lord, how strange he do talk !" she cried, laughing. 
 
 "He saith he can not speak your tongue, mistress," said 
 Peter, with a grin. "No, never mind the ale; we are late, 
 and will go up straight and give them a tune." 
 
 The maid opened a door, which Hugo thought belonged 
 to a cupboard, but it proved to be the entrance to a very 
 narrow, steep staircase, at the top of which was a small 
 room, and beyond this again the old minstrels' gallery. 
 
 Had he not been so desperately uncomfortable and 
 ashamed of this masquerade, Hugo w r ould have been pleased 
 by the picturesqueuess of the scene which greeted him 
 when, following his elders, he emerged from the little room 
 into the broad gallery, with its polished floor and massive 
 wooden balusters. Down below in the big hall were ranged 
 long tables, laden with good cheer, and the tenantry were 
 doing ample justice to the annual feast, and looked charm- 
 ingly comfortable and happy. As it was, however, be shrunk 
 as far a=5 possible into the background, and hardly looked 
 at any thing, bestowing all his attention on the tuning of 
 his lute. Then Peter handed round the well-worn sheets 
 of paper containing the various parts, and Hugo found 
 that his music was so badly copied that it required all his 
 attention. It was not until a song was demanded that he 
 really looked down at the audience. But when, at a signal 
 from Randolph, he stood up to sing a German Volkslied, he 
 could not avoid seeing his audience. As he sung his eyes 
 wandered from one to another in the crowd below ; he had 
 never sung before to such a rustic assembly, and the open- 
 mouthed astonishment, and the grins of delight at the 
 novel German song, could not fail to amuse him. It was 
 not till the last verse that he looked quite to the further 
 end of the long hall, where, in the doorway leading to 
 some other room, there stood a group of girls listening. 
 These, no doubt, were the daughters of the house, and in- 
 stinctively his eyes traveled rapidly from one to another, 
 till with a shock that for the time being almost paralyzed 
 him, they rested on Joyce Wharncliffe. 
 
 There she stood, hand in hand with Evelyn, her little 
 iigure drawn up to its full height for was not this the fes- 
 
130 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 tival day of the whole year, and did not the new blue 
 gown demand a stately deportment ? Her short waves of 
 sunny brown hair, her wide-opened blue eyes, her piquant 
 little mouth, looked just as they had looked on that au- 
 tumn Sunday when Hugo had last parted with her. Good 
 heavens! for what purpose had Randolph brought him to 
 this house this house, which after, all, must be Mondis- 
 field, approach ed, perhaps, from the buck instead of the 
 front! A deadly faint ness stole over him, an oppression 
 from which no effort could free him ; his voice wavered, 
 his lips refused to form tlie words of the song, wreaths of 
 white mist seemed to float suddenly across the hall, and he 
 broke down. 
 
 Presently, above the confused babel of voices in the hall 
 below, above Peter's fiddling, above Randolph's muttered 
 remonstrances, Hugo became aware of steps ascending the 
 little staircase. Peter stopped his tune and turned round 
 to greet an elderly nurse who stepped into the gallery 
 bearing a tankard of hot spiced ale, and followed rather 
 shyly by Joyce and Evelyn. 
 
 " So, Master Peter," she began, " has he fainted, your 
 young foreigner ? My mistress bade me carry him this 
 ale. Poor lad, you've overtired him with the long walk." 
 
 Hugo accepted the tankard, glad of anything in which 
 he could for a moment hide his face, and conceal the agony 
 of shame and fear arid perplexity which swept over him. 
 
 If only those blue eyes would not look at him with such 
 compassion he could have borne it better. 
 
 " How tired he looks !" said Joyce. " And oh, see, Eve- 
 lyn, how fine a lute he has ! no wonder it sounded so sweet- 
 ly. Shall I ask him to let us look at it ?" 
 
 She drew nearer. 
 
 " I hope you are better," she said, kindly, speaking quite 
 as courteously to him in his character of poor musician as 
 she had done six months before, when, in very different at- 
 tire, he had lain back on the grass while she bandaged his 
 wound. 
 
 He made the briefest of replies in German, and she 
 turned to Peter. 
 
 " Does he only speak his own tongue ?" she said. " Ah, 
 then, good Master Peter, make him understand, please, how 
 sorry all the people are, and that we hope he will rest and 
 perchance be able to sing to us later on." 
 
 " He can but speak his own tongue, lady," said Peter, 
 pulling his forelock, "but he can understand what is said 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 131 
 
 to him. How now, Karl, look up, my man, the young lady 
 would fain hear you sing again. Thou'lt soon be fit, 
 eh?" 
 
 An insane longing to throw aside all disguise, to pro- 
 claim himself .Joyce's kinsman, nearly overmastered Hugo, 
 and Randolph read his thoughts. He turned to him with 
 a look so iierce that Joyce involuntarily stepped back a 
 pace, and with angry gestures and a torrent of German, of 
 which she could not understand a word, he thrust the lute 
 back into his brother's hand and bade him at once resume 
 his duties. 
 
 "He shall sing anon," he said, with a very foreign accent, 
 turning to Joyce. But the smile on Lis face contrasted BO 
 unpleasantly with the look she had just before seen on it 
 that she shrunk away from him, and was not sorry to quit 
 the gallery altogether, so violent was the antipathy which 
 she all at once conceived for him. 
 
 The thought of the tired lutist a little interfered with her 
 pleasure, and even when the country-dances began, and 
 delightful music, delightful motion, delightful excitement 
 and novelty, kept her radiantly happy, she would every now 
 and then give a glance toward the gallery , and wonder how 
 poor, tired Karl and his cross father were feeling. It was 
 a puzzling world where some must fiddle for others to dance 
 to, however weary or ill. 
 
 After a time, when there was a pause in the dancing, 
 came some more songs, and Joyce, standing by her father, 
 watched the singer intently. He sung well, yet not as he 
 had sung at first ; there was now an amount of effort in 
 his singing which to Joyce quite spoiled the pleasure of 
 hearing him. He sung coldly, resolutely, as if he had made 
 u I ) hi mind to go through with it, however much it cost ; 
 and he stood rigidly still, seeming to notice nothing. 
 
 " He has a fine face," said Colonel Wharncliffe. " How 
 strange it seems to see once more the fashions of my youth ! 
 Short hair is to my mind more manly than these long locks 
 and portentous wigs. The German youth sets us a good 
 example." 
 
 After that came more dancing, and the musicians in the 
 gallery were kept hard at work until the time came for the 
 finale of the evening, the speech by Colonel Wharncliffe, 
 and the drinking of healths. The evening had now closed 
 in, the red curtains had been drawn across the two huge 
 windows, lamps and candles had been lighted in the old 
 hall, and the tenants stood in groups, listening to the few 
 
132 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 words which the colonel never failed to say to them each 
 year. 
 
 But for once in her life Joyce did not listen. For, look- 
 ing up to the gallery where candles were also burning, she 
 could plainly see the German lutist through the wooden 
 balusters, and there was something in his face which di- 
 verted her attention from her father's speech. She had a 
 strong impression that she had seen him before, and kept 
 puzzling her brain to remember where it could have been. 
 He sat now a little apart from his companions, rigidly still, 
 and with a sort of blank hopelessness in his face which 
 startled her. He never moved, he never even looked to the 
 right or to the left. What story belonged to that face, 
 she wondered. Perhaps he was thinking of his own coun- 
 try and wishing himself there; perhaps he was planning an 
 escape from that cross father. And even in all the bustle 
 and confusion of departure, when the tenants were putting 
 on their hats and cloaks, Joyce still was able to observe 
 the last of the two Germans. Honest old Peter had has- 
 tened away to see if supper was being brought for them, 
 and the elder man stood with one hand on his viol and the 
 other on the lutist's shoulder, as though he held him 
 against his will that he might the better talk with him. 
 The light shone full on the face of the younger, and even 
 at that distance Joyce could see how miserable he looked. 
 It was the misery of one who struggles, but, lacking confi- 
 dence, struggles without hope. 
 
 " To bed, my little Joyce, to bed," said her father, " or 
 you will be over weary." 
 
 And Joyce was fain to obey, though she longed to know 
 how that talk between the musicians would end. Turning 
 for a last look at them as she quitted the hall, she saw that 
 they still kept the same position, but, rather to her dismay, 
 she found that the younger one was aware she had been 
 watching them, for his eyes rested upon her now, and the 
 sadness and despair in them* seemed to strike to her very 
 heart. She ran swiftly upstairs, half blinded by tears, 
 which, though she could not have explained them, somehow 
 made her feel ashamed. 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 133 
 
 CHAPTEE Xm. 
 
 A FALL. 
 
 Judge not thy friend until tkou standest in his place. 
 
 BABBI HILLKL. 
 
 IT was night. The tenants had long since departed. 
 The tired servants were all asleep. The whole family had re- 
 tired, and every light in the house, save one was out. That 
 one light burned in a dark lantern belonging to Eandolph, 
 and it stood on the floor of the little room which led to 
 the musicians' gallery. From time immemorial old Peter 
 and his companions from St. Edmondsbury had supped 
 and slept in this room on the night of the 12th of May. 
 Colonel Wharncliffie would not hear of allowing them to 
 tramp all the way back to St. Edmondsbury* and this small 
 room, which was never used by any one else, served as a 
 shelter for the musicians. Its accommodation was cer- 
 tainly the reverse of luxurious ; it contained nothing 
 but a rough table and a few benches, .and old Peter, 
 very drowsy after the deep potations in which Ean- 
 dolph had encouraged him, was sleeping soundly on 
 the bare floor, rolled up in his blue cloth cloak, and 
 with a fiddle-case by way of pillow. At the table, 
 with both arms stretched across it, and his face hidden, 
 pat Hugo. It was a long time since he had moved. Ran- 
 dolph half thought he must be asleep; he sat watching 
 him with an expression of mingled anxiety and contempt, 
 and waited impatiently until he heard the clock in the hall 
 strike twelve. At the sound a slight movement was ap- 
 parent in Hugo's shoulders, and at length he raised a face 
 in which there were no traces of sleepiness, nothing but a 
 look at once apprehensive and reluctant. He had promised 
 to follow Eandolph, but to what, or 5or what purpose, he 
 had not the slightest idea. 
 
 "Take off your boots/' said the elder brother. 
 
 He obeyed, and followed Eandolph through the door 
 which led to the little staircase, a most steep and precipi- 
 tous descent, down which they had to creep with the ut- 
 most caution. At length, twisting sharply to the ri^ht, 
 they found themselves at the foot of tlie stair, and Ean- 
 dolph endeavored to open the door which led into the pas- 
 sage beyond. Cautiously he turned the handle, turned it 
 first one way, then the other; but all to no purpose. Be- 
 
134 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 yond a doubt the door had been locked upon them. He 
 swore a deep oath under his breath, and remounted the 
 stairs. They led on higher than the gallery. He noiselessly 
 crept up, and tried the upper door. That, too, was securely 
 locked. Evidently, while showing his hospitality and 
 thoughtfulness for the musicians, Colonel Wharncliffe took 
 good care not to trust them imprudently. The brothers 
 stood motionless for a minute on the staircase. Upon 
 Hugo's face there was written unmistakably an intense re- 
 lief. Randolph, catching sight of this expression, flushed 
 with a sudden anger, and, as if all at once gaining a solu- 
 tion for his difficulties, he cautiously crept to the gallery. 
 Then he turned and closed tbe half glass door, so that 
 Peter should not be disturbed by their movements. 
 
 What in the world was he going to do ? He walked to 
 the front of the gallery and looked down over the broad 
 wooden rail at the top of the balusters. As far as he could 
 judge in the dim light the floor of the gallery was about 
 nine or ten feet from the ground in the hali below, the 
 wooden railings not more than four feet high. The survey 
 seemed to satisfy, him. 
 
 " You are a fair athlete," he said, in a low voice, turning 
 to Hugo. " And, since my climbing days are ended, I 
 must trust this matter to you." 
 "What matter?" 
 
 " An affair of supreme concern both to ourselves and to 
 the country." 
 
 " I would fain serve my country in other ways than by 
 stealing at night through other men's houses," said Hugo, 
 bitterly. 
 
 "Possibly you may live to do so, but at present your 
 duty is to obey me," said Randolph, coldly. "Listen, for 
 the fewer words we have the better. I know, on certain 
 evidence, that in this house there are hid treasonable 
 papers, papers that might be of infinite service if exposed. 
 You will probably find them either in the room immediate- 
 ly opposite us where we saw the conspirators last year 
 or you will find them in the chamber they call the south 
 parlor, for which you must search. Examine all recepta- 
 cles; be careful to overlook no secret drawers, and look 
 well to see whether any of the panels are so arranged as 
 to slide back." 
 
 During all this time Hugo had listened, indeed, but his 
 face had given evidence of the feelings that were strug- 
 gling within him. What ! was he to do this this shameful 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 135 
 
 thing in the house of Joyce's father? Bring ruin upon 
 him ? Bring sorrow to her ? Never ! 
 
 " I can not do it," he said, in the tone of one who is being 
 tortured. 
 
 A flat refusal such as this from Hugo meant a great deal. 
 Randolph saw at once that he must take strong measures. 
 
 A shade came over his dark face ; he quietly drew out a 
 pistol, and cocked it. 
 
 " I am fond of you," he said, calmly, perhaps failing to 
 see the irony of his words, while he grasped his brother 
 firmly in one hand, and held the pistol to his head with 
 the other. " I am fond of you, Hugo, but unless you swear 
 to me that you will do as I tell you by Heaven! Ill blow 
 out 3 r our brains this moment." 
 
 "That would scarce serve your turn," said Hugo, quietly. 
 "Murderers can scarce inherit a fair estate." 
 
 "Fool!' cried Randolph. "Do you think I could not 
 make it appear that you had killed yourself ? Ay, I would 
 willingly swear you did ; for, in truth, a refusal would be 
 self-murder. Come, make your choice and be quick. Save 
 the honor of your family, save your country from ruin, or 
 else go to instant death, and be by all men deemed a 
 suicide." 
 
 Hugo's breath came fast and hard ; a frightful choice lay 
 before him ! And he was young, and life was so sweet ; 
 and to die thus by Randolph's own hand seemed intolera- 
 ble ! Good heavens! what would avail him? 
 
 To call to Peter for help would never do ; the whole 
 household would be roused by a call loud enough to 
 awaken the old musician after the amount of home-brewed 
 ale he had consumed. In despair he glanced round for 
 soma means of escape, but escape there was none. The 
 dim light from the lantern just sufficed to show the greater 
 emptiness of the hall below ; the broad gallery, with its 
 quaint old pictures and its massive balustrade, caged him 
 hopelessly, and the face of his guardian, hard, fixed, grim 
 as fate, confronted him pitilessly. 
 
 There was no help, no hope, nothing but death and 
 death at the hands of the man who was nearest him in all 
 the world ! 
 
 Inevitably the old tie, the bond of loyal obedience, held 
 him fast in this extremity. Only once in his whole life had 
 he disobeyed Randolph. Could he do so now ? 
 
 Alas ! contrasted with the misery, and the death, and the 
 wrath of his guardian, imagination all too quickly painted 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 a possible alternative. He might obey, and search, and, 
 after all, there might be no papers. If papers were found 
 they might not, after all, prove treasonable. They might not 
 implicate Joyce's father. The Government might not think 
 them worthy of notice. A loop hole of escape seemed to 
 lie in this direction. He wavered, looked up once again 
 into the stern face above him, to see if any mercy lay hid 
 there. But he knew only too well that what Randolph saic, 
 that he meant knew that, his mind once set on any object, 
 he would pursue it, cost what it might. 
 
 " The time waxes short," said Randolph, sharply. 
 " Speak quickly and make your choice." 
 
 Vaguely Hugo felt that if the circumstances had been 
 only a little different he could have withstood longer, could 
 even perhaps have chosen, as he knew he ought to have 
 chosen, the death at the hands of his brother. But the 
 horror of the semi-darkness, the utter helplessness, the 
 loneliness, and eerieness of that awful scene in the dead of 
 night, the impossibility of self-defense, the very quietness 
 of voice which was so imperatively necessary, and which 
 strangled the arguments that with free scope for speech 
 he might have used, all this paralyzed him. 
 
 " I will" there was a pause, a slight struggle " I will 
 obey you." The words were scarcely above his breath. 
 Randolph required something more definite than this. 
 
 " Swear that you will search thoroughly," he said, not 
 lowering his pistol. " Swear it on " he felt for his sword, 
 which had of course been left at Long-bridge Hall with his 
 own clothes, then looked round for some other sacred em- 
 blem. " Swear it on this cross." 
 
 He pointed to a picture close beside them. It was of a 
 uun, probably some member of his OAMI family, painted 
 years ago. Her face was young and fair, with sweet, calm 
 eyes, and a mouth which looked as if it had learned stern 
 eelf-control in a hard school. About the fac e there was an 
 indescribable expression of peace and content. In her 
 hand she held an open breviary, round her neck there 
 hung a cross. 
 
 " S'vf ear it on this !" reiterated Randolph, dragging him 
 up to the picture. 
 
 And, ever with the pistol close to his temple, Hugo 
 hurried through the words which he loathed. 
 
 "I swear that I will search thoroughly, and will bring 
 you all I find, so help me God." As his right hand rested 
 against the painted cross he could have sworn that the 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 137 
 
 nun looked at him with grief and reproach in her eyes. 
 He turned away, his heart heavy as lead But Kandolph 
 startled him by a sudden embrace. 
 
 " God bless you, lad !" he exclaimed. " You have relieved 
 me from an awful task." 
 
 There was genuine relief in his face ; he would assuredly 
 have blown his brother's brains out had he disobeyed, but 
 yet it would have cost him much to do it. For there were 
 strange gleams of humanity about Kandolph, for all his 
 brutality and his tyrannical love of power. 
 
 Those few words restored a certain amount of animation 
 to Hugo ; all his anxiety now was to get through his hate- 
 ful task speedily. At any other time he would have thought 
 twice about climbing down such a breakneck place. Now, 
 even in the semi-darkness, and with everthing against him, 
 he cared not a rush. 
 
 Before Randolph could offer another suggestion he was 
 over the balusters, the nexb moment his hands were on a 
 level with the gallery floor, his feet feeling for a small 
 foothold which might be hoped for on the capital of one of 
 the wooden pillars at the entrance from the outer passage. 
 Finding that, he cautiously lowered first one hand, then 
 the other, swung for one moment in mid air, then let him- 
 self drop, alighting with very little noise on the flags. 
 
 Well pleased with his promptitude, Randolph let down 
 the lantern by a piece of cord, and from his vantage- 
 ground in the gallery watched the dark figure stealing 
 noiselessly to the other end of the hall, and disappearing 
 into the room where the meeting of the 5th of October 
 had been held. 
 
 Once fairly set to work, Hugo moved with great swift- 
 ness and precision; he was true to his oath, moreover, and 
 sought thoroughly; opened the book-case, opened the 
 drawers of a cabinet, turned over papers, and briefly ex- 
 amined them. He found nothing, however, but cookery 
 receipts, methods of clear-starching, Latin exercises, and 
 pencil-drawings, evidently the possessions of the daughters 
 of the house. In the lowest drawer, which opened with a 
 spriijg, he did indeed find a more questionable-looking 
 collection of sheets, stitched together, closely written, and 
 tisd with red tape, but on opening them he saw written in 
 a round, clear handwriting " Journal of Joyce and Evelyn 
 Wharncliffe in the year of our Lord 1682-3. For the ben- 
 efit, of the descendants of the Randolph Wharncliffe 's." 
 
 This statement so bewildered him, and he was so horri- 
 
138 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 fied at the idea of touching Joyce's private possessions, 
 that he hastily tied the papers up again. Was it not here, 
 in this very room, that e had seen her in ghostly array on 
 that memorable October night ? What if she should come 
 now come and find him prowling about the house like a 
 thief! Oh, that he were through this despicable task! 
 Quickened by the thought he closed the drawer and rapidly 
 surveyed the panels of the wall while all the old portraits of 
 the ancestors glared at him, following him everywhere 
 with their staring eyes. At the picture of Colonel Wharn- 
 cliffe and at the picture of Joyce herself he actually dared 
 not look, but there was one old man near the door, in the 
 dress of a sheriff, and an Elizabethan ruff, whose eyes he 
 could not evade; he had a long, lean, ghostly-looking hand 
 pointing eternally downward, and it seemed to Hugo's ex- 
 cited fancy that he indicated with scorn the place for which 
 he deemed this treacherous guest fit. 
 
 At length the search was complete. In this room there 
 was nothing that would serve Randolph's purpose. Open- 
 ing another door, Hugo found himself in the with draw ing- 
 room, but here there was no question of finding papers ; 
 the room was little used, and was stiffly set round with 
 high-backed chairs covered with beautiful crewel-work on 
 a black ground. There was not a single receptacle, how- 
 ever, which could by any possibility have concealed valu- 
 able papers. 
 
 Once more he emerged into the hall, searched a Japan 
 cabinet which stood near the hearth, signed his want of 
 success to Randolph, and went to seek the south parlor. 
 
 And here, alas ! success the success he so little desired 
 awaited him. Just as he was leaving the rccm he 
 noticed a difference in some of the panels, and, getting 
 down his lantern, he tried whether they would inove; to 
 his dismay, three of the panels yielded to his touch ; they 
 were very heavy to raise, and ihey made much more noise 
 than he desired, but a glimpse of books and papers within 
 forced him to proceed. At length he had raised them some 
 way and, bringing the lantern close to the opening, he saw 
 a deep recess, in which was stored on one side some legal 
 documents, with which he did not meddle, on the other a 
 pile of manuscripts, which upon examination proved, alas! 
 to have direct bearing upon the political condition of tLe 
 country. 
 
 Here in very truth was evidence against Colonel Wharn- 
 cliffe, for in those times to conceive of remedies against the 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 139 
 
 Stuart tyranny was a matter of life and death, and people 
 could not air their favorite theories, or proclaim themselves 
 republicans at their pleasure. Hugo could tell by the 
 merest glance at the contents of the manuscripts that Col- 
 onel Wharncliffe would be placed in the gravest peril by 
 their discovery. 
 
 With a stifled groan he drew the papers forth, closed the 
 panels, stole once more into the hall. Good God ! why had 
 he chosen life ? Why oh, why had he not taken the truly 
 manly course, and refused to have any hand in this treach- 
 ery, cost what it might ? * 
 
 Loathing himself, he tied the papers together with the 
 cord which Randolph lowered, and saw them drawn up in- 
 to the gallery. The cord came down again, this time for 
 the lantern. He let this be drawn up too. Then he stood 
 alone in the dark hall, feeling as though, had he but had 
 the means, he would fain have hanged himself. 
 
 There was a strange, beating sound in the hall beside 
 him. How now ! Had some one heard him ? Should he 
 be discovered ? In an agony of shame he shrunk back, but, 
 after all, it was only the noise which the clock made be- 
 fore striking one. He had spent just one hour, but in 
 that brief space he had committed a crime the effects of 
 which would last throughout his life. 
 
 " Come up," said Randolph, in a whisper. " Why lose 
 this time?" 
 
 And Hugo did begin the ascent, but either hurried too 
 much or cared too little for his own safety ; for suddenly, 
 while with one hand he grasped the lower part of the gal- 
 lery balusters, his feet slid from their insecure resting-place, 
 and he fell with a dull thud upon the white flag-stones 
 below. 
 
 " You fool ! " that was the whisper which thrilled through 
 his ears the instant he recovered his senses. 
 
 It stung him into prompt action; he stood up, but almost 
 swooned so frightful was the pain. 
 
 Randolph, seeing that he was seriously hurt, looked 
 round in despair for any means of helping him ; the lantern- 
 cord was far too slender, and the gallery was bare of aught 
 else. He rushed into the little room where honest Peter 
 slept, robbed him of his cloak, knotted it securely to his 
 own, and hung them down through the railings. Then 
 came a breathless interval. Hugo struggled gallantly, but 
 every instant he grew more ominously pale. Randolph 
 saw, with something bordering closely on remorse, that 
 
140 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 his face was convulsed with pain. Would the cloaks give 
 way beneath the strain ? Luckily Hugo was but light, and 
 he helped himself manfully. It was with an intensity of 
 relief that at last Randolph grasped the cold hands in his 
 at last, with infinite pain, hauled him over into the 
 gallery. 
 
 " What have you done ? where are you hurt ?" he asked, 
 apprehensively. 
 
 But Hugo was past replying. He lay stretched on the 
 floor of the gallery as one dead, and beside him lay the 
 fatal papers, 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 JOYCE'S JOURNAL. 
 
 * 
 
 You can not barre love onte, 
 Father, mother, and you alle ; 
 For, marke mee, love's a crafty boy, 
 And his limbes are very smalle ; 
 He's lighter than the thistledoune, 
 He's fleeter than the dov, 
 His voice is like the nightingale ; 
 And oh ! beware of love. 
 
 From the Seven Starrs of Witte, 1647. 
 
 May, 1863. Evelyn and I have found but little to record 
 in our journal all through the winter months. The news- 
 letters brought us word that in London the persecution of 
 Dissenters waxed severer, a special effort having been made 
 against them as the time drew nigh to St. Thomas's-day. 
 The church-wardens of most of the parishes named 
 them to the ecclesiastical courts, and procured their ex- 
 communication. This, my father saith, was done that they 
 might be incapacitated from voting at the election of 
 common-councilmen to the city of London. Thus the 
 Tory party will procure such a common-council as is fit for 
 their turn, and having already the mayor and most of the 
 Court of Aldermen on their side, they will then be able to 
 surrender to the king the charter of the city of London. 
 
 Since the 6th of October, however, no persecution reach- 
 ed us here at Mondisfield. But, after the sacking of the 
 barn, no more meetings were held there. My father deem-r 
 ed it wiser for us to attend the parish church in the morn- 
 ing, and in the evening a few of those who have the cour- 
 age to run the risk gather together in the hall, where 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 141 
 
 there is a service held. We girls had first of all to make 
 heavy red curtains for tlie two great windows, which till 
 now had never had-either curtain or shutter. Frances 
 said she felt while making them like the Israelite women 
 who wove. the hangings for the Tabernacle. And it is cer- 
 tain that, without them, we should never have felt safe in 
 meeting for worship with over the prescribed number. 
 Even now, when the wind sighs on winter nights, or when 
 the creepers beat against the pane, we start and tremble, 
 and forget the prayer or the sermon, listening, heart in 
 mouth, to the sounds without, and fearing another of those 
 terrible incursions. This time I fear me there will be no 
 gallant knight to warn us all in time and make escape pos- 
 sible. There is one John Hilton, who, they say, is very 
 widely known as an informer against conventicles. March 
 proved a hot, dry month, but in April we had naught but 
 showers, from which even by Betty's birthday the roads 
 had not recovered. However, the day itself the 12th of 
 May was fine enough, and the tenants were not to be kept 
 from the yearly feast by a little mud. All went merrily, 
 and we had a gayer time than usual, as befitted Betty's 
 coming of age. But to me the chief interest lay in those 
 two foreign musicians, about whom I feel now doubly cer- 
 tain there is some strange story. 
 
 The morning after Betty's birthday Evelyn and I were 
 roused by hearing nurse and Margery talking together in 
 the passage just beyond our room. 
 
 " Here's a pretty coil !" said Margery, my mother's maid, 
 " the young foreigner lad hath broke three of his ribs." 
 
 " Broke his ribs," said nurse, " and how did he do that, 
 pray ? I suppose they got drinking and quarreling last 
 night. That is the end of feasting and dancing and fid- 
 dling, and pray God the master will be warned and have 
 no more of such wordly doings." 
 
 At this Evelyn made such an uproarious sign of disagree- 
 ment that we lost the next sentence, but by and by we 
 heard Margery say. 
 
 " Ay, ay, it was old Peter told me about it, and he saith 
 it was this morning he broke 'em, a-going into the gallery 
 to fetch his lute, he slipped on the polished floor, not being 
 used to such. They have laid the poor chap in the gallery. 
 Peter saith he heard naught till the one who played the 
 viol shook him by the shoulder, and bid him rouse up and 
 help, and then, going to the gallery, he saw the poor lad 
 He there looking as white as a clout." 
 
142 IN THE GOLDEN DATS. 
 
 We knew well enough that this description would carry 
 nurse off, and that we should hear no more, for nurse 
 loves waiting on silk folk, and that one should look " as 
 white as a clout " gives him a firm hold on her sympathies. 
 
 Therefore we dressed as speedily as might be, and went 
 down-stairs to hear more. All the household seemed in 
 confusion, and every one was either commiserating the 
 poor German lutist, or scolding Tabitha for having put so 
 much beeswax on the floor. At length my father came 
 down and put an end to the talk by summoning us all to 
 prayers, which he said must not be foregone, even for this 
 unfortunate accident. We gathered just as usual in the 
 hall and my father read and prayed. We wondered much 
 if the poor German listened up in his gallery, but none of 
 us liked to look up there to see. 
 
 After breakfast my father went up to see what could be 
 done, and a great talk arose as to whether he had best be 
 carried to St. Edmondsbury, where there is a chirurgeon, or 
 whether it would be best for him to lie still, and let Lake 
 the blacksmith see to him. Nurse said that to move him 
 would be dangerous and that Lake was skillful as 
 a bone-setter, and would know what was amiss, 
 and both Peter and the other German counseled him 
 to lie where he was. But Karl so they call him 
 almost put himself into a fever, they say, protesting in 
 German that he must be taken away, and not left behind 
 alone. However, all was of no avail, his father fell in with 
 our father's offer of hospitality, and Karl is to stay in the 
 little room off the gallery, whither they bore him, not with- 
 out causing him some pain. Lake the blacksmith said it 
 would be impossible to carry him down those steep stairs 
 without great risk, since in the fall he must have wounded 
 his lungs, and so may be it is well that he is quartered 
 here, only it seems to make him so very unhappy. Father 
 says we must do all we can to teach him English, that he 
 may not feel so lonely. Nurse says he bore the pain of the 
 moving without once flinching, and made no complaint of 
 Lake's rough handling. But I think he must be well used 
 to roughness, for his father seemed quite cruel to him, and 
 though none could tell what they said to each other in that 
 strange tongue, yet it was easy to see that even when they 
 parted he was denying Karl's earnest entreaties, and that 
 very churlishly. All that day we girls were as busy as 
 could be, helping the servants, who had much to do in 
 cleaning and rearranging the house after the feast, and also 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 143 
 
 in waiting on poor Karl, the lutist. They all seem glad to 
 do what they can for him, however, and no one complains 
 for he asks for nothing, never murmurs, thanks even the 
 little kitchen wench moit courteously for the least service 
 and seems only anxious to give as little trouble as may be. 
 
 But nurse says he is sorely troubled, and when she is out 
 of sight she hears him sigh to himself, and at times groan. 
 Then, coming back to him, she asks him if the pain has 
 grown worse, and he just shakes his head, and turns his 
 face to the wall, and makes as though he would sleep. 
 Poor nurse feels quite anxious about him. She saith it is 
 worse than having a babe sick, for they, though tbey can 
 not speak, can at least tell you what is amiss by their cries, 
 but this poor Karl seems to shut all things up within him- 
 self, and she can in nowise understand him. 
 
 The little room is so small that there is scarcely room for 
 more than his bed and a table. So as soon as might be 
 they moved him by day into the gallery, lifting him with 
 great care that he might not be shaken. Then my father 
 told us to go and see what we could do for him, and Evelyn 
 and I bethought us of his lute, and asked him to teach us, 
 which he did right willingly. So strange he looked, with 
 his short, curly hair, and his face all pale and suffering, 
 next to dear, rosy Evelyn, with her laughing face and merry 
 ways. I thought they would have made a good subject 
 for a painter; Karl lying there on a mattress, propped up 
 with pillows, Evelyn kneeling beside him with the lute, 
 her little, plump, brown fingers showing so strangely be- 
 side his long, taper, white ones, and the afternoon sun 
 shining in upon the pictures of the gallery from one of the 
 hall windows, and sending a wide beam of light in betwixt 
 the balusters of the gallery, with motes dancing endlessly in 
 it. Watching them thus, and thinking how a painter 
 would put them on his canvas, it suddenly came over me 
 why I always fancied that I must have seen Karl before. 
 From the first there was something familiar to me in his 
 great broad forehead and dark-gray eyes. And now I saw 
 that he was extremely like the young gallant to whom we 
 owe so much. He looks older and paler, and has a foreign 
 air, but he is like him so much like that were he not a 
 wandering German minstrel I should deem that it must 
 be he himself. 
 
 The next afternoon a strange thing happened. We were 
 sitting beside him and had finished our lesson on the lute, 
 and Karl, looking somewhat less miserable than usual was 
 
144 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 telling us the German names for some of the things around 
 f . >r a chair, a table, and so forth, when Evelyn suggested 
 he should look all round the hall and tell us the names of 
 everything he could see. We began with the pictures. 
 The parrot picture, close to the gallery, the group of 
 meat and fruit and eatables, that hangs over the hearth, 
 and the man struggling in the waves, with the burning 
 ship in the distance, and the strange figures waiting to re- 
 ceive him on the shore. Karl seemed to interest himself 
 in this picture, and we read him the motto painted on it. 
 
 " More than ye rocks amiddys the raging seas, 
 Ye constant heart no danger dreddys nor fearys." 
 
 The man's face is earnest, and full of a strange power. 
 You can almost see him struggling on, always grave, 
 steadfast, and untiring. At length we came to the picture 
 of the little babe, above the door of the north parlor. 
 
 Karl taught us the German for " little child," and then 
 we, to amuse him, told him the tale of how the picture was 
 saved from the great fire of London, and how it was the 
 portrait of our kinsman, Hugo Wharncliffe, brother to the 
 Randolph Wharncliffe who would one day turn us out of 
 our dear home. And we told him of our journal which we 
 were writing for the " descendants." Now what happened 
 to Karl at that precise moment I never could tell. Per- 
 chance it was merely that some movement hurt him sud- 
 denly, but a most terrible look came over his face, and we 
 thought he would have swooned. Evelyn would have 
 hurried away in search of nurse, had he not signed to her 
 to sit down again, and presently he seemed to recover him- 
 self, though he continued very pale all that afternoon. 
 Nor can 1 forget the strange, doubtful, troubled look he 
 gave me as though he would fain speak, but could not. 
 We must, indeed, do all in our power to teach him Eng- 
 lish, but he doth not greatly care to learn, at least, so it 
 seems to me. 'Tis passing strange, for in his face is al- 
 ways the look of one who longs to say something, yet can- 
 not. 
 
 My father is much interested in him and wishes he could 
 converse with him, but that of course is difficult, indeed, 
 well-nigh impossible. Moreover, Karl seems to shrink 
 from him, almost to fear him, which is strangp, seeing how 
 kind and gentle .our father is with him. What he seems 
 to like best is that nurse and Evelyn and I should sit in 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 145 
 
 the gallery in the afternoon and go on with our talking 
 and reading just as though he were not there. I am sure he 
 listens to the reading, he lies so still, with his face always 
 toward us, and with a look of content upon it, which 
 is rarely there at other times. We have read all through 
 Mr. Bunyan's new book, " The Holy War," and also, for 
 the hundredth time, I should think, " The Pilgrim's Prog- 
 ress," besides several of Mr. Shakespeare's plays, which 
 my father thought would be sure to interest him, if he 
 were able to understand them well enough, and this he 
 seems to do. 
 
 15th of June, 1683. 
 
 No entries in our journal all these weeks, but indeed 
 we have been almost too busy to write, and when there 
 have been spare moments I scarce wished to set down 
 what could hardly interest the " descendants." For in- 
 deed Karl has taken up all our thoughts. My 
 mother says it is very natural that he should be less 
 shy and uncomfortable with nurse and with us 
 children than with my father or herself. She says it 
 is because he is of different station that he doth not feel 
 comfortable in their presence, and that he looks upon 
 me just as a child, and so does not feel embarrassed by the 
 difference in our birth. It is true all the world looks upon 
 me as a child still, and I am glad it should be so, if to be 
 counted as a grown woman would make Karl afraid of 
 me. 
 
 I understand him less than ever, and I am not quite sure 
 that he always does listen to the reading as I thought he 
 did. Three times of late, when I have looked up suddenly 
 from the book to ask him some question, I have found his 
 eyes fixed so strangely on my face, and at one time, though 
 I read the saddest part of the tale, there were his eyes 
 shining with a sort of happy look that I never saw in his 
 eyes before. It is true it passed away very swiftly, leaving 
 him as usual, grave and troubled, but what business had 
 he to be looking like that when Evelyn and nurse were 
 ready to weep over the death of the hero? I can not get 
 Karl out of my thoughts]; he puzzles me greatly. But me- 
 thinks it were perhaps wiser to write no more of him, and 
 therefore I shall shut up the journal in our drawer in the 
 north parlor until he has gone, which is like to be soon, 
 since he is getting well. 
 
146 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 CONFESSION. 
 
 Mistake no more : I am not Licio, 
 
 Nor a musician, as I seem to be ; 
 
 But one that scorns to live in this disguise. 
 
 Taming of the Shrew. 
 
 VERY strangely had that long month passed, as far as 
 Hugo was concerned. He alternated between a despair at 
 the thought of the certain misery which must fall upon that 
 peaceful household when Randolph had disclosed his secret, 
 and a feverish happiness caused by Joyce's presence. To 
 lie there helplessly, able to watch the beautiful family life 
 going on around him, and ever with the consciousness that 
 his own act would soon shatter this happy home, was almost 
 more than he could endure. And yet, painful as it was, the 
 sight of that home-life fascinated him. He had never 
 known real family life ; he had no conception of what a 
 pure, genial home might be. The simple country customs, 
 the common interests so keenly shared, the home loyalty, 
 the loving pride in 3ach other's success, the pure laughter, 
 the innocent jests, the girlish merriment, and the games 
 into which no bitterness entered, all these were new to him. 
 Again, the religious element underlying all struck him 
 greatly. The daily assembling of the household in the hall, 
 the slow, solemn reading of the chapter from the Bible, the 
 every-day language of the prayer offered up by Colonel 
 Wtiarncliffe, and afterward the repeating of a verse by every 
 child, from Elizabeth, whose coming of age festival had 
 been the cause of all this trouble, to little ten-year-old 
 Evelyn. 
 
 Still more impressive were the Sunday evening services, 
 which he watched very curiously from his gallery. 
 
 He was now almost well, and was allowed to move about 
 a little. If Randolph did not, as he had promised, either 
 come for him or send for him, he was determined to leave 
 Mondisfield in a few days' time, and try to make his way 
 back to Sir Peregrine Blake's. 
 
 It was Sunday evening, the 17th of June. Hugo was 
 sitting as usual in his musician's gallery, and looking down 
 to the familiar hall, with its white-flagged floor which had 
 served him so churlishly, its carved oaken settee, and state- 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 147 
 
 ly high-backed chairs set at intervals round the wall. At 
 the table in the middle sat Colonel Wharncliffe, turning 
 over the leaves of the great Bible. Benches were set for 
 the few outsiders who ventured to the service, and for the 
 servants, while, near the hearth, sat Mrs. Wharncliffe, and 
 her daughters, Joyce in her customary corner, close to the 
 tall clock. The evenings were now so light that to have 
 drawn the red curtains would but have excited greater 
 notice, and the little congregation met in some fear, keep- 
 ing ever a sentinel at the window to warn them of the ap- 
 proach of any danger. It seemed to Hugo that Joyce was 
 the most nervous and yet the most courageous of the party. 
 He used to watch her very narrowly during those services. 
 The alert, watchful, anxious look on her sweet, childish 
 face touched him greatly. 
 
 The hour for the service had struck, and there was the 
 customary sound under his gallery of the trampling of 
 thick boots as the country folk made their way from the 
 kitchen to the hall. But on this Sunday, instead of taking 
 their places as usual the Noncomformists stood in a group, 
 and Hurst, tJ e gardener, went across to Colonel Wharn- 
 cliffe. 
 
 " If you please, sir," he said, quite loud enough for all 
 present to hear " if you please, sir, a special post has 
 been through the village, they say, and he has brought 
 news of a plot to kill the king, which they do say was 
 planned by the Whigs, sir." 
 
 Colonel Wharncliffe looked up quickly. 
 
 " To kill the king ?" he said, incredulously. 
 
 " Ay, sir," replied Hurst ; " to kill the king and the duke 
 too, sir." 
 
 " Who heard the news at first hand ?" asked the Colonel, 
 looking from one to another of the little group. 
 
 "I, sir," said the village cobbler, stepping forward. 
 
 " And I, sir," repeated another villager, younger and 
 more impulsive-looking. 
 
 "What was the exact news?" said Colonel Wharncliffe ; 
 and Hugo, from his gallery, tried hard to read his grave 
 face, but could not. 
 
 "The post brought word, sir, that all London was in 
 alarm at the revealin' of a plot to kill the king, sir." 
 
 "And the Duke of York," added the cobbler. 
 
 " Ay, and the duke too. The plot was revealed by two 
 brothers, sir; at least, they say the younger was forced to 
 it by his brother against his will." 
 
148 IN THE GOLDEN BAYS. 
 
 Hugo gasped, and clutched at the railings for support. 
 
 " Did the post mention any names?" said the Colonel. 
 
 " Ay, sir. Keeling was the name of the two broth- 
 ers ; and they say the eldest was a salter in the City, and 
 thought to take a leaf out of Dr. Oates's book." 
 
 At this Hugo breathed more freely. There had then 
 been others reluctantly forced into this hateful work of 
 playing the spy, and he, at any rate, was not responsible 
 for the general revelation. But, alas, he was responsible 
 for the danger that would now more than ever threaten 
 Colonel Wharncliffe. 
 
 "And when was the plot to have been carried out?" 
 said the Colonel. " Said he naught of that ?" 
 
 "Ay, sir, that he did," said both, in a breath. "The 
 king was to have been stopped on his way back from New- 
 market, sir, in a narrow part of the highway, nigh upon 
 Mr. Rumbold's house at Bye." 
 
 "And both were to have been killed, sir," said the cob- 
 bler, "both the king and his brother; and they do say it 
 would have been done in the spring but for the fire at 
 Newmarket, and the king's going back sooner than ex- 
 pected." 
 
 " And some say that it was but put off till next Queen 
 Elizabeth's day," chimed in the younger man. 
 
 " Said he aught of those arrested ? Named he any well- 
 known men ?" 
 
 " No names, sir; but he spoke of arrests that were being 
 made, and said tbat warrants were being issued whereby all 
 suspected of not favoring the king might be had up." 
 
 Colonel Wharncliffe seemed to meditate for a few mo- 
 ments ; then looking up once more, he thanked the men 
 for their information, and said that they would now pro- 
 ceed with the usual service. 
 
 The excitement soon died away, and a g;reat calm fell 
 upon the little assembly as Colonel Wharncliffe read of the 
 three men who would not bow down to the great image 
 which Nebuchadnezzar the king had set up, and of how 
 walking through the furnace itself, they found gain 
 ins{ead of loss. After that he prayed long and earnestly 
 for all those who might be in danger through the news of 
 this reported plot ; in his prayer was nothing agitated or 
 even anxious he was too calm and too good a man to be 
 easily disturbed by evil tidings. 
 
 But in the gallery a storm raged. No calm could come 
 to Hugo in his present state. Never even in all these long 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 149 
 
 weeks of sliame and misery, had he suffered so acutely as 
 now. The very sight of the peaceful assembly down be- 
 low seemed to accentuate his wretchedness. How little 
 they dreamed that this was their last Sunday ! How little 
 they dreamed that foes were even now seeking the colo- 
 nel's life ! And he had brought it all upon them he, the 
 guest, the kinsman, he to whom all kindness and hospital- 
 ity had been shown he had betrayed them. 
 
 Loathing himself, he looked back in a sort of amaze to 
 think that his own act could have brought him into such 
 a hateful position. Could it indeed be that he Lad ever 
 had the chance of doing otherwise ? It had not seemed in 
 his power to escape from that first stealthy visit to Mondis- 
 field. Had it really been in his power ? Had he, through 
 lack of some perception, some thought, some prompt as- 
 sertion of principle, taken the irrevocable step which must 
 lead to a whole chain of results of which he had never 
 dreamed ? And yet again and again there had been mo- 
 ments when he might have turned back. He might have 
 disobeyed Randolph, and refused to follow him from Long- 
 bridge Hall on an expedition which from the first aroused 
 his suspicions. He might have died the death of a martyr 
 in that very gallery, and purchased eternal honor instead 
 of, as now, eternal shame. And now he lay in this furnace 
 of pain, the fiery furnace which he had kindled for himself, 
 and he knew that hell itself could contain nothing more 
 frightful than this looking back on the past with the full 
 consciousness of his failure and the full consciousness of 
 what that fault of his was bringing upon others. He was 
 in the cleansing fires, and those in the hall below were in 
 the heavenly calm of communion with the Unseen, wrap- 
 ping them around from all the cares and troubles of the 
 outer world. 
 
 The sight of them took him back to that Sunday morning 
 a lifetime ago it felt to him now when he had seen them in 
 the barn. The o)d minister had spoken words which he had 
 never forgotten, perhaps because at the time he had so little 
 understood them. "Men can rise above the circumstances in 
 which they are placed." He had not risen ; he had been drag- 
 ged down, was even now being dragged irresistibly down 
 by Randolph's strong will. But " men can rise." That was 
 for him in very truth a gospel. From the perception of all 
 that was involved in that "can " he was not long in passing 
 to the " I will." And above all the grave Puritan discourse, 
 above the devils' voices which mocked him with his 
 
150 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 weakness, and with the dangers of the way, there floated 
 in to him the anthem which he had heard from his child- 
 hood at the Temple Church " I will arise and go to my 
 Father." 
 
 Then slowly and l>y degrees his duty began to dawn 
 upon him. The first step in the upward progress taken 
 revealed the second. It was a hard one. Nevertheless he 
 took it resolutely, manfully. By this time the congrega- 
 tion was beginning to disperse. Hugo bent forward, 
 caught Joyce's eye, and deliberately signed to her to come 
 up to the gallery. Then, raising himself, he made his way 
 with some difficulty into the little room beyond, and there 
 awaited her. 
 
 She came in quickly, with an exclamation of surprise and 
 a smile of eager congratulation. 
 
 "Why, Karl! have you walked in here? 'Tis the first 
 time you have walked alone !" 
 
 He was standing beside the window which looked out at 
 the back of the house and right down the oak avenue, 
 where he had last walked with Randolph and Peter. 
 
 "The first time you have walked alone!" Her words 
 seemed to him to bear a deeper meaning than she had in- 
 tended; he smiled a very little, even in the midst of his 
 pain. 
 
 But Joyce was quick at reading faces, and she saw at 
 once that he was suffering. 
 
 "You are worse, Karl. What is the matter?" she said, a 
 sudden terror taking possession of her as the pain in his 
 face deepened. 
 
 "I begged you to come," he began, speaking quickly and 
 yet forcibly; "I desired to see you, that I might confess a 
 grave wrong which I fear will injure your father." 
 
 "Karl.!" she exclaimed, trembling, " you speak English ? 
 You knew it all the time ?" 
 
 " Call me not Karl !" he said, speaking with an effort. 
 "That name must be forever hateful to me. Joyce, 
 Cousin Joyce ! I am no musician, no German ; I am your 
 miserable kinsman, Hugo Wharncliffe." 
 
 " ^ou are Hugo Wharncliffe !" she repeated, with a look 
 of utter bewilderment. 
 
 " Ay ; would to Heaven I were not !" he said, passion- 
 ately ; would to Heaven I were not !" 
 
 He turned away, trying to hide from her the rush of 
 shame and anguish that overwhelmed him. 
 
 There was a long silence. Presently her voice fell upon 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 151 
 
 his car. She spoke very gravely, very gently, and there 
 was in her tone a curious touch of sadness, as though she 
 knew that behind this strange confession there lay some 
 grievous wrong. 
 
 " Cousin Hugo" she just touched his arm " Cousin 
 Hugo, you must sit down, or you will overtire yourself." 
 
 He obeyed her, being, in fact, scarcely able to stand 
 longer. 
 
 Again there was silence. At last Joyce spoke. 
 
 "Why did you seek to injure my father?" she said, 
 struggling hard to repress the indignation that raged 
 within her. 
 
 "God knows I did not seek to injure him," said Hugo. 
 
 "Ah!" a light broke upon her "it was, then, that 
 other, the one whom we called your father ! Ah ! I kuew 
 I knew from the first that he was hard and bad and 
 cruel. And I might have known that you would not have 
 done it." 
 
 " Nay," he said, " nay, blame him not. If his was the 
 brain to conceive, mine was the arm to execute. Joyce, 
 Joyce, have pity on me ! Hate me not ; hate the crime, 
 but for Heaven's sake do not hate me !" 
 
 " How could I hate you ?" she exclaimed. " I hate you ? 
 If 
 
 Her sweet eyes met his fully ; it was all he could do to 
 strangle the passionate words of love which rose to his 
 lips. But this was no fit moment to speak ; with an effort 
 which seemed to rend his very heart, he turned from 
 thoughts of Joyce and of love to the torturing thought of 
 his crime, and the tardy reparation for which he must strive. 
 
 " Listen to me," he said, almost sternly. " My brother 
 brought me to this house last October. We overlooked a 
 meeting which was being held here. That assured him of 
 one bit of evidence against your father. He brought me 
 again a month since, to search for surer evidence still. 
 We found ourselves locked into this part of the house. 
 The only way to search the premises was to climb over the 
 gallery, and so into the hall. He bade me do it I refused. 
 Then he threatened to shoot me on the spot, and I 
 yielded." 
 
 His voice sunk, he writhed under the remembrance, 
 writhed under the torture of confessing his weakness to 
 Joyce. 
 
 " And you found something ?" said the girl. 
 
 " Ay, I found papers which I fear will make it go hard 
 
L<32 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 with your father. The greater number my brother bore 
 away with him. But one book of manuscripts was too 
 large for him to carry, and Le left it with me till his re- 
 turn." 
 
 He unlocked the case belonging to his lute, and showed 
 ber a book secreted there. 
 
 " This at least I can restore," he said, " this confession I 
 can at least make ; your father may yet find safety in flight, 
 and, by all that is holy, I swear that I will never give evi- 
 dence against him !" 
 
 Joyce did not in the least realize all that this promise 
 would involve, but there was that in Hugo's manner which 
 made the tears rush to her eyes. 
 
 " And you would have me bear these tidings to my fath- 
 er ?" she said, gently. 
 
 He signed an assent and turned away, too miserable to 
 speak another word. 
 
 Joyce stood still for a minute, thinking. 
 
 " Cousin Hugo," she said, presently, " tell me one thing ; 
 I think it must have been you who fought that bad man last 
 October outside the park ; I think I feel sure it was you 
 who warned us that Sunday in the barn. Is it not so ?" 
 
 " God bless you for remembering !" he exclaimed, pas- 
 sionately. And, turning, he hastily raised her hand to his 
 lips and kissed it. 
 
 " Be not too miserable," she said ; " be glad at least in 
 this ; that this has happened with our father rather than 
 with one of harder nature. Oh ! he will be very good to 
 you, he will bear no malice." 
 
 And with this comfort she left the room, while Hugo flung 
 himself down on the bed, well aware that his kinsman's 
 forgiveness would be worse to bear than blows. 
 
 He waited long in an agony of shame and remorse. The 
 room was now almost dark, and in the soft gray of the mid- 
 summer sky he could see stars shining out one by one. Pres- 
 ently the door at the foot of the staircase was opened, and 
 some one came up bearing a lamp. He listened appre- 
 hensivply. It was a man's tread, it was doubtless Colonel 
 Wharncliffe. Burying his face in the pillow, he waited, 
 motionless, while the steps drew nearer and nearer. Could 
 he now have felt the cold muzzle of Randolph's pistol 
 once more at his head he would have welcomed it and courted 
 death. 
 
 He heard his kinsman enter and close the door behind 
 him, and then he also closed the half-glass door which led 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 153 
 
 into the gallery, then he set down the lamp and drew a 
 chair to the bedside. 
 
 Still Hugo did not move a muscle. 
 
 " My daughter Joyce has delivered your message to me," 
 he began, in his grave voice. 
 
 A sort of shudder passed through the form on the bed. 
 
 "My poor lad," continued the colonel, "I am right 
 grieved for you. *Your mother, a noble lady whom I loved 
 well, would have been sore at heart could she have fore- 
 seen this day." 
 
 An uncontrollable sob escaped Hugo. Such a reference 
 at such a time was almost more than he could endure. 
 
 " Do not for one moment think that I blame you," said 
 the colonel. "God forbid that I should judge you in 
 aught. And, indeed, I can well perceive how cruelly your 
 circumstances made for your fall. I blame you not, I will 
 never blame you." 
 
 " Kill me not with kindness !" said Hugo, starting up and 
 revealing his haggard, agitated face. " Bather blame me, 
 for I am to be blamed." 
 
 "Nay," said the colonel, gravely. "Christ permitteth 
 us not to rebuke those who, having offended against us, 
 have repented. For such there must be naught but for- 
 giveness. Why, niy poor lad, who would be benefited by 
 blame or rebuke? Already you know full well all that 
 your wrong-doing will bring to pass. What need of words 
 of mine ?" 
 
 For a few moments there was silence. Hugo, keenly 
 conscious of the contrast between this man's noble gener- 
 osity and his own treachery, humbled to the dust by the 
 perception of his own meanness,, was yet irresistibly at- 
 tracted to his kinsman. We hate those whom we injure 
 just so long as we do not repent of the injury. But the 
 forgiver by his very divineness attracts. 
 
 " If you will only conceal % yourself ," began Hugo, eager- 
 ly. "There is yet one thing* thatd can do to make some 
 sort of reparation, though that, indeed, is too great a word 
 for such slight amends." 
 
 "Joyce mentioned to me something of the sort. She 
 says that you propose not to give evidence against me." 
 
 " That is the least I can do," said Hugo, quickly. 
 
 "I could not let you make such a sacrifice," said the 
 colonel. " You are very young, you hardly realize what it 
 would involve." 
 
 " Sir," said Hugo, " sacrifice is hardly a suitable word 
 
154: IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 as between yourself and me. Torture me not by refusing 
 to accept the only amends in my power. It is no question 
 of sacrifice, but of plain duty." 
 
 " Nobly spoken," said the colonel. " Yet remember that 
 this course will bring you into certain trouble. You will 
 incur imprisonment, and our prisons are such hells on 
 earth that I shrink from the thought of such a thing for 
 you." 
 
 " Think not of me !' : broke in Hugo, passionately. 
 " Why will you speak of naught else ? I am outside the 
 question altogether. Think of your own safety, of your 
 wife, of your children. Escape or hide while there is yet 
 time." 
 
 " You speak your innermost heart in all truth ?" ques- 
 tioned the colonel. 
 
 " Yes, a thousand times over," said Hugo. " Think of 
 them, and let me bear the natural consequences of what I 
 have done. Bring hither a Bible, and I will swear to you 
 never to breathe aught against you." 
 
 " Nay," said the colonel, "an oath is no more sacred than a 
 promise. I will trust your word. I hold not in all things 
 with the Quakers, but yet it seems to me that the reckless 
 swearing of these days imports an element of profaneness 
 even into an oatb taken with due solemnity. I will trust 
 your word." 
 
 " Then," said Hugo, firmly, " I promise that I will never 
 give evidence against you. I thank you for your trust." 
 
 He fell back again on the bed, exhausted by all that he 
 had passed through, but yet feeling already a lessening of 
 the intolerable load which had for so long weighed upon 
 him. 
 
 They fell to talking of the news from London, and the 
 Colonel explained to Hugo his views, which were almost 
 identical with those of Sidney. Of the plot to murder the 
 king and the duke he had not heard a single word, and, 
 since plots were in those times so often the mere fabrica- 
 tion of the enemies of the accused, he was inclined to dis- 
 credit it altogether. 
 
 The two talked far into the night, Hugo telling his kins- 
 man of his acquaintance with Colonel Sidney, of his stay at 
 Penshurst, of his London life, 'and of his relations toward 
 his brother. The Colonel grew more and more interested 
 in a character which seemed to him so full of promise^ and 
 so cruelly fettered by its surroundings. A youth who had 
 kept himself from all grossness in the court of King Charles 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 155 
 
 was, indeed, almost a phenomenon. And there was no 
 mistaking Hugo's genuine purity of heart and life. 
 
 Colonel Wharncliffe was in truth almost diverted from 
 the thought of his own peril by tbe perception of the great 
 difficulties which lay before this son of his old friend. For 
 himself, he was an old soldier, and had liver 1 through many 
 dangers. Moreover, he was constitutionally brave. It is 
 not always easy, however, for brave people to be brave for 
 others, and he shrunk not a little from the thought of all the 
 suffering which lay before his young kinsman, who, after 
 all, was more sinned against than sinning. 
 
 " I have warned the village cobbler to let me know at 
 once should any suspicious looking party arrive in the 
 village. Therefore, if your brother, with any officer 
 capable of making an arrest, arrives by that road, we shall 
 be warned in time." 
 
 " You will not make your escape at once ?" asked Hugo. 
 
 " There is no need/' said the colonel. " I have a sure 
 hiding-place close at hand. Precisely where it is I will not 
 inform you, in order that, if put to the proof, you may with 
 truth deny all knowledge of my movements. And now I 
 will bid you good-night ; had I but found before that you 
 were my kinsman you should have had the guest-chamber. 
 After all, though, I doubt whether we could have safely 
 moved you." 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 REPARATION. 
 
 Love give me strength, 
 
 And strength shall help afford. 
 
 Romeo and Juliet. 
 
 LEFT once more to himself Hugo, still greatly agitated 
 by all he had suffered that evening, found sleep impossible. 
 True, even in the midst of his shame and perplexity, he 
 already felt something of the relief of confession, but with 
 the relief there was a bewildering consciousness that this 
 was only a brief pause, a sort of breathing space, betwixt 
 his confession and the certain results of his wrong-doing. 
 Another day, a few hurs, and he might be a prisoner, 
 with another man's life under the protection of his strength 
 of purpose. A few hours, and he might be borne away 
 
156 IN THE GOLDEN DAY?. 
 
 from Mondisfield forever ! A few hours, and he might 
 have looked his last on Joyce ! No wonder that sleep re- 
 fused to come to his excited brain. Wearily he tossed 
 to and fro on his pallet-bed, weighing the probabili- 
 ties of the future, alternating between wild hopes 
 and ghastly fears, and, worse than all, haunted by 
 the thought that Randolph's will might a second time 
 overpower his, a second time make him a traitor to his con- 
 science. Then he wandered back again to thoughts of 
 Algernon Sidney, and he wondered whether it would be 
 possible to write to him, tell him the whole truth, and ask 
 his advice. Often in these wretched weeks of waiting he 
 had pondered the feasibility of such a plan, but had al- 
 ways been debarred by the impossibility of not writing 
 such a letter as would betray his real character, and prove 
 him not to be Karl, the German lutist. 
 
 And now, alas ! another obstacle had ariseu. He might 
 write a letter in his own character, but to do so would 
 perchance involve Colonel Sidney in his disgrace. At all 
 costs he must not risk that, he must die in silence rather 
 than bring him into danger if indeed he were not al- 
 already in danger, as was only too probable. 
 
 That he should escape when all the Whigs were suspected, 
 that he should be allowed fair play when there was a chance 
 of seizing him, was, indeed, a consummation devoutly to 
 be wished, but not in the least to be expected. A plot to 
 murder the king and the duke ! Why, Algernon Sidney 
 would be one of the first to be arrested, bis foes would be 
 so thankful for any excuse for getting him out of the 
 way. 
 
 This dangerous man, this avowed republican, whose mur- 
 der had again and again been attempted by the court 
 party, who was more feared than anybody, because "it 
 was known he could not be corrupted ;"* that, while others 
 might be bought over to the royal interests, Sidney, 
 sternly incorruptible, would remain forever true to his own 
 principles. 
 
 Hugo could only hope that he might retire to France, 
 and find again safety in exile, but the weary sense of his 
 own helplessness, and the fears which he knew were well- 
 founded, weighed heavily on his heart, while again and 
 
 * See Sidney's "Apology." The remark was made by one of 
 his friends and given in explanation of the great hostility of the 
 court party. 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 157 
 
 again he recollected the grim foreboding of coming evil 
 which had oppressed him at their last parting. 
 
 Sidney's words rang in his ears, but they rang now like 
 a death-knell, though at the same time they had been 
 cheerfully spoken : 
 
 " We shall meet again in London !" 
 Ay, in London. But where? 
 
 It was not until the sunrise that sleep came to him, still- 
 ing for a time the weary train of apprehensive thoughts. 
 The household was soon after astir, the dairy-maid churn- 
 ing, the cow-boy coming in with the morning milk, the 
 gardener mowing the bowling-green, and whistling as he 
 sharpened his scythe. But Hugo WBS sleeping too sound- 
 ly to be disturbed ; he did not even hear the steps which 
 sometime later ascended the little staircase ; he did not 
 hear his door open, or know that one stood beside his bed, 
 looking down at him sadly, and with fatherly pity. 
 Colonel Wharncliffe was obliged to rouse him. 
 He started up at the sound of his name, and the face, so 
 peaceful in sleep, instantly resumed its expression of suf- 
 fering and of strained anxiety. 
 
 " I came to bid you farewell," said the colonel. * It is 
 as we feared ; the cobbler has brought me word that a 
 stranger has arrived this morning at the village inn, and 
 with him Sir Peregrine Blake and two constables, with 
 half a dozen men in attendance. They have stopped at 
 the inn, and will breakfast there before proceeding. " 
 
 " Escape, then ; escape while there is time !" said Hugo, 
 eagerly. " Why linger here with me?" 
 
 " I would have you escape with me," said the colonel. 
 " Share my hiding-place. Even were we found, your fate 
 could scarcely be worse than it will be now." 
 
 " And who would meet my brother ?" said Hugo. 
 " Who would bear the brunt of the inquiries ? who would 
 suffer from his wrath ? Your wife, perhaps your daugh- 
 ters. Ah ! you look incredulous, but you do not know my 
 brother." 
 
 " In that case I will stay with them myself," said the 
 colonel, composedly. 
 
 " No," broke in Hugo, passionately, " you must not, you 
 shall not stay. I beg you I implore you let me make 
 the only amends in my power. Have I not given you my 
 word ? Would you have me go back from it ?" 
 
 "My poor lad, I believe that you are indeed as brave and 
 as true ay, and as faithful to me as my own son might 
 
158 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 have been. But, look you, this will be a hard matter, and 
 you are but young very young." 
 
 " Not too young to suffer," said Hugo, resolutely, " or to 
 hold my tongue. Sir, I thank you for your kindness, but 1 
 can not and will not escape." 
 
 "Then," said the colonel, solemnly, "may the Almighty 
 strengthen you and bless you. Farewell, my son." 
 
 He wruDg his hand, and turned away. 
 
 It was not till he had "Seen gone some time that Hugo 
 recollected the manuscript book, which, in all the haste 
 and confusion, had been left behind in his lute-case. He 
 took it forth, hastily rearranged his dress, then, giving one 
 last look round the little room in which he had undergone 
 so much, he made his way, for the first time since his acci- 
 dent, down the steep stairs and into the hall. 
 
 The first person he met was Joyce. 
 
 She was looking very pale and anxious. The thought 
 that he had brought this suffering upon her was almost 
 more than he could endure; but it was no time to think of 
 personal pain, or even of self-reproach. Stifling the words 
 of regret and shame which rose to his lips, he abruptly 
 opened the subject that was of real importance. 
 
 " Cousin Joyce," he said, " your father bore not with him 
 this book of treatises. It must be hidden right speedily, 
 or we shall be undone." 
 
 She mechanically held out her hand for it, and motioned 
 to him to sit down in one of the high-backed chairs. 
 
 "You should not have walked down alone, Cousin Hugo; 
 you look very ill. But, oh, tell me tell me quick where to 
 hide this. I can think of naught this morning, my head is 
 so weary." 
 
 " Could you not burn it ?" said Hugo. 
 
 "There is but the kitchen fire, and the maids are in the 
 kitchen, and would see all." 
 
 "Then tie a stone to it and fling it in the moat," he said, 
 decidedly. "And make all possible speed. Oh, if I only 
 had the use of my limbs !" He broke off in uncontrollable 
 impatience, chafed almost beyond endurance at feeling that 
 he, the only available man, the sole protector of the house- 
 hold, was invalided. 
 
 " Vex not yourself," said Joyce, soothingly ; " I will in- 
 deed make haste. See, I will not linger one moment." 
 
 She ran swiftly out of the hall, found a weight and a 
 cord, tied the book securely, and hurried out bareheaded 
 from the back door. The morning was fine, the hot mid- 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 159 
 
 summer sun beat full down upon her as she ran, glancing 
 apprehensively across the water into the park, to see if any 
 witnesses were in sight. All was still and peaceful, how- 
 ever ; cruelly peaceful, it seemed to Joyce. How could the 
 birds sing so distractingly, how could the cattle graze 
 with such provoking calmness, how could all nature bear 
 so composed a face, when her father lay concealed within 
 his own house, deeming himself secure, indeed, but yet 
 running no small risk of discovery should a thorough 
 search of the premises be instituted ? And Hugo ! Come 
 what might, he must suffer ; come what might, he must be 
 borne away by the cruel brother who had already once 
 threatened to shoot him, and who was. doubtless, quite 
 capable of doing the deed. Joyce's heart felt fit to 
 break as she thought of it ; the tears blinded her eyes, but 
 she dashed them away, that she might see how best to drop 
 the precious book. For now she stood on the little wooden 
 bridge, and had not Hugo bade her be quick ? One more 
 hurried glance around, then she threw the book over the rail 
 and watched it splash down into the water below. In a dull 
 mechanical sort of way she watched the widening circles in 
 the water as they grew fainter and fainter. Presently all was 
 calm once more, and the book was securely buried in its 
 watery grave. But yet something had happened which made 
 Joyce clutch at the railing of the bridge and turn deathly, 
 white. For, as the circles died away upon the water a faint, 
 monotonous sound fell upon her ear ; she scarcely knew, 
 at first, whether it might not be the beating of her own 
 heart She paused and listened once more. Nearer and 
 nearer that dreaded sound was fast approaching " One- 
 two, one-two, one-two !" Horses' hoofs, beyond a doubt ! 
 The horsemen who were coming to seek her father's 
 ruin; the horsemen who would assuredly bear Hugo 
 away. 
 
 Well, at least she would tell him the book was safe ; 
 at least she would bid him farewell. 
 
 Breathlessly she hurried to the hall. Hugo was still 
 leaning back in the chair beside the hearth, where she had 
 left him. 
 
 " Cousin Hugo," she exclaimed, " it is safe ; but, oh, I 
 hear the sound of horsemen in the distance ! " 
 
 Her face was blanched with fear. 
 
 " Will you not trust me ?" he said, quietly. " I would 
 sooner die than betray your father." 
 
 " Trust you !" she cried. " Ay, I would trust you before 
 
160 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 all the world. But, oh ! Cousin Hugo, it is for you that I 
 fear. What may they not do to you ?" 
 
 " I can not tell," he replied; " I do not wish to think. It 
 is enough for me if I can, by silence, shelter you. Sweet 
 cousin, do not weep : your tears pain me far more than can 
 their blows." 
 
 Betty and Damaris joined them ere more could be said, 
 and Joyce dried her eyes, and crossed the hall to look 
 forth from the window. 
 
 " They come !" she cried, after a minute's silence, during 
 which Hugo had been trying to understand how the other 
 girls regarded him; whether their trust in his honor was 
 as complete as Joyce's. There was a stir and a commotion 
 all through the house; the members of the family gathered 
 together in the hall; some looked apprehensively at the 
 approaching horsemen, some looked at the slight, boyish 
 figure in the chair by the hearth, upon whom their fate de- 
 pended. Poor Mrs. Wharncliffe sighed as she looked. He 
 was so young, so little able to resist a stronger will. It 
 seemed, indeed, to her that her husband had trusted to a 
 broken reed in trusting to his young kinsman's honor. He 
 might mean well enough, but how could he cope with the 
 guardian who was double his age, and who had three times 
 his force of character ? 
 
 She had yet to learn that character is not ready-made, 
 but is created bit by bit and day by day. 
 
 The horsemen drew nearer, crossed the draw-bridge, rode 
 up to the door, and dismounted. There was a buzz of con- 
 versation without, but within there reigned an unbroken 
 silence. All eyes were turned now upon Hugo. He still 
 leaned back in the chair. Would he never move ? Would 
 he never speak ? Was this their protector ? This the man. 
 upon whom depended their whole future ? 
 
 A thundering knock at the hall door brought Dennis, 
 the man, to open it. 
 
 " Is Colonel Wharncliffe within ? " asked Sir Peregrine 
 Blake. 
 
 " He is away from home, sir," replied the man, com* 
 posetlly. 
 
 The magistrate swore a deep oath. But another voice 
 interrupted him impatiently : 
 
 " Away from home ! I don't believe a word of it. Here, 
 sirrah ! let me enter. The traitor is in hiding somewhere. 
 Jjet us by, you villain ! I tell you we have a warrant for 
 bis arrest. Where is the young German lad ? " 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 161 
 
 Dennis knew that to resist the entrance of the magistrate 
 and the attendants was useless ; he stood aside, and they 
 made their way into the hall. 
 
 " Where is Karl, the lutist ? " reiterated Randolph, im- 
 patiently. 
 
 No one replied, but Hugo slowly raised himself, and 
 walked forward a few paces. 
 
 " There is no one of that name present," he said, quietly. 
 " I have dropped all disguise, Randolph ; our kinsfolk 
 know my name." 
 
 Randolph, taking no notice of any one else, rushed 
 straight up to his brother, seized him by the collar, and 
 shook him much as a cat shakes a mouse preparatory to 
 killing it. 
 
 " What do you mean ?" he said, through his teeth. 
 
 Hugo made no reply. 
 
 "What did you mean?" repeated Randolph. "Have 
 you warned that traitor ?" 
 
 " I confessed to Colonel Wharncliffe that I had played 
 the spy in his house," said Hugo, in a low voice. 
 
 " You warned him, knowing that to do so would ruin my 
 plans ?" 
 
 " I warned him, knowing that it was right to do so." 
 
 " Then take that for your reward !" 
 
 And he dealt him a blow which made him measure his 
 length on the flag-stones. 
 
 There was a sort of subdued exclamation in the group 
 of spectators. The daughters of the house a little group 
 of gray gowns and broad white collars, contrasting 
 strangely with the bright colors worn by the invading 
 body shrunk nearer to their mother, who stood before 
 them like a hen sheltering her chickens. She was very 
 pale, and there was no mistaking the anxiety in her face, 
 but to insult her calm dignity would have been impossible. 
 Randolph took off his hat as he turned to her, and bowed 
 slightly. 
 
 " Madame," he said, " this gentleman" he indicated an 
 officer who stood beside Sir Peregrine " bears a warrant 
 for Colonel Wharncliffe's arrest. He is charged with com- 
 plicity in the plot to kill his majesty and the Duke of 
 York." 
 
 " Whosoever charges him with such a crime charges 
 him falsely," she said, with a calm smile. 
 
 " Madame," continued Randolph, " your husband is 
 charged upon certain evidence ; I myself deposed to his 
 
162 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 disaffection toward the Government, his own papers proved 
 the like, and my brother will confirm all, and render the 
 evidence irrefutable." 
 
 " Never !" exclaimed Hugo, emphatically. 
 He was on his feet again. His eyes flashed as even 
 dreamy gray eyes can flash upon occasion. He looked 
 full at Randolph, as though daring him to do his worst. 
 
 Randolph returned his gaze with one of prolonged, in- 
 quiring scrutiny. This sudden development of resolution, 
 of courage, of opposition, surprised him not a little. It 
 upset all his calculations. 
 
 "More of that anon," he remarked after a pause. Then, 
 turning to Mrs. Wharncliffe, " I must trouble you, madame, 
 to tell us where your husband is." 
 
 " Myhusband is absent," she answered, quietly. "And I 
 can give you no information as to his movements." 
 
 Randolph stepped across to the officer, and they con- 
 sulted together for a minute or two. Then the officer 
 crossed the hall. 
 
 "It will be our duty, madame, to search the premises," 
 he said, " and in the meantime the household will remain 
 here in view of two of my men." 
 
 She bowed assent, and with great dignity moved to one 
 of the carved arm-chairs beside the hearth. The girls fol- 
 lowed her, and stood around her chair. Hugo went back 
 to his old quarters on the other side of the hearth, while 
 at the further end of the hall Sir Peregrine Blake and 
 Randolph sat talking together over the tankards of ale 
 for which they had not scrupled to ask. The two con- 
 stables paced up and down, keeping guard, and wishing 
 themselves with their fellows, who were enjoying a far 
 more exciting game of hide-and-seek. 
 
 Endless seemed the waiting-time to all concerned, but 
 more especially to those who waited beside the hearth. 
 The secret hiding-place was, indeed, hard to find, but if 
 by evil chance they were to come across it ! 
 
 The suspense was a slow agon} T . It required all Mrs. 
 'Wharncliffe's well-bred self-control to prevent her from 
 starting as the steps of the searchers were heard over- 
 head, here, there, and everywhere, about the rambling old 
 house. She heard every sound, every exclamation, every 
 door which was opened or shut. The whole power of her 
 being seemed to have concentrated itself into the sense of 
 hearing. But, for all that, she betrayed no emotion, only 
 sat very still and held little Evelyn's hand fast. 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 163 
 
 At length came the longed-for relief ! The party re- 
 turned, confessing that they had made a thorough search 
 both of the house and of the premises, and that no trace 
 of the colonel was to be found. Little Evelyn could not 
 restrain a relieved smile; the others, taking their cue from 
 their mother,maintained a stately indifference of expression. 
 
 But once again poor Mrs. Wharncliffe trembled as she 
 glanced across to the other side of the hearth. The poor 
 youth, who looked so weary, so worn out in his strength, 
 in his steadfastness, lay their hope for the future ! True, 
 he had made just now a gallant resistance. But the effort 
 seemed to have exhausted his strength. He had collapsed 
 entirely. The fire had gone out of his eyes, the manliness 
 had gone from his bearing, he watched fixedly the brother 
 who had hitherto exercised such a strange influence over 
 him. Oh ! would the old fascination prove too strong for 
 him ? would his resolution fail ? 
 
 She was recalled from her own thoughts by a stormy al- 
 tercation at the other end of the hall. 
 
 " Not found him ? " exclaimed Kandolph. " Idiots ! I 
 tell you he shall be found ! I'll get the truth of that 
 boy ; bring him forward ! " 
 
 The two constables moved toward Hugo, but he waved 
 them back, and he himself walked steadily toward his 
 brother, who, following Sir Peregrine, had approached the 
 table in the middle of the hall. 
 
 " Now, lad," said Sir Peregrine, not unkindly, " I've long 
 ago forgiven you the wound you gave me, and it is as a friend 
 Ixounsel you to obey your brother, and reveal all that you 
 know about this confounded colonel. What is his fate to 
 you ? Your duty to your brother, your duty to your sov- 
 ereign, alike demand that you shall disclose this matter." 
 
 "Sir," said Hugo, respectfully, "you demand what is 
 impossible. " 
 
 "Impossible! What nonsense is this? Impossible! How 
 impossible ?" 
 
 " Impossible, sir, because it is against my conscience." 
 
 Sir Peregrine laughed aloud. 
 
 " By the powers, if that isn't the same thing he said be- 
 fore our duel ! Conscience I know nothing of conscience ! 
 All I know is that you owe duty to your king and to your 
 brother, and that you owe naught to this traitor." 
 
 "Pardon me, sir," said Hugo, "there is one thing we owe 
 to all men, whether they be friends or foes we owe them 
 justice." 
 
164 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 "We waste time bandying words," said Sir Peregrine, 
 impatiently. " It would be much more to the purpose, lad, 
 if you told us when you last saw Colonel Wharncliffe." 
 
 "More to your purpose, sir," said Hugo, quietly, "but 
 not to mine. " 
 
 "Leave him to me, Blake," said Randolph, interposing. 
 " Why attempt to argue with him ? I'll find more convinc- 
 ing arguments than words." 
 
 He laid a firm hand on Hugo's shoulder, and fixing his 
 eyes on him, said, in a low yet strangely forceful voice, 
 
 " Just now, Hugo, you said that you would never give 
 evidence against Colonel Wharncliffe. Do you know that 
 such a refusal will render you guilty of misprision of 
 treason ?" 
 
 " I know that I should be charged with misprision," he 
 replied. 
 
 " You will be charged, and most assuredly found guilty. 
 And the penalty of misprision of treason is imprisonment 
 for life." 
 
 Hugo made a sign of assent, but did not speak. 
 
 "Am I to understand that you will be such a fool as to 
 incur this in order to shelter the foe of your own fam- 
 ily?" 
 
 " I will suffer it in order to make amends for an act of 
 injustice," said Hugo, firmly. 
 
 " I am loath to take you at your word," said Eandolph, 
 his face clouding. " Once more I will give you a chance. 
 Do you refuse to obey me in this matter?" 
 
 " Ay, sir, I respectfully refuse." 
 
 " You will not give evidence against this man ?" 
 
 A shudder ran through the watchers by the hearth. The 
 elder brother had spoken this last appeal more in sorrow 
 than in auger ; there was deep regret, deep appeal in his 
 tone. For an instant it seemed that Hugo wavered. Was 
 there no compromise that he could make? Must he 
 definitely and forever sever himself from Randolph ? Must * 
 he sacrifice his whole life? The struggle was but momen- 
 tary, however. His eye kindled, a great calmness over- 
 spread his face. 
 
 " I will never witness against him, so help me God !" 
 
 The words seemed to vibrate through the little assembly. 
 They had not been spoken loudly, yet they fell upon the 
 ears of all present with a curious power. 
 
 Their effect upon Randolph was extraordinary. In nn 
 instant they changed him from the elder brother, regret- 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 165 
 
 fully showing the effect of this course of action, to the 
 stern, almost cruel avenger. 
 
 " Well, Sir Peregrine," he said, with a laugh, " bring 
 out your inkhorn and make out a warrant for the committal 
 of this young rebel." 
 
 Sir Peregrine obeyed, muttering oaths and ejaculations, 
 which were not complimentary to the rebel in question. 
 
 Hugo scarcely heeded them, however. In a dazed way 
 he watched the magistrate writing slowly and laboriously 
 the order which was to deprive him of his freedom. It is 
 not in the first moments that we realize all the meaning of 
 the future evil, even when we have voluntarily embraced 
 that evil. There is a time of numbness, a time of semi- 
 paralysis, which almost invariably interposes itself between 
 the falling of the blow and the sharpest of the suffering. 
 
 There was no lack of evidence that Hugo had in fact 
 concealed Colonel Wharncliffe's supposed treason. He had 
 made away with the book of manuscripts, had warned him 
 of the danger in which he stood. To obtain the signature 
 for his committal was but the work of a few minutes. 
 
 But Eandolph had not yet done with him. Irritated al- 
 most beyond endurance by the calmness of his bearing he 
 once more laid forcible hands on him. 
 
 " There is more to be had out of this fellow yet, Blake. He 
 has ruined his own chances, but I'll yet have some sort of 
 clew to the colonel's hiding place from him. Find that 
 traitor I will. Here, sirrah, bring me my riding whip." 
 
 Mrs. Wharncliffe stepped forward with an eager appeal. 
 
 " Sir, I implore you to do him no violence." 
 
 But there she checked herself, for Hugo gave her a 
 warning look, she knew that he meant his tormentors to 
 deem by his silence that with him only lay the secret of 
 the colonel's movements. Had the safety of any but her 
 husband depended on her silence, however, she could not 
 have let her guest suffer. But she thought of her hus- 
 band, and went back to the hearth. Evelyn and. Damaris 
 were crying, Betty trying to comfort them ; Frances looked 
 pale and anxious, Robina excited, while Joyce stood, her 
 hands locked tightly together, her eyes dilated, and a 
 burning spot of color in her cheeks. 
 
 " Joyce, my love Joyce," said her mother, softly. 
 
 The girl turned, caught at the hand stretched out to her, 
 and crouched down beside her mother with her face 
 hidden. She did not cry, but she trembled from head to 
 foot. And yet all the time she was making a desperate 
 
166 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 ettort to still herself, for, although to listen was torture, 
 she yet longed to hear whether Hugo spoke or not. 
 
 " When did you confess this to the colonel, and when 
 did you last see him ?" asked the elder brother. " Mark 
 me well, I will flog you till you answer me." 
 
 " Then you may flog till doomsday," was Hugo's reply. 
 
 And after that he never spoke; not a sound was heard 
 in the hall save the sound of the heavy leathern thong as 
 it descended, and the unanswered questions, reiterated 
 from time to time. 
 
 To Joyce it seemed like an eternity. At length the 
 dreadful monotony was broken by an ejaculation from Sir 
 Peregrine Blake. Floggings were very common in those 
 days masters constantly flogged their servants, and par- 
 ents their sons. But they did it in moderation, and had 
 some regard to the consequences. In his wrath Kandolph 
 seemed forgetful of these. He could only take in the one 
 maddening thought that his brother, who had been his 
 obedient tool, was now withholding the one thing which 
 he longed to know. 
 
 " Odds-fish, man ! you'll kill the lad," exclaimed the 
 magistrate. " Be warned by me, and stop, for it would be 
 an awkward thing for a magistrate to have countenanced 
 you." 
 
 Then, as Kandolph took no heed, the magistrate beck- 
 oned to the chief constable. 
 
 " Take the prisoner in charge, Mr. Constable," he said. 
 " He is your property now, and we must put a stop to this 
 game." 
 
 The man, who had very reluctantly witnessed the scene, 
 promptly stepped forward, and intimated to Randolph that 
 the prisoner must be removed. Kandolph, in a violent 
 passion, poured forth a torrent of oaths, but they fell off the 
 constable like water off a duck's back; he quietly motioned 
 to his men to assist him, and together they bore off Hugo's 
 inanimate form to the north parlor. 
 
 One of Sir Peregrine Blake's servants hurried forward as 
 they made their way from the hall. 
 
 "Tire young gentleman's clothes, sir, which we brought 
 from Longbridge ? Shall I bear them to him ?" 
 
 "Ay, ay," said Sir Peregrine, "he'd best go to jail in his 
 own character, not as a strolling musician. Ay, Launce, 
 bear them after him, and bid him make haste and don 
 them." 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 167 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 "IT IS YOUR LOVE I WANT." 
 
 Love, led by faith and fed by hope, is able 
 To travel through the world's wide wilderness; 
 And burdens seeming most intolerable 
 Both to take up and bear with cheerfulness. 
 To do or suffer, what appears in sight 
 Extremely heavy, love will make most light. 
 
 Yea, what by men is done or suffered, 
 Either for God, or else for one another, 
 Though in itself it be much blemished 
 With many imperfections which smother, 
 And drown the worth and weight of it; yet, fall 
 What will or can, love makes amends for all. 
 
 CHRISTOPHER HARVEY. 
 
 ALL this time Colonel Wharncliffe lay securely hidden in 
 the secret room which had served them so well. High up 
 in the wall, just within the cupboard-like entrance to the 
 staircase which led to the gallery, there was a tiny sliding 
 door, large enough to permit a man to creep through it on 
 hands and knees. No one unacquainted with the secret 
 would be in the least likely to discover it, and it could only 
 be reached by means of a ladder. Crawling through the nar- 
 row aperture, you emerged into a good-sized room, not more 
 than five feet high, however, and depending for light and 
 air on some tiny crevices in the outer wall. It was be- 
 tween the ceiling of the south parlor and the floor of the 
 room above, and it would have been quite possible to live 
 in the house for years and never know of the existence of 
 this curiously planned retreat. 
 
 Well supplied with rugs, food, and books, which might 
 be read while sitting close to the largest air-hole, Colonel 
 Wharncliffe might have passed a very tolerable day, had it 
 not been for his great anxiety. Voices and footsteps he 
 could indeed distinguish in his hiding-place, but the con- 
 fused babel only made him more wretched. He longed to 
 come forth and see how matters were going, longed to 
 learn the fate of poor Hugo. He heard the sound of the 
 search-party ransacking every corner of the house, heard 
 steps going up and down the little staircase, and men 
 questioning each other as to the possibility of sliding- 
 panels, within a few yards of his invisible door. But no 
 
168 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 one had found him: and after that came a long, quiet in- 
 terval, when, although he strained every nerve to listen, 
 he could make out nothing, save that some sort of con- 
 clave must be proceeding in the hall. After a time there 
 were sounds as of hurried dispersion ; the servants re- 
 turned to the kitchen, and old nurse came up the gallery 
 stairs with little Evelyn, who was crying. 
 
 " Don't fret, child," he heard her say. " He is a brave 
 lad, and you should be proud of him." 
 
 Then they passed on to the nursery, and once more 
 there was silence. "What could have happened? Hugo 
 had kept his promise, that was evident; but what had they 
 done to him ? 
 
 Again a step on the staircase, and again the closing of 
 the door behind some one who crept up very slowly, and 
 went softly into the gallery. He heard a long, sobbing 
 sigh, but could not tell whom it came from, though he fan- 
 cied that the step was like Joyce's. 
 
 Sir Peregrine, meanwhile, having done his best to talk 
 Randolph into a better temper, and having signally failed, 
 thought that a good dinner was the least that the house- 
 hold could afford him for all the trouble he had taken on 
 this hot summer day. And accordingly every one was has- 
 tening to the kitchen and the buttery, and doing the best 
 that could be done to furnish an unexpected meal for a 
 dozen hungry men. In the confusion, Joyce stole away by 
 herself to the gallery, and crouched down in a shady cor- 
 ner, where she could watch the door of the north parlor 
 without being herself seen. After a time the constable 
 and the two men who had gone in with Hugo returned to 
 the hall. One of them bore the musician's clothes which 
 Hugo had worn as a disguise. The chief constable locked 
 the door behind him, and pocketed the key, then stepped 
 up to Sir Peregrine. 
 
 " The young gentleman has revived, sir, and has donned 
 his own riding-suit, but I doubt whether he be fit to travel 
 to Bishop-Stortford to-night." 
 
 " Fit ! nonsense. Confound your scruples, I tell you he 
 shall be fit !" interposed Randolph. " I'll soon make him 
 fit." 
 
 He rose as though meditating an immediate visit to the 
 prisoner, but the constable made no sign of yielding the 
 key, and Sir Peregrine interposed. 
 
 " Dinner first, my boy, dinner first, to sweeten your 
 tongue and your temper. Ah! here comes a chine of 
 
IN THE GOLDEN BAYS. 169 
 
 beef in the very nick of time. Come, let us fall to, and 
 leave yon poor fellow to digest the leathering you gave 
 him. Come on, come on, I'll do the carving, since your 
 arm may be is a bit weary." 
 
 In the gallery Joyce clinched her hands fiercely as the 
 laughter evoked by this remark rose to her. Then a 
 sudden thought occurred to her. She stole softly down- 
 stairs once more, ran to the kitchen, and snatched up a 
 freshly baked manchet, then to the battery, where she 
 filled a cup with sack, and creeping out unperceived by 
 the back door, she stole along at the back of the house till 
 she came to the window of the \vithdrawing-room, which 
 opened down to the ground. All was very quiet there. 
 
 There were two doors to the withdraw ing-room. One 
 opened at the foot of the great oak staircase, and near to 
 the hall, the other door, facing the window, led to the 
 north parlor. It was just possible that the constable might 
 not have noticed this, and might have left it unlocked. It 
 was a double door. She opened the one on the withdraw- 
 ing-room side, set down her burden, and listened for a mo- 
 ment breathlessly. Hugo was certainly alone. She softly 
 turned the handle of the second door, and found that it 
 yielded. She opened it a very little way, and called him, 
 scarcely above her breath. 
 
 "Cousin Hugo! are you there?" 
 
 He staggered forward, hardly able to believe his own 
 ears. Yet surely it was Joyce who had spoken to him ! 
 
 He flung back the door impatiently. Yes, there she 
 stood, with the cup of wine and the manchet of bread in 
 her hands, and her sweet eyes lifted to his. 
 
 "You you here!" he exclaimed. 
 
 " Hush !" she said, warningly. " Not one word till you 
 have taken these. They say you are to be carried as far as 
 Bishop-Stortford this night, and you so weary already." 
 
 He let her draw up a chair for him, and passively took 
 the bread and wine, which, indeed, he stood in great need 
 of. Joyce stole noiselessly to the locked door leading 
 from the north parlor to the hall. Looking through the 
 key-hole she could see the long table laden with good cheer, 
 and the twelve strangers sitting round it, while her mother 
 sat in the chair by the hearth, with Kobina and the three 
 elder girls standing beside her. 
 
 " They have but just begun their dinner. I shall have 
 time to fetch you more," she said, returning to Hugo. 
 
 " No," he said ; " I could not eat another morsel. Yet, 
 
170 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 if indeed there is time stay with me, sweet cousin ; let me 
 at least bid you farewell. "We are not like to see each 
 other again." 
 
 " Do not say that," she faltered, trying to keep back her 
 tears. 
 
 He looked at her for a minute fixedly looked at her as 
 one who looks at a picture which he would fain carry in 
 his mind to his dying day. The blue eyes with just that 
 mingling of love and pain in them, the sweet mouth a little 
 tremulous, the color coming and going in the rounded 
 cheeks, the sunny brown curls somewhat disordered. 
 
 He glanced round the room and shuddered involuntarily, 
 remembering his midnight search. The old ancestor in 
 the corner still pointed downward with his long taper 
 hand, the eyes of the other pictures still seemed to follow 
 him reproachfully. " You played the spy," they seemed to 
 say. " You, in your kinsman's house, stole like a thief at 
 dead of night. For shame ! For shame I" 
 
 " Joyce !" he said, as if appealing against the verdict of 
 the pictures " Joyce, say once more that you forgive me 
 say once more that you do not hate me I" 
 
 " In truth," she sobbed, " you have more than repaid all 
 the injury, you have wiped it out forever." 
 
 " Say, then, that you do not hate me." 
 
 " Hate you !" she sobbed. " How could I ?" 
 
 "Ah, more than that!" he cried, in a low, passionate 
 voice ; " Joyce, Joyce it is your love I want your love ! 
 Yet I have ruined your home I dare not ask it I can 
 not. But, Joyce, I love you love you love yon ! Wild 
 horses shall tear me ere I breathe one word to hurt your 
 father." 
 
 She did not speak, but just stooped and kissed him. 
 
 "God bless you for that !" he cried. "You pardon me 
 by that kiss, you say you trust me !" 
 
 " Ay," she whispered softly. "Ay, and love you." 
 
 " Say it again !" he exclaimed, drawing her toward him. 
 " Say it once more, and I will be strong to meet death and 
 torture !" 
 
 She flushed rosy red, but repeated the words just above 
 her breath. 
 
 " I love you, my brave knight I love you." 
 
 " Ah, not brave," he sighed ; " but going to be, in the 
 strength of your love, my heart ! my queen ! my help- 
 er !" 
 
 Poor children ! their bliss was but short-lived. All too 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 171 
 
 soon Hugo's love warned him of the danger which Joyce 
 incurred by lingering. 
 
 " No more of this," he said, gently. " My dear one, you 
 must not stay. I risk your name your safety, Eandolph 
 stands at nothing. One last kiss then to prison with a 
 strong heart. My own, my life, God bless you !" 
 
 " Make me one promise ere we part," she said. " Prom- 
 ise that you will ever trust my father. Promise that you 
 will come back to him when you are free." 
 
 "Ay," he said, smiling, but very sadly. "I promise, 
 when I am free." 
 
 Hand in hand they crossed the room to the double door, 
 then, once more he clasped her in his arms, kissing 
 her again and again. No words now, for they were both 
 of them past speaking. Their parting was a silent 
 one. Very gently he put her from him, watched her cross 
 the room and pass out the window, then turned back to 
 his prison, closing behind him the doors which had proved 
 for him the very portals of hope. 
 
 Before long the other door was unlocked, and the chief 
 constable entered. 
 
 " You must follow me, sir," he said. " The horses are in 
 readiness. I am sorry I can't get permission to fetch you 
 any victuals, but your guardian will not permit it." 
 
 " Thank you, I have need of nothing," said Hugo, com- 
 posedly. 
 
 The constable looked at him in amaze. Was this the 
 same man whom he had borne into the parlor but an hour 
 before ? And in fact the whole household the whole 
 household, at least, with one exception shared in the 
 amaze. Had Hugo doffed his old nature with his musi- 
 cian's garb and donned a new character with a crimson 
 doublet ? They had looked to see him pale, cowed, scarcely 
 able to walk and behold, here he was bearing himself 
 with a dignity which was altogether foreign to him, 
 moving slowly, indeed, and not without difficulty, but bear- 
 ing his head high, as though he were the possessor of some 
 new and unknown strength. His dreamy gray eyes shone 
 with a light that was strangely incomprehensible to all the 
 spectators. His 6ld expression of easy indifference had 
 given place to an air that seemed almost triumphant. His 
 pale face was slightly flushed. What was the meaning of 
 it all ? Was it thus that such as Hugo went to what would 
 almost inevitably prove a lifelong imprisonment ? Was it 
 thus that he bade farewell to a life which might have been 
 
172 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 full of all things which men most prize ? Was it thus that 
 he turned his back on court favor, on pleasure, on freedom 
 itself ? 
 
 Randolph watched him curiously as he walked down the 
 hall to the table in the centre, where one of the constables 
 was waiting for him with a pair of handcuffs. With a 
 touch of his old philosophic calm he held out his hands 
 passively and allowed the irons to be placed on his wrists 
 without a word. It was Mrs. Wharncliife who interceded 
 for him. 
 
 " Sir," she said, turning to Sir Peregrine, " surely you 
 may spare him this indignity. Surely you may trust him." 
 
 " Far from it !" broke in Randolph, with a bitter laugh, 
 " I would trust him with naught. These handcuffs were 
 meant for } r our husband, madame, and my brother has 
 donned them of his own accord. I am not to blame." 
 
 Hugo glanced wistfully across to the little group by the 
 hearth. Joyce had half hidden herself behind Betty and 
 Damaris, but for one instant their eyes met. 
 
 Just that one mute farewell he dared not risk a second, 
 lest Randolph should mark it. He turned to Mrs. Wharn- 
 cliffe and kissed her hand. 
 
 " Madame," he said, quickly, " I thank you for your hos- 
 pitality and your kindness, and I pray your forgiveness 
 for all." 
 
 He could not speak of what was most at his heart, but 
 he repeated again in an undertone, and very fervently, 
 " Your forgiveness for all when you know all." 
 
 To find words in which to answer him was almost as dif- 
 ficult for her. How could she thank him with all those 
 hostile ears listening? To do so. would but increase his 
 difficulties. All she could do was by look and touch to 
 convey to him her deep gratitude. 
 
 " Farewell," she said, her voice quivering a little, " Fare- 
 well, cousin, and Gk>d bless you." 
 
 He glanced swiftly round the hall, up to the gallery 
 where he had lived through so much, and where from the 
 background the calm-faced nun looked down upon him ; 
 round to the picture of the man struggling in the waves, 
 his constant heart dreading no danger ; then up to his own 
 picture as a little innocent child, free from all penalty of 
 error, his hands toying with a spaniel, and little deeming 
 that one day they should wear shameful fetters. 
 
 In the meantime Sir Peregrine and Randolph had bade 
 farewell to Mrs. Wharncliffe, and the chief constable had 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 173 
 
 drawn up his men around the prisoner in impressive order. 
 Another moment, and he gave the order to march out to 
 the great door where the horses were awaiting them. 
 Hugo found his own chestnut there ; it had been brought 
 by one of the grooms from Longbridge Hall, where it had 
 been quartered for some weeks. The sight gave him 
 pleasure ; it was something to have his favorite, even for 
 what would in all probability prove his last ride. 
 
 Scarcely was he mounted when the nurse came out has- 
 tily, bearing his lute-case. 
 
 " You have left this, sir," she said. 
 
 Amid some laughter one of the constables fastened it to 
 the saddle, making some rough joke about the musician 
 taking his music with him to jail. But Hugo was proof 
 against jokes, for the nurse had whispered to him that he 
 should search inside, and he had some hope that Joyce 
 might have left him a message in it. 
 
 And now indeed the last moment had come, the house- 
 hold was gathered together at the door to watch their de- 
 parture. Many of the eyes that watched him were dim 
 with tears ; in all he could read gratitude, in some he 
 could read love. 
 
 Joyce clung to her mother, but never took her eyes off 
 Hugo that upright figure on the chestnut horse, the 
 figure in crimson doublet and Spanish sombrero, with the 
 strange, new dignity of expression, and the eyes bright 
 with noble, self-sacrificing love with love for her. 
 
 And it was naught to her that Sir Peregrine quarreled 
 with his servants, and that Randolph swore at every one 
 who approached him. She heeded only one thing in all 
 the confusion. Just at the last she heard her lover's voice 
 pleading rather anxiously with one of the constables. 
 
 " I can manage him, spite of the irons, ' he said ; " he 
 will go better for me than for you with free hands." 
 
 *'I can not help it, sir, I must have the reins," said the 
 man. And the prisoner, with a gesture of impatience, 
 made them over to him. 
 
 " Are you ready ?" said Sir Peregrine. 
 
 " Ay, sir," replied the chief constable. " We will follow 
 your honor." 
 
 Hugo bowed a farewell to the group at the door, glanced 
 once again at Joyce, smiled faintly, and was borne away. 
 
 The members of the household did not leave the doer 
 till the horsemen were out of sight; then they quietly dis- 
 persed, for indeed none of them felt as though they could 
 
174 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 speak. A great danger had been averted from their home; 
 the master was, for the present, at any rate, safe. But to 
 save him a young life had been sacrificed. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIH. 
 
 JOYCE'S JOURNAL. 
 
 Lift up to Him thy heavie clouded eyne, 
 
 That thou His soveraine bountie mayst behold, 
 
 And read, through love, His mercies manifold. 
 
 SPENSER. 
 
 I SCARCE know whether to write more of this journal or to 
 tie these few sheets together and leave them as they are. 
 So much has happened that will not bear putting into 
 words, and so much that may not with safety be preserved 
 in writing. For since that last entry all things are 
 changed. Karl is no more the wandering minstrel, but 
 our own kinsman, Hugo Wharncliffe; but how and when 
 and why he revealed it to us I dare not here set down, lest 
 perchance these papers fall into unfriendly hands. This 
 much, however, all the world knows, and therefore I can 
 do no wrong by putting it in my journal. 
 
 While we were living on here so quietly, one Keeling, a 
 salter in London, brought word to Sir Leolyn Jenkyns, 
 principal secretary of state, that there was a conspiracy 
 abroad to kill the king. Sir Leolyn, not willing to hearken 
 to what was but sworn to by one man, dismissed him until 
 he could bring a second witness to confirm his words; 
 whereupon he compelled his younger brother, much against 
 his will, to get admitted to some society where they say the 
 talk was treasonable, and then, on the fourteenth day of 
 this month of June, in the year of our Lord 1683, both the 
 Keeling brothers gave evidence on oath in confirmation of 
 the plot, and the news spread through the country like 
 wildfire. They say the conspirators have been meeting in 
 many 'places in London, but most chiefly at the house of 
 one Colonel Rumsey, in Soho Square, and in Mr. West's 
 chambers in the Temple. Also at the sign of the Miter, in 
 Aldgate; the Horse-Shoe, Tower Hill; the King's Head, 
 Atheist Alley; the Salutation and the George, Lombard 
 Street, and the Green Dragon, Snow Hill. But, though 
 folks seem to know the names of all the meeting-places, 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 175 
 
 every one has a different story about the plot itself. Some 
 say that the king and the duke were to have been murdered 
 on their way from Newmarket that was the first story we 
 heard, and that they escaped only by the fire at Newmarket 
 causing the king to go back to London sooner than his 
 wont. But this should have been in the spring. Others 
 talk of a great insurrection th at was to have been on Queen 
 Elizabeth's day, in November next. But the strange part 
 is that they can name no great leaders who were to head 
 this great insurrection. 
 
 The story that seems now to be credited by most is that 
 which is given by two of the conspirators, who, thinking to 
 save themselves by confession, have not fled the country 
 like all other suspected people, but have delivered them- 
 selves up of free will. My father thinks the tale reads 
 strangely; that it is most probably in some measure a sham 
 plot concerted by these two, with some admixture of truth, 
 but with many false details. 
 
 This is the outline of the story told by Mr. West and 
 Colonel Rumsey. They say that Mr. Bumbold, the malt- 
 ster, who owns the Bye-House Farm in Hertfordshire, had 
 offered them the use of his house, which is strong and 
 well-placed. Here forty men were to be gathered; the nar- 
 row road was to be blocked by the upsetting of a cart, 
 and the king's coach being thus brought to a standstill, 
 the armed men were to attack and murder him and the 
 Duke of York, while a second division of men attacked the 
 guards, and then, retiring, were to defend the house and 
 moat till night enabled them to escape. It is passing 
 strange, though, that they could but name eight of all the 
 forty men who were to assemble at the Bye- House, and 
 they seem to know naught of any supply of aims or horses; 
 nor could they name one single "Whig leader who had 
 aught to do with this scheme. However, they do declare 
 that they heard of conferences held by the Duke of Mon- 
 mouth and other lords, with some from Scotland, who 
 planned a general rising, and spoke of seizing the king's 
 guards. How far all this story is true no one can ever 
 know. 
 
 Perchance there may have been some who deemed that 
 even so treacherous a murder is justified by the present 
 state of affairs, though one would fain believe it all a lie. 
 But, true or false, it matters not it is currently believed, 
 and every Whig is in danger ; every one who has shown 
 disapproval of the king's Government, every one who 
 
176 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 sided in former times with the Commonwealth party, risks 
 being apprehended. As to the leading Whigs, we have 
 not yet heard their fate, but my father told us that he 
 doubted not the king would be but too thankful for any 
 excuse to lay hands on them, and that without fail they 
 would be included among the Eye-House conspirators. In 
 especial he mentioned Colonel Sidney, who, he says, is a 
 great friend to Hugo, the bravest and best of men, but, 
 unfortunately for him, a well-known republican. 
 
 How hard and wearisome it has been to write all these 
 public tidings, these hateful versions of plots and risings, 
 and murders and treacheries, when all the while these said 
 plots and revelations have made such chaos of our home- 
 life ! 
 
 For indeed, since that terrible 18th of June, all has been 
 chaos. I hardly dare to think of it yet, much less to write 
 of all that slow agony. And yet it was that same 18th of 
 June which brought me the best thing in all the world a 
 good man's love. For it was then after they had used 
 him so cruelly then, when he was going to prison for the 
 sake of shielding my father, that Hugo told me he loved 
 me. It seems passing strange that all this while, dream- 
 ing of Juliet and Imogen and many another, I had yet 
 never got any idea of love at all. It was Hugo who 
 opened that new world for me, it was Hugo who gave me 
 my first glimpse at that wonderful, wonderful joy and no 
 other man on earth could ever have done it ; for only he, 
 my brave knight, had the key to fit my lock. 
 
 Surely it was God who made us for each other. Were it 
 not for that thought I could hardly think he ought to love 
 me. There are so many more good, more clever, more 
 beautiful, and more in his own world. So many, too, who 
 seem to need such a great gift more than I do, with my 
 father and mother, and this dear Mondisfield. But God 
 has given us to each other, and there is naught for me to 
 do, so far as I can see, but to thank Him for His great 
 gift, and to strive to grow more worthy of my own true 
 love. 
 
 We 'all stood at the door to watch them go. Hugo walked 
 out of the hall with far more ease than we looked for, con- 
 sidering his long illness. As to the fetters, he seemed not 
 to heed the shame of them, but bore his head high, as he 
 passed out surrounded by the constables. In his face pain 
 was blended with a strange look of triumph, and wlu-u ho 
 was mounted on his beautiful chestnut, he looked, oh, so 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 177 
 
 far the noblest of all the troop ! Spite of those cruel hand- 
 cuffs, which would scarce permit him to stroke the neck of 
 his favorite steed, he seemed like the prince of the com- 
 pany, the others showing beside him like ruffians. Then, 
 after much quarreling and swearing from Sir Peregrine 
 and that other, whom I cannot yet name, or scarce trust 
 myself to think on, the word was given for the start. 
 
 Hugo's eyes looked into mine for the last time and they 
 seemed to say, " Courage even for this ! Love to all eter- 
 nity !" Then the constable led off his horse and the rest 
 of the men fell in behind, two and two, and thus the caval- 
 cade passed down the drive across the bridge, and so 
 through the park until the bend in the road hid them from 
 us. And I hated the trees that came betwixt us, and I 
 hated the space which divided us, and I hated, with a blind, 
 burning, raging hatred, the cause of all this misery, who 
 must here be nameless. 
 
 What became of the others I do not know, but by and 
 by I found that I was left alone with my mother, who all 
 the time had held my hand in hers. She looked in my 
 face, but I dared not meet her look, because of that rage 
 which blazed within my heart, and must show in my eyes. 
 But mothers know without seeing, and it was for no use. 
 She put her arm round me, and, still keeping my right 
 hand fast in hers, led me up to her bed chamber. Then 
 she signed to me to lie down and rest on her bed, which 
 was just what I longed to do, only that with the rest there 
 came too the thought that all was over quite over and 
 with that a great fit of weeping which I could not check. 
 And then all my evil thoughts, my hatred to that other, 
 rushed into words, and I raved and stormed more like a 
 foolish child than a woman the woman whom Hugo 
 loves. Every moment I thought my mother would rebuke 
 me, bnt for some time she did not speak. At last laying 
 her hand on my forehead, she said, very quietly: 
 
 " Joyce, you are speaking of one whom Hugo loves ; and, 
 not only that, but of one whom the Lord Himself loves." 
 
 " How can he love such a brute such a brute ?'' I cried, 
 almost angry to think it could be. 
 
 But my mother said nothing, and in the silence a sort of 
 shame came over me to think of the words I had said. 
 Presently my mother spoke again ; she began as though de- 
 scribing a picture, I knew well enough whose picture. 
 
 " A young man," she said, in her soft, low voice " a 
 young man just of age, brought up in what for his station 
 
178 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 in life was poverty, and even privation. This Lad been in- 
 curred by his father's devotion to the late king, whom he 
 had served faithfully, and in whose cause he had suffered 
 much. But the young man cared not much for the cause, 
 neither could he care much for the king whom he had 
 never known. He grudged the lost money and resented 
 the present sufferings. At first he hoped that the king's son 
 would reward the family for their past devotion, but it was 
 not so, and the young man grew bitter and hard, and the 
 constant hankering after money and the constant brooding 
 over the injustice eat into his soul. And then, while he 
 was yet young, the plague came and swept away in one week 
 all that made his home, and alone he was thrown upon a 
 world full of the worst temptations. This man had a kins- 
 man whom he hated a kinsman who was richer than he, 
 and whose property had not been lost, for he had been on 
 the winning side. This made the young man more 
 bitter still, and seemed to him a fresh injustice. He longed 
 to wrest the property from his kinsman. All this time he 
 had been surrounded by the very worst people, and in all 
 his life there had been but one being to love him ; that 
 was a little child, whom he too loved in his rough way. But 
 the bad craving after the money and the kinsman's 
 property grew faster than his love for the younger brother, 
 till at last it overshadowed it, and, with the hope of at last 
 gaining the property, he did his brother a cruel wrong." 
 
 My mother paused. She could not go on with the story, 
 for who knows how it is to end ? But somehow her tale 
 had softened that dreadful, raging anger in my heart; I be- 
 gan to feel very sorry for that other that other whom 
 Hugo loves. 
 
 Then my mother knelt by the bed and prayed. I can 
 not remember what she said, but I know it brought to my 
 mind the prayer of Jairus : " My little daughter lieth at 
 the point of death ; I pray thee, come and lay thy hands 
 on her, that she may be healed, and she shall live." 
 
 And I saw, as I had never seen before, that hatred was 
 death and that love was life; and I hoped that Jesus would 
 lay His hands on me and heal me. 
 
 And then all things grew very still, and my mother's 
 voice seemed to go further and further away into a dreamy 
 distance, and I fell asleep. 
 
 It was evening when I woke. Through the open window 
 I could hear the cawing of the rooks as they flew home to 
 their nests in the elm-trees; and, sitting up in bed, still 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 179 
 
 somewhat stiff and weary, I could see a long, wavering line 
 of black against the evening sky. How they fluttered those 
 huge wings, and how contentedly they cawed ! I had al- 
 ways liked the rooks, but never so well as to-night. And, 
 remembering how God cared even for birds, I could bear 
 to remember, too, how Hugo was still on his weary journey, 
 worn out and exhausted perhaps, but still "cared for." 
 
 With a great longing to be out of doors, I put back the 
 curtains, which my mother had drawn, and, stealing down- 
 stairs, went out through the withdrawing-room window, 
 and so through the pleasance to the apple-walk. It was 
 like coming out of doors, after an illness in part because 
 my knees felt odd and shaky, but chiefly because all the 
 world seemed so beautiful, and so new, and so full of things 
 one had never greatly thought of before. Most of the 
 birds were abed and asleep, but the rooks still cawed, and 
 a thrush sung its evening lay among the trees at the fur- 
 ther side of the nioat. I sat down on the grassy, sloping 
 bank and listened to it ; and it seemed as though the grass 
 were softer and greener, and the water clearer, and the sun- 
 set sky ruddier than ever before. All the world seemed 
 that night to speak of God, to cry out " He is here ! He 
 is here ! " and I knew that His Spirit was in my heart too 
 and in Hugo's. 
 
 Sitting there beside the moat, my mother found me, and 
 she too sat down arid listened. 
 
 Then, when the thrush had ceased, I told her of Hugo's 
 love to me, and mine to him all which she knew right 
 well before. Yet, for all that, she would fain have had me 
 tell her with rny own lips and it was better so, though at 
 first it was hard. Not that my mother said one word of re- 
 buke. But it was somehow hard to put our story into 
 words, and I knew that she was sorry that all had gone as 
 it had. She would fain have had me yet a child. And, 
 thinking it over, I see that it was natural. For she knew 
 well what I only begin to know that love means pain 
 and she would fain have kept me for years to come con- 
 tent with the home-life. 
 
 One word she left fall, too, about this past month. 
 
 " I have thought of you as a child, little daughter," she 
 said, " and now I blame myself for it. I blame neither 
 you nor Hugo, but I blame myself." 
 
 She thought, I know, of the long afternoons in the 
 gallery, when Evelyn and I had amused him. But, then, 
 
180 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 how could she know that he was aught but Karl the min- 
 strel, or that we should love each other ? 
 
 And we agreed that it were best not to speak of this 
 even to my sisters, as yet. " Only," said my mother, with 
 such a beautiful smile on her face, " when you want to 
 talk, come to me, little Joyce." 
 
 And then, blushing slightly, she told me a little a very 
 little about the time when she and my father had first 
 loved each other, she being just my age. And they were 
 not formally plighted to each other for some years, be- 
 cause our grandparents thought them both too young. 
 And she told me how anxious she was before the battle of 
 "Worcester, and of how my father was wounded there, and 
 she heard naught of him for weeks. Then, by and by, 
 we walked back to the house together. I think I never 
 knew before quite what my mother was. Is it that Hugo's 
 love has opened my eyes to all other love too ? 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A. CONTEST OF WILLS. 
 
 He that endures for what his conscience knows 
 
 Not to be ill, doth from a patience high 
 
 Look only on the cause whereto he owes 
 
 Those sufferings not on his miseries. 
 
 The more he endures, the more his glory grows, 
 
 Which never grows from imbecility. 
 
 Only the best composed and worthiest hearts 
 
 God sets to act the hardest constantest parts. 
 
 S. SAMUEL. 
 
 THE cavalcade did not pass through the village of Mon- 
 disfield. Hugo watched anxiously to see whether they 
 should take the turning to the village at the cross-roads. 
 They paused for a minute, but only to bid farewell to Sir 
 Peregrine, who branched off there with his two serving 
 men, returning to Longbridge Hall. He bade the prison- 
 er think better of his resolution before nightfall, good-na- 
 turedly reminding him that he might even yet ride into 
 London as a free man. 
 
 *' Think better of it, for your brother's sake," he repeated. 
 " 'Tis but a sorry day's ^ ork for him to ride back with 
 you in the stead of that confounded colonel." 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 181 
 
 " I have made my choice, sir, and must abide by it," 
 said Hugo, gravely. 
 
 He saw Randolph's brow darken ominously at his words, 
 and felt a curio as regret as he saw the Suffolk squire ride 
 away. Things had indeed come to a pretty pass when Sir 
 Peregrine Blake could be clung to as a sort of forlorn 
 hope a protector ! The order of the little company was 
 now changed. Randolph motioned to the second constable 
 to drop behind, and himself rode side by side with the 
 prisoner, talking across him to the constable who held his 
 reins. Hugo was oppressed by his presence ; it added not 
 a little to the discomforts of that miserable ride. 
 
 And now they began to push on quickly, for to reach 
 Bishop-Stortford before night would need hard riding. On, 
 past wayside cottages with thatched roofs and creeper-laden 
 walls ; on, past hay-makers busy with their rakes and 
 pitchforks ; on, past the region of cultivation, and over a 
 vast heathy plain with no tree or shrub to give the slight- 
 est shade, and the burning midsummer sun beating down 
 upon them mercilessly. 
 
 Randolph watched his brother very narrowly. When 
 would that strange look of triumph, that curious dignity 
 of mien, leave him ? What was its cause? Did it indeed 
 bode the ruin of all his hopes ? Did it indeed bespeak the 
 end of his influence over the youth ? No, that he could 
 not believe. Could the work of a lifetime be undone in so 
 short a while ? It was impossible, incredible ! His old 
 tactics would succeed at length, though possibly not jusfc 
 yet. He should work upon the sensitive frame, and so at 
 last regain his influence over the rebel spirit. And in the 
 long run it would prove all for Hugo's good. Of course 
 it was for his good. He repeated this to himself again and 
 again, pacifying his conscience. 
 
 And so, though the sun was intolerable, and the hard 
 riding wearisome enough to the whole company, he wel- 
 comed the discomforts, trusting that they would further 
 his own ends. The heat, which was turning the worthy 
 constable's skin to a brilliant copper-color, which was 
 bringing wreaths of foam upon the necks of the horses, 
 this would tell upon Hugo would wear him out as nothing 
 else would. Already there were lines of pain round the 
 sensitive mouth. Endurance had never proved one of his 
 characteristics. He took things quietly, but succumbed 
 very soon. Surely, with careful treatment, Randolph could 
 manage to bring him to his senses before they reached 
 London. 
 
182 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 And presently, sure enough, his scrutiny was rewarded 
 He saw traces of evident exhaustion setting in. Nor indeed 
 was it wonderful. Hugo had gone through much on the 
 previous day, had slept but little, had tasted no food tLat 
 morning save the bread and the wine which Joyce had 
 brought him, and had suffered unspeakable things both 
 mentally and bodily. Pain dimmed for awhile the lover's 
 rapture which had hitherto borne him up. His head 
 drooped, the burning flush passed from his face and left it 
 unnaturally pale. 
 
 "Bear up, sir/' said the constable, in a kindly voice. 
 " We are nigh upon a village where there is a decent inn. 
 A glass of home-brewed will make you another man." 
 
 Randolph speedily interposed, how r ever. 
 
 "We can take a bait there, an you will, both for men 
 and horses," he said, peremptorily. "But my brother 
 shall not be cockered up as though he w r ere a prince. He 
 shall feel that there is a difference betwixt free men and 
 prisoners." 
 
 Hugo did not speak, but the muscles of his face quiv- 
 ered. The pain and the weariness and the intolerable 
 thirst were bad enough, but Randolph's words seemed to 
 cut him like a knife. Worst of all, he knew that this 
 starving scheme meant that more pressure was to be put 
 upon him to reveal what he knew of Colonel Wharncliffe. 
 
 The constable said no more, and they rode on, leaving 
 the heathy plain behind, and passing on between fields 
 and orchards, until, about five o'clock, they reached the 
 village spoken of, and halted at the door of the Green 
 Man. 
 
 All save the prisoner dismounted. Randolph went into 
 the inn, and the rest followed, leaving only one man with- 
 out in charge. Had Hugo meditated escape, now would 
 have been his time. But he knew that escape was impos- 
 sible, even had he been in a state to attempt it. And as it 
 w r as, he was too much spent to dream of aught but obtain- 
 ing such brief comfort as might be from the shade of the 
 great chestnut-tree which spread half across the village 
 street, *and from the momentary respite from hard riding. 
 
 Randolph had judged quite rightly; this -enforced wait- 
 ing at the inn-door, within reach of the refreshment he 
 needed so sorely, did make him realize very keenly the dif- 
 ference between free men and prisoners. Wearily waiting, 
 with the knowledge that in a few minutes the miserable 
 journey must be resumed, he closed his eyes, unmindful 
 of the group of children who had already drawn near to 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 183 
 
 stare at the unwonted spectacle of a gentleman with lace 
 cravat and plumed beaver, under the charge of mounted 
 constables, and wearing irons on his wrists. Their com- 
 ments did not in the least disturb him, only after a time 
 he became aware that voices were whispering around him, 
 and he caught the tantalizing repetition of the words 
 " thirst" and " water." Was it only the echo of his own 
 thoughts ? or some fiend mocking his wants ? He roused 
 himself from the half-faint, half-drowsy state into which 
 he had fallen. The constable was a few paces off feeding 
 the horses, but the voices had been real, not imaginary. 
 Close beside him. stood two rosy village children, and 
 raised high up, as high as their little chubby arms would 
 admit, was a brown pitcher full of water. He smiled. 
 
 " Is it for me ?" he asked. 
 
 " Ay, sir," said the elder of the two, shyly, dropping a 
 courtesy which nearly upset the pitcher. But the horse 
 was high, and the children were small, and Hugo's fetters 
 would not allow him to reach the water, not even though 
 he bent low down on the horse's neck, and not even though 
 the children stood on their tallest tiptoe. In all his wretch- 
 edness he could not help smiling a little, but the children, 
 looking at the white, weary face, were more inclined to 
 cry. At this supreme moment a tall loosely made lad 
 slouched forward; it was the village innocent. Muttering 
 something unintelligible, he took the pitcher from the lit- 
 tle ones, and with a smile in his wandering eyes, which for 
 a moment made the foolish face almost beautiful, held the 
 water to Hugo's lips. To his parched throat it seemed that 
 no draugkt had ever been so delicious, while the kindness 
 of these strangers touched him deeply. After all, the 
 world was not so black as he had deemed it. Men might 
 be cruel, but an innocent and a couple of children had 
 cared for him; one day he would tell that story to Joyce. 
 One day, when he had kept his last promise and gone back 
 to Mondisfield. Yet how could that ever be ? How could 
 aught but lifelong imprisonment await him ? An agony of 
 realization swept over him, but he bravely tried to turn 
 to other thoughts. And if not here, then he would tell 
 her that story would tell her all all in that city which 
 lay at the end of the pilgrim's journey, in which she be- 
 lieved so implicitly and for which he also began to hope. 
 
 At that moment Randolph emerged from the door of the 
 inn, and strolled leisurely toward his horse ; the innocent, 
 still regarding Hugo with all his eyes, stood in the way. 
 
184 IN THE GOLDEN DATS. 
 
 " Get. out, you d d idiot 1" he exclaimed,pusbing him 
 
 roughly away. " "What do you mean by coming so near ?" 
 
 The innocent, with an indescribable look of resentment, 
 slunk away, the children took to their heels and ran for 
 shelter to the other side of the chestnut-tree, as though 
 this fine gentleman had been the devil himself. 
 
 " How now, Hugo ?" he exclaimed, as he mounted his 
 horse. " Tired of your new game ? art willing to be a 
 free man once more ?" 
 
 " An you be willing to make me one," said Hugo, 
 gravely. " My freedom lies in your keeping, not in my 
 own." 
 
 " Fool I you know right well that you have but to speak 
 one word, and those gyves are off your wrists in a twink- 
 ling." 
 
 " And that word I will never speak." 
 
 " Ah, well ! some folk love to pose as martyrs. We 
 shall see, we shall see ! Newgate will make you tell 
 another tale, my fine fellow." 
 
 " Will it be Newgate !" asked Hugo, startled out of his 
 reserve, and speaking in his ordinary tone. Somehow the 
 name of the jail made the dim, almost dream-like, future 
 stand out with a hideous reality. Newgate ! that hell upon 
 earth! Was he to go there ? He had at least hoped for 
 the Tower, the ignominy of which seemed far less galling. 
 
 " Assuredly it will be Newgate," said Randolph, with 
 great composure. "Bethink yourself what it will be 
 for one of your birth and breeding to be herded with 
 thieves and murderers, and all the scum of the city. Don't 
 blame me for sending you there ; 'tis your own doing." 
 
 " You are right," said Hugo, sadly. " It is my own do- 
 ing." 
 
 And with that he fell into deep thought and spoke no 
 more, leaving Randolph surprised and a little softened by 
 his very unexpected reply. The elder brother, too, fell into 
 a reverie, and thus they went on their way, leaving the vil- 
 lage behind them the innocent waving a last farewell to 
 Hugo, and repeating again and again, in his shrill, monot- 
 onous Voice, " God 'ild you, sir! God 'ild you !" 
 
 Three more hours of hard riding brought them near to 
 their destination; Hugo, heavy-hearted and faint with pain 
 and weariness, felt a gleam of comfort as he caught sight 
 of the gables and chimneys of Bishop-Stortford, and the 
 spire of St. Michael's Church. The curfew-bell was ring- 
 ing as they drew near to the town, ringing in the close of 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 185 
 
 this longest day in his whole life. In the sky was a glory 
 of gold and crimson and floating purple cloudlets; the 
 whole place was suffused with the ruddy glow of the sun- 
 set, and the lights which shone here and there in the win- 
 dows seemed primrose pale by contrast. The arrival of the 
 horsemen caused quite a commotion in the quiet little 
 country town. The women, standing with their knitting 
 at the doors, beckoned to others within the houses to haste 
 and see this strange sight. A group of urchins, playing at 
 shovel-board by the wayside, paused in their game to stare, 
 and at sight of the galloping horses broke out into a noisy 
 cheer, waving their caps and shouting with all their might. 
 
 That was the last straw. The hideous mockery of it was 
 more than Hugo could bear, and the tears started to his 
 eyes. Poor little urchins ! little they knew what the horse- 
 men whom they cheered so lustily had been about! But 
 tne consciousness that every eye was upon him made him 
 recover himself instantly. Drawing himself up, he rode 
 on, looking neither to the right nor to the left, and only 
 longing for the rest and shelter which must soon come. 
 
 At length they reached the inn where but a few weeks 
 before he had slept with Randolph on their way to Long- 
 bridge Hall. How different all had been then I How 
 gayly he and Randolph had spent that evening ! How 
 little he had thought of all the danger that lay before 
 tim ! 
 
 A little crowd had gathered at the inn door to watch the 
 strangers ; he was keenly conscious of their comments as 
 the constable helped him to dismount. Giddy, exhausted, 
 hardly able to stand, he waited for what seemed an eterni- 
 ty while Randolph stood on the step talking with the land- 
 lord and the chief constable. The burning color rose to 
 his face as he heard the words passed from one to another 
 in the crowd " A traitor I" " One of the conspirators !" 
 " The plot 1" " What ! will V hang un at Tyburn ?" " Ay, 
 ay, to be sure all of 'emll swing for it 1" " Serve the 
 
 d d traitor right, too !" " Nay, but he's a fine young 
 
 spark, too; a* will look rarely on the gallows-tree!" 
 
 " Don't you heed them, sir," said one of the constables, a 
 burly giant, who grasped him firmly by the arm, as much 
 with the view of supporting him as of keeping him in cus- 
 tody. " Don't you heed them. They're naught but buz- 
 zing flies. Their heads be set round with eyes, so they can 
 do naught but stare and buzz." 
 
 Hugo smiled, rather as courteously acknowledging the 
 
186 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 man's ^indliness than as feeling any amasement at his 
 words. For indeed an overdriven horse may be sorely 
 teased by a swarm of flies, and the staring, jesting crowd 
 taxed his powers of endurance to the utmost. At length 
 came a welcome diversion. 
 
 " Bring the prisoner forward !" said the chief constable, 
 and Hugo was accordingly marched in between two of the 
 men, and half led, half dragged upstairs. 
 
 The landlord stood at the head of the staircase ready to 
 usher them into a bed-chamber, within which Randolph 
 was quarreling vehemently with the chief constable. 
 
 " Well, sir, I'll not be responsible for getting the pris- 
 oner to London to-morrow, if you will have it so," the man 
 was saying, angrily. 
 
 "And if you thwart my purpose," retorted Randolph, 
 with a volley of oaths, " I tell you you shall pay dearly {or 
 it. Do you think I don't know more about the lad than 
 you do ?" 
 
 The constable growled something inarticulate, and, as at 
 that moment Hugo entered, said no more. He merely ex- 
 amined the lock of the door, bade one of the men give the 
 prisoner what assistance he needed, and followed the land- 
 lord to another room. Randolph lingered a minute, watch- 
 ing Hugo keenly, as he tried to take off his broad-brimmed 
 hat ; but, owing to his fettered hands, failed in the at- 
 tempt. 
 
 " When hunger makes you change your mind you can 
 send me word," he said, with a mocking smile. 
 Hugo made no reply. 
 
 " Till then I will wish you good-evening. Be ready to 
 start to-morrow at seven of the clock." 
 Still Hugo kept silence. 
 
 " Do you hear what I say ?" asked Randolph, sharply. 
 " I shall be ready at seven of the clock," returned Hugo, 
 with an unmoved face. 
 
 Randolph left the room, feeling curiously repulsed and 
 surprised. That Hugo, who had been hitherto so plastic 
 in his hands, should suddenly develop this dignity of en- 
 durance, this strength of resistance, was to him utterly un- 
 accountable. 
 
 Truth to tell, the dignity did not last long, for no sooner 
 had his brother left him, than with a groan of irrepressible 
 suffering, he fell back into the nearest chair, too wretched 
 even to heed the presence of the constable. 
 
 " Come, sir," said the man, " keep up your heart. Them 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 187 
 
 buzzing flies below know naught of the truth. I'd not 
 heed them were I in your shoon." 
 
 " I care naught for them !" said Hugo. " But he he is 
 my brother my brother, I tell you ! I care for naught 
 else !" 
 
 " 'Tis a hard case," said the man, genuinely sorry for the 
 poor fellow, who had indeed won all hearts by his conduct 
 iii the morning. " But belike, sir, it will turn out better 
 than you fear. I can't bring you supper, for 'tis against 
 my orders ; but an you will I can help you off with your 
 boots and things. A man's but a babe in such fetters as 
 these." 
 
 He was a rough nurse, but a kindly one, and kept up a 
 perpetual flow of conversation, with a view to keeping his 
 prisoner's thoughts off the graver questions which were 
 likely to haunt him. 
 
 " And as to imprisonment for life !" he remarked, cheer- 
 fully, when he had seen Hugo to bed and was about to 
 lock him up for the night, " as to imprisonment, it ain't 
 so bad as folk think for. Your honor is over young to 
 have left a sweetheart behind him, and, Lor' bless you ! 
 life in Newgate is none so strict ; you'll find many a 
 buxom wench there." 
 
 The incongruity of this worthy man's comfort touched 
 Hugo's sense of the ridiculous. Just because the words 
 were such a mockery, just because they good-naturedly 
 and unthinkingly enough touched on so sore a subject, 
 they affected him as nothing else on earth could have done 
 at that moment he burst into a violent paroxysm of 
 laughter. He was locked up securely ; he was looking 
 forward to nothing but a life of privation and misery ; he 
 was ill and weary and sore at heart ; and yet he laughed 
 till the old four-post bed shook, laughed till wrath at his 
 own laughter checked him, and at length brought him 
 once more to a state of sober exhaustion. 
 
 Down below he could hear a noisy party supping and 
 drinking, more than once he could distinguish Randolph s 
 voice in boisterous merriment. This tended more than any- 
 thing to sober him once more, and, recollecting how much 
 yet depended on his strength of purpose and determined 
 resistance, he resolutely turned from all thoughts, and, al- 
 most by an effort of will, made sleep visit his weary brain. 
 The burly constable had as much as he could do to wake 
 him the next morning. 
 
 " God help us ! " he exclaimed. 'Tis surely but babes 
 
188 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 and sucklings that sleep so sound. Supperless to bed, too! 
 An I mistake not your honor is as innocent of this plot as 
 the unborn babe." 
 
 " I knew naught of any plot naught ! " said Hugo, em- 
 phatically. And it was some comfort to him to feel sure 
 that the man believed him. It was the only comfort he was 
 to have that day, which proved a very hard one. Leaving 
 Bishop-Stortford behind them early on that summer morn- 
 ing, they rode on rapidly to London, in the same order as 
 before, Hugo between the chief constable and Randolph. 
 Not a word had passed between the brothers, but Randolph 
 was able to gauge very accurately his chances of success. 
 They were great. He felt far more hopeful than on the 
 previous evening. Had it not been for this, the dreary 
 ride would have been less tolerable to him, for the chief 
 constable was so wroth with him for his harshness to his 
 brother that he could make nothing of him as far as con- 
 versation went, and it was against his policy to speak to 
 Hugo. Indeed, the prisoner was almost past speaking. 
 Only once did he make any remark. It was as they were 
 riding past the Rye House. He looked up curiously at this 
 place the name of which must be forever hateful to him. 
 High walls, a battlemented, turreted house, with two oriel 
 windows, green trees close beside it, waving in the summer 
 wind, and beyond, the River Lea winding its tranquil 
 course through level green meadows. An innocent looking 
 place enough ! Had it indeed been the scene destined for 
 so treacherous a murder ? Or was this plot but a device of 
 the enemy? Would it prove a mere ruse, like the Meal- 
 Tub plot? 
 
 "There is the place that has got you in trouble, sir," said 
 the chief constable, with a smile. " But belike you know 
 it too well to need my showing." 
 
 " I never heard aught of it till " Hugo broke off abrupt- 
 ly, aware that Randolph was listening, and thankf ul that he 
 had checked himself in time and had not added, " the day 
 before yesterday," 
 
 But the consciousness thet he had nearly been betrayed 
 into a' piece of indiscretion troubled him not a little. It 
 was so hard to be on his guard at every turn far harder 
 to-day than it had been on the preceding day. He was 
 suffering more acutely from the effects of the merciless 
 flogging; he was weakened by hunger and fatigue, he was 
 parched with thirst; his heart failed him at the thought of 
 the eighteen miles which yet lay between them and Lon- 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 189 
 
 don. And yet, even though the journey was so wearisome, 
 the end was more to be dreaded than all ! Thinking of 
 that, he would have been willing indefinitely to prolong 
 this ride the last ride he was ever likely to take ! Life- 
 long imprisonment! Good heavens! why had he been en- 
 dowed with an imagination ? How horrible were the vivid 
 pictures which rose before him ! And the world was so 
 beautiful ! Nature so fair ! The rapture of " leafy June " 
 thrilled through him with that bitter-sweet consciousness 
 which belongs by right to "last times." 
 
 They rode on through the long, straggling village of Ed- 
 monton, on over Stamford Hill, where he half hoped that 
 they might be waylaid by the highwaymen who often re- 
 sorted there. Surely then he might make one last effort at 
 escape. But no highwaymen appeared; the party of horse- 
 men rode on unmolested. And now they were in sight of 
 London itself, now his last ride was almost at an end, his 
 parting with Eandolph drawing near ! It felt to him like 
 some hideous nightmare. Was he indeed the same Hugo 
 who had ridden forth that May morning, stifling all anxiety 
 and laying aside all care in the mere joy of existence? 
 Could a few weeks change one's very nature and upset one's 
 whole world? Now once more he rode through the same 
 streets, with shameful fetters on his wrists, with the burden 
 of another's safety in his keeping, with naught before him 
 but shame and suffering. 
 
 On through Bishopgate Street Without and Within, up 
 Cornhill among the crowds of staring passengers ; until, 
 rather to his surprise, he was suddenly halted at an inn not 
 far from the Standard. What it was for he was too dazed 
 and weary to make out, but the constables helped him from 
 his horse and led him in ; he was borne unresistingly 
 through passages and up and 'down steps, and finally left 
 in a private sitting-room with no word of explanation. Be- 
 wildered, but too miserable to try to think clearly, he 
 heard the door locked from without, stood still for a minute 
 in a sort of stupefaction, then staggered across the room 
 to an oaken settle, upon which he sunk prone. He was 
 vaguely conscious that through the open window sounds of 
 horses' hoofs and of passers-by floated in, and above all 
 these rung the shrill, clear tones of a woman's voice, call- 
 ing " Strawberries, ripe strawberries !" The high, bell-like 
 notes drew nearer and nearer, then gradually grew fainter 
 again till they died away in the distance. Presently a much 
 nearer sound startled him back from semi-consciousness j 
 
190 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 the key turned in the lock, the door opened, and Randolph 
 entered. Startled, wholly unfit for an interview with his 
 brother, his heart beat so fast that it half suffocated him. 
 
 "For God's sake, give me some water!" he exclaimed. 
 
 " My poor lad," said Eandolph, in his kindest voice, 
 taking, however, no notice of his request, " you are quite 
 worn out; and, if if you go to Newgate in such a state, you 
 will be down with jail fever before many days are over." 
 
 " I can't help that," said Hugo, shortly. 
 
 " Ay, you can help it, and for my sake you must help 
 it!" said liandolph with real earnestness in his tone. " Do 
 you thiDk I care naught for you ? Do you think it has not 
 tortured me to find you turned against me to find you 
 thus thwarting me ? Come back to me, lad, ere it is too 
 late ! All shall be forgiven and forgotten. The king will 
 reward you I will reward you; half the estate shall be 
 yours, and you shall be to me the most trusted, the most 
 loved in all the world." 
 
 Never had Hugo heard such words from his brother, 
 never had his love revealed itself as now in look and tone; 
 the blind devotion, the unfailing loyalty of a lifetime had 
 been nourished on the poorest fare. As a child a rough 
 caress had kept him happy for days; but such events had 
 been rare indeed. He recalled them vividly just because 
 they had been so infrequent. Then, in later life, Randolph 
 had been stern and exacting, only on rare occasions 
 he would drop a few words of praise or of approval, and 
 thus bind IJugo to him with the ardent, unquestioning loy- 
 alty which asked so little and gave so much 
 
 And now for the first time in his life this stern, hard man 
 unbent, humbled himself, pleaded with one whom he had 
 hitherto peremptorily commanded, and in the most dan- 
 gerously tempting way exerted again all his influence on 
 the susceptible nature which till now he had kept in slavery. 
 
 A curiously fascinating smile stole over his strong face, 
 lit up the usually cold eyes, and flickered about the hard 
 mouth. 
 
 "You are faint and hungry oh, very hungry ! I know 
 all about it. And I am dying to feed you, Hugo. Come, 
 you have withstood me far too long. But I'll forgive all, 
 for you have shown what mettle you are made of. Only 
 delay no more. You are almost fainting; I'll get you a 
 cup of sack but see, just sign this paper first, and then all 
 will be well, and naught shall come betwixt us more." 
 
 A vague hope stole over Hugo. Might there be some 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 191 
 
 loophole of escape some permissible compromise? He 
 took the paper in his hands, and with some difficulty read 
 it. 
 
 Had he not been acquainted with legal phraseology 
 it would have hopelessly baffled him; but, as it was, he 
 made out that, wrapped up in many words and obscured by 
 rambling sentences, the document was nothing less than a 
 declaration that he would reveal all that might be of service 
 in unraveling the plot. It was put in a very ambiguous 
 way, but that was, he felt convinced, the drift of the whole 
 thing. 
 
 He fell back into his former position, and thought, or 
 rather struggled to think. His brain reeled. A wild con- 
 fusion of possibilities seemed to crowd around him. Ran- 
 dolph, in the meanwhile, produced a goose quill and an 
 inkhorn, and drew a small oaken table forward. 
 
 " Come," he said, patting his head caressingly, " you are 
 so weary, dear old fellow, you scarce know whether you 
 are on your head or your heels. Make haste and sign this. 
 Then we will come home, and Jerry shall see to you. 
 Come, lad, 'tis your duty to both king and country no 
 private considerations can weigh against those two. Were 
 it such a preposterous thing to do, think you I should ask 
 it of you? Come, sign, and trust one who loves you better 
 than you think for." 
 
 Once again it was Joyce on one side, with independence 
 and conscience-hearkening, and Randolph on the other, 
 with obedience and lawful authority. It was the new 
 strength against the incalculable power of ok! association 
 and the habits of a lifetime. If only Randolph would not 
 look at him with such kind eyes ! If only he would once 
 more treat him harshly ! Right, duty, which way did they 
 point? Ah! yes ; but even if he knew, could he obey? 
 Fiends seemed dragging him down, down, into a peace 
 which he knew would prove bondage. A hideous confusion 
 reigned within him. Right! was there such a thing at 
 all ? Would not expediency prove the safest rule of life ? 
 
 " Ah, God ! God ! the spirit to think and do always such 
 things as be rightful !" 
 
 The words, mechanically repeated by him day by day, 
 now rose in a bitter cry from his soul. In his anguish he 
 called for help as though on a fellow-being, 
 
 " Come, lad," said Randolph, smiling kindly, " sign and 
 have done with it. Delays are dangerous." 
 
 " Yes," said Hugo, springing to his feet with an energy 
 
192 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 that amazed his brother k yes, they are in truth danger- 
 ous !" 
 
 He tore the paper in half, he tore it again and again, he 
 flung the fragments from him as though they had been 
 polluted. 
 
 " There is my answer, and I have no more to say ; now 
 do your worst." 
 
 There was a breathless pause. The two brothers stood 
 facing each other ; a deep, dark flush spread over the face 
 of the elder the wrath of a strong man baffled, the hatred 
 of a tempter foiled, gleamed in his eyes ; the younger, 
 his gaze fixed on his guardian's face, grew each instant 
 paler and paler, as though the struggle to resist that 
 fiendish temptation were robbing him of life itself. 
 
 " By my troth!" said Randolph at length, in a low, pas- 
 sionate voice, " you shall have your fool's choice ! I will do 
 my worst !" 
 
 Hugo's lips parted as though he would fain have spoken, 
 but no words came. He made a step forward and a ges- 
 ture was it of entreaty, or was it merely for physical help ? 
 That would remain forever unknown, for he fell senseless 
 to the ground. Eandolph bent for an instant over the in- 
 animate form, then strode to the door, once more returned, 
 once more looked anxiously at the ashy face, hesitated a 
 moment, then, with a fearful oath, turned away and left the 
 room, locking the door behind him. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 A TERRIBLE NIGHT. 
 
 Come sleep, oh, sleep, the certain knot of peace, 
 The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, 
 The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, 
 The indifferent judge between the high and low ; 
 With shield of proof shield me from out the prease 
 Of those fierce darts despair at me doth throw 
 Oh, make in me those civil wars to cease ; 
 I Will good tribute pay if thou do so. 
 
 SIB PTTTLTP SYDNEY. 
 
 THE horses, still bearing the marks of hard riding, stood 
 in waiting at the door of the inn. There was a confusion 
 of many voices, many feet, many wheels, and many street 
 cries. Hugo was vaguely conscious of it all as he was led 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 193 
 
 forth. Another high, clear voice was calling, " Strawberries, 
 ripe strawberries !" 
 
 A plaintive-looking girl was trailing along with a 
 large basket calling, " Kosemary and brier ! rosemary and 
 brier I" 
 
 "What!" exclaimed one and another in the group 
 gathered to watch the horses. " One of the plot men, say 
 you?" "A Eye-House man!" "A rogue!" "A traitor!" 
 " Lord, save us ! but he's a fine young spark!" "Look 
 you, there he comes! Rare and pale, too; one would a 
 thought they had most racked un." " Lord love ye, they 
 can't put un to the torture now ! not except in Scotland 
 with Lauderdale." " But a stripling he be ! nought but 
 a stripling!" "Down with all traitors, say I and long 
 live the king !" 
 
 This led to a small outburst of loyalty, and amid a 
 storm of mingled cheers and groans, and a shower of 
 stones and refuse from which the burly constable did his 
 best to shelter the prisoner, Hugo was led off in the direc- 
 tion of Newgate. 
 
 And now they had left Cornhill behind them, and were 
 making their way through crowded Cheapside. Now they 
 caught a passing glimpse of the busy masons and builders 
 at work on new St. Paul's, and now gloomy Newgate 
 Street lay before them. At last the grim pile itself loomed 
 into sight ; they paused before the grizly looking gate. 
 Hugo was dimly aware that the burly constable carried in 
 his belongings the valise which had been left at Long- 
 bridge Hall, and the lute case. He wondered what 
 would become of them, he vaguely wondered what would 
 become of himself ; he followed mechanically, a constable 
 on each side of him, and the chief constable in advance, 
 while an official took them into a small room, where the 
 Newgate governor was waiting to interview them. It was 
 only by an intolerable effort that he roused himself suf- 
 ficiently to answer the questions which were put to him. 
 Then, after a few minutes, the men who had hitherto been 
 his guardians prepared to leave. He roused himself again, 
 bade them good-day, and thanked them for their courtesy. 
 He became conscious that he was alone in this horrible 
 place that his last friends had left him that Randolph 
 had finally deserted him, and that he was at the mercy of 
 a brute. 
 
 The governor regarded him fixedly for a minute, evi- 
 dently taking his measure. Then he made an entry in a 
 
194 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 large book upon the table, and struck a bell which stood 
 beside him, upon which an official appeared at the door. 
 
 "Twenty-pound fetters," said the governor, "and OLC of 
 the prisoners to rivet them." 
 
 The man disappeared Hugo stood motionless, the ex- 
 pression of his face not one whit altered. The governor 
 regarded him again and yet more keenly. "Cool cus- 
 tomer," he remarked to himself; " will need discipline! " 
 
 The door opened again, a jailer entered, a man with small 
 twinkling eyes and shaggy hair, carrying the keys of his 
 office. He was followed by a much more repulsive-looking 
 prisoner, who bore the heavy irons which the governor had 
 ordered. Without a word Hugo submitted to necessity 
 and allowed the chains to be rivetc d upon his ankles. Just 
 at the time he minded the touch of the dirty prisoner's 
 hands more than the irons themselves. Meanwhile the 
 governor was giving directions to the jailer, and Hugo saw 
 a gleam of fiendish amusement pass over the features of 
 the prisoner, who was still busy with his fetters. This 
 somehow nettled him, stung into life his desire for resist- 
 ance. He faced round upon the governor. 
 
 " What right have you to load me with irons before tria] 
 sir ?" he asked, with far more strength and fire in his man* 
 ner than the man had given him credit for. 
 
 " Right !" roared the governor, with a brutal laugh. 
 " Odd^-fish ! to hear the young spark ! Why, bless your 
 young innocence, you've no ' rights ' in Newgate !" 
 
 " How about the Habeas Corpus Act, sir ?" said Hugo, 
 Calmly. 
 
 The governor smiled, but more respectfully. 
 
 " Ah, 'tis true, you have me there, young sir. There is 
 that cursed habeas corpus, and a bad day it was for Merry 
 England when that was made law defrauding honest 
 jailers of their due, .and favoring knaves and vagabonds. 
 We were better off in Newgate four years ago, when those 
 meddlesome Commons left us to ourselves, weren't we, 
 Scroop?" 
 
 The, jailer acquiesced with a sardonic grin the gov- 
 ernor broke again into a loud, brutal laughter. 
 
 " Well, well," he said, after a minute, recovering him- 
 self ; " we waste time, and time don't crawl to the gov- 
 ernor of Newgate, whatsoever it do to the prisoners. 
 Away with him, Scroop discipline and the dungeon." 
 
 And with this terse, alliterative, and alluring sentence, 
 Hugo found himself dismissed. 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 195 
 
 Scroop dragged him along interminable and dingy pass- 
 ages, the very air of which seemed laden with all that was 
 foul and lowering. When he stumbled, as he very fre- 
 quently did from weariness and the weight of the irons 
 about his feet, the jailer swore at him. 
 
 "I'd have you know, sir, that there be such things as 
 whips in Newgate," he said, with a savage grin. " Ay, 
 and prisoners to wield them, too, with right good will on 
 their mates." 
 
 " I have had enough of thrashings though for many a 
 day to come," said Hugo, smiling a little. " And it is 
 scarcely reasonable to growl when you have laden me 
 with such fetters." ^ 
 
 Something in his tone made the jailer turn and look at 
 him more attentively than he had yet done. Brutal as the 
 man was, he could yet perceive that the prisoner was 
 somehow different from any prisoner with whom he had 
 yet come into contact. He swore no more, he walked 
 more slowly, for the first time in his life he wondered. 
 What was there about this new-comer that appealed to 
 him so strangely ? Silently he helped him down a flight 
 of stone steps, at the foot of which he paused to unlock 
 a narrow door. As it swung back, dismally creaking on 
 its hinges, there was a sound of rushing, thumping, scram- 
 bling within. 
 
 "Rats!" said Scroop, laconically. " But they'll not at- 
 tack you, sir, an you leave them alone. Plenty of garbage 
 for them to feed on in Newgate !" he laughed grimly. 
 
 Hugo glanced round. The wretched little cell was ab- 
 solutely bare, save that in one place the gray flagstones 
 were slightly raised as though to form a bed, and another 
 stone was laid across at the head for a pillow. The walls 
 were reeking with damp, the atmosphere was insufferable, 
 what little air and light there was came from a small grat- 
 ing which opened into a passage at the foot of the stairs. 
 He was past complaining, however. He just dropped down 
 on the stone bed without a word. The jailer stood per- 
 plexed he was not used to this sort of thing. 
 
 " Well, for a hard bed your honor seems to take it pretty 
 easy !" he said, regarding him curiously. 
 
 " Water for God's sake !" said Hugo, faintly. 
 
 Scroop hesitated a moment, looked again at him fixedly, 
 and finally walked away, returning before long with a pitcher 
 of water and a hunch of bread, which he set down on the 
 floor beside the prisoner. Then without another word he 
 
196 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 went out, closing the door noisily behind him. Hugo in 
 voluntarily shuddered as the key grated in the rusty lock. 
 It roused him, however, and he sat up and drank thirstily, 
 then once more fell back on his stony couch, too weary 
 as 3 et to eat, though the bread, for which a few hours 
 before he would have given much, stood on the floor beside 
 him. But the delay proved fatal, for not many minutes 
 after he was roused from a state of stupor by the sound 
 of pattering feet, and, looking up, he saw that three 
 fat, brown rats were at work upon the bread, gnawing, 
 nibbling, fighting over it. He found himself idly speculat- 
 ing what they would do when it was eaten, but as to mov- 
 ing a finger, driving them off, rescuing the bread, or eating 
 it afterward, no power on earth could have made him 
 do it. 
 
 Gradually the little light that had crept in through the 
 grating faded away, the cell became quite dark ; he 
 could no longer watch the rats, he could only hear them and 
 occasionally feel them as they scampered about the place ; 
 their noise kept him from sleeping, their frequent raids 
 kept him in an uncomfortable state of wakeful suspense. 
 One thing was very clear to him; the lifelong imprison- 
 ment, if it was to be in this cell, would not, be of very long 
 duration. He wondered whether death would free him 
 that night, wondered whether dying hurt much, wondered 
 whether this strange sinking, this feeling of being dragged 
 down, down, endlessly down, might perhaps be the begin- 
 ning of the end. 
 
 All at once the sound of a human voice made him start 
 violently. He sat up, and tried to make out in the murky 
 darkness where the speaker could be. 
 
 "Art weary of life ?" said the voice. 
 
 "In these quarters, ay, verily," replied Hugo. 
 
 "You can change them this moment, an you will," said 
 the voice. 
 
 He thought that it came from the grating, and was some- 
 what reassured. 
 
 1 'How can that be? Tell me, for the love of God!" he 
 exclaimed. 
 
 " Nay," said the voice. But for the love of gold." 
 
 "Money!" exclaimed Hugo. "Can that take me out of 
 this accursed place ?" 
 
 "It can take you to a dry and spacious room, and give 
 you a bed fit for a Christian to lie on; it can give you food 
 and wine, and it can lighten your fetters." 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 197 
 
 "Ten gold pieces," exclaimed Hugo, eagerly; "if you 
 will but take me hence.! 3 ' 
 
 There was a sound of laughter; it was like a mocking 
 fiend. 
 
 "Ten guineas! No, my duck, you don't stir under 
 twenty." 
 
 "Twenty!" Hugo mused a minute. All the money he 
 had in the world was the fifty guineas which Randolph had 
 given him at Longbridge Hall. He must not stake the 
 whole of this even for his release and better quarters. 
 "Well, then, twenty guineas." 
 
 " Twenty guineas will but take you to the common ward ; 
 'tis full to-night, they be packed close as herrings in a 
 tub !" 
 
 " Then will I most assuredly stay here," said Hugo, reso- 
 lutely. He fell back again on the stones. 
 
 " But," said the voice, " an you stay in this damp hole 
 you're not long for this world. The toughest can but 
 stand it a few weeks. You're signing your own death- 
 warrant, and all for the sake of a few guineas more or less. 
 Now for sixty guineas I'll get you into the press yard, 
 where you can live like a prince, have your fine friends 
 to visit you by day, and feed upon the fat of the land." * 
 
 "I can't pay it," said Hugo ; "I haven't such a sum in 
 the world." 
 
 There was truth in his voice. The invisible being knew 
 that he must reduce his terms. 
 
 "Well, then, let us say fifty and end the haggling." 
 
 " Nay," said Hugo, " 'tis impossible ; leave me and tor- 
 ment me no further." 
 
 " Well, since you will have it," said the voice. Then 
 again, after a pause, " One more chance. There's the cas- 
 tle fine, airy rooms, plenty of light, good food, though 
 not so good as the press yard ; I'll get you a private cham- 
 ber in the castle, if you will give me forty gold pieces." 
 
 "Agreed!" said Hugo, catching at the first proposal 
 which it was really in his power to accept. He took the 
 sum named from his purse, and Scroop, hearing the chink 
 of the gold pieces, lost no time in unlocking the door and 
 helping the prisoner almost carrying him, in fact up 
 the stone steps which led from his dungeon. 
 
 " Nat !" he roared, in his stentorian voice, "bring the 
 fetters!" 
 
 The vaulted passage rang and echoed, dismally return- 
 ing the last word. Nat came scurrying along with a Ian- 
 
198 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 tern in one hand and his implements in the other. He 
 was the same evil-looking prisoner who had been employed 
 to rivet the twenty pound irons, and he grinned derisively 
 at Hugo as he proceeded to release him and to fasten in- 
 stead round his ankles a far lighter pair of shackles, in 
 which he could move with very little discomfort. When 
 this was done Scroop took him by the arm and led him 
 along labyrinths of stone passages, which he could but 
 dimly perceive by the nickering light of the lantern. 
 
 " The common debtors' side !" said Scroop, jerking his 
 thumb iii the direction of a large door, " and .the com- 
 mon felons !" he nodded his head in the opposite direc- 
 tion. I 
 
 The course seemed to lie midway between the two, and 
 Hugo was relieved to find himself in a less noisome atmos- 
 phere. Scroop dragged him up flight after flight of stone 
 stairs, and at length paused before a narrow door, which 
 he proceeded to unlock. 
 
 " You may thank your stars, young sir," he said, 
 gloomily, " that I let you out on such low terms. Mark 
 my words, many don't get such quarters as these under 
 five hundred pounds." 
 
 Hugo wondered what princely accommodation was 
 about to be offered him, and was not unreasonably wrath- 
 ful when he found that this private room was of the 
 smallest, and was fitted with three barrack beds, two of 
 which were already occupied. 
 
 He looked at the two sleeping forms. What might they 
 not be ? Murderers, for aught he knew ! Surely the 
 dungeon and the rats with solitude would have been pre- 
 ferable to this ! 
 
 " 'Tis overlate to see to the bedding to-night," said 
 Scroop, indicating the vacant plank bed. " You will be 
 softer than stones any way, and to-morrow you can have 
 a flock mattress, an you like to pay a crown for it a fort- 
 night." 
 
 The occupant of one of the beds stirred a little, and 
 finally ,turned round to look at these disturbers of his 
 night's rest. 
 
 " Is this what you call a private chamber ?" said Hugo, 
 wrathfully. And, with a deep oath, he dragged himself 
 across the room and flung himself down upon the barrack 
 bed. 
 
 Scroop regarded him for a moment with a sarcastic 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 199 
 
 grin, then, shrugging his shoulders, left the cell without 
 any further remark, locking and bolting the door with os- 
 tentatious noisiness which was not lost upon Hugo. 
 
 Disappointed as be was with his new quarters, however, 
 to be free from the rats was a great gain. His two com- 
 panions were silent enough, the room was dark, and Hugo, 
 though wretched both in mind and body, was too young 
 tc lie awake long. 
 
 He slept soundly for some hours. When he awoke the 
 room was dimly iighted by the pale moonbeams which 
 struggled in through the small window. He looked round, 
 fancying himself at Mondisfield ; he stared at the heavy 
 iron bars across the window, which stood out black arid 
 hard against the moonlight. It was not Mondisfield ! 
 Where was it ? With a vague uneasiness he started up, 
 but instantly felt the fetters upon his ankles. It was not 
 Mondisfield ! Good God ! it was Newgate ! 
 
 Once more he heard Kandolph's cold voice, " Are you 
 aware that the penalty for misprision of treason is im- 
 prisonment for life ?" And fiends' voices seem to take up 
 the words and echo them in a jeering chorus, " Here for 
 life, for life ! Here for life I" 
 
 He sprung up in a sort of frenzy he struggled vainly 
 to reach the barred but unglazed window high up in the 
 wall from which the cool night air blew in. He rushed at 
 the door, he pulled, strained, dragged at it as though by 
 all his endeavors it could be induced to move a hair's- 
 breadth. What was reason to one who bad realized the 
 meaning of lifelong imprisonment ! The door must yield ! 
 Were mere wood and iron to prove more powerful than 
 the passionate craving for freedom which seemed to rend 
 his being ? Once more back to the window, once more a 
 perception that it was hopeless ; then back to the door and 
 the unavailing struggle with the merciless lock, which all 
 his efforts would not so much as shake. It was all vain 
 vain ! And he was here for life ! 
 
 With a stifled cry he tbrew himself face downward on the 
 floor. Effort was useless, and yet this awful craving to get 
 out seemed as though its fierceness would kill him. Pant- 
 ing, exhausted with the bodily exertion, and torn in pieces 
 by that terrible revolt against his fate, he might have lain 
 there for hours had not a voice fallen upon his ears and 
 started him into attention. Was it his fancy ? Was it 
 merely the recollection of some psalm he had beard at 
 Mondisfield? 
 
200 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 " What if in prison I must dwell, 
 
 May I not there converse with Thee ? 
 Save me from sin, thy wrath and hell, 
 
 Call me thy child, and I am free. 
 No bolts or bars can keep Thee out, 
 
 None can confine a holy soul, 
 The streets of heaven it walks about, 
 
 None may its liberties control." 
 
 "Whose words are those ?" he exclaimed, quieted for the 
 moment, partly because they seemed like a message from 
 Mondisfield, partly because there was something soothing 
 in the rhythm and in the tone of the voice. 
 
 " The words are Mr. Richard Baxter's," said the voice. 
 " And I, who speak them, am one Francis Bampfield, a 
 prisoner for conscience's sake." 
 
 With that the speaker rose, felt about for flint and 
 steel and in a minute had kindled a rushlight ; then he 
 came and bent over the prostrate form of his fellow- 
 prisoner. 
 
 "I heard not your entrance, sir," he said. "I slept 
 soundly. Is there aught that I can do for you ? You seem 
 in sore distress." 
 
 " Distress !" exclaimed Hugo, half raising himself and 
 looking into the face of the old man who bent over him. 
 " I am in prison for life, sir for life." He broke into a 
 discordant laugh, which speedily changed to uncontrolla- 
 ble sobbing, as he fell back once more into his former po- 
 sition. 
 
 "I, too, am in prison for life," said Bampfield. "Be 
 comforted, 'twill prove less irksome than you think for." 
 
 "No, no!" cried Hugo, starting up again. "You are 
 old, sir, or you could not say so. Oh ! for the love of God, 
 sir, tell me, is there no hope of escape ? I must get out 
 or I shall die ! " 
 
 The old frenzy was returning; once more he rushed 
 blindly at the door, as though he would tear it from its 
 hinges. Bampfield watched him for a minute with silent 
 compassion ; then, going up to him, he drew him away 
 with gentle force, which Hugo was in no state to resist. 
 
 " You look both ill and weary," he said, in his quiet, 
 measured tones. "An you will put up with it, my bed is 
 at your service. Lie down slumber will do more for you 
 than I can." 
 
 Hugo's native courtesy returned to him, and in a voice 
 which contrasted oddly with that of his passionate out- 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 201 
 
 break, he thanked Bampfield for his kindness, but would 
 not hear of robbing him of his bed. However, the old man 
 was not to be resisted. He took the law into his own hands, 
 made Hugo lie down, fetched him food and water, and 
 forced him to swallow them, talking the while in a sooth- 
 ing, continuous sort of way. 
 
 " Yes, as you say, I am old," he remarked ; " old enough, 
 I trow, to be your grandsire. But you will accord me an 
 old man's privilege, and hearken to my experience. Black 
 times you m&y have, but believe me, none so black as the 
 first night in jail. Believe me, sir, there is naught so hard 
 but custom lightens it. I speak not from hearsay ; I speak 
 that which I know, having been oft in jail, and for long 
 years. Men may imprison your body, but no man can, 
 against your will, imprison you," 
 
 Hugo was silent, musing over the words which fell 
 strangely on his ear, since he was not accustomed to think 
 much about any such matters as Bampfield hinted at. 
 
 The old man watched him keenly, wondering what crime 
 had brought upon him so terrible a punishment. The pure 
 face with its beautiful outlines, the dark gray eyes with their 
 deep, thoughtful look, did not lend themselves readily to 
 the idea of any crime at all. But he was too much of a gen- 
 tleman to ask him any question, and indeed before long he 
 saw that the new prisoner had fallen asleep, much as a 
 child does after an outburst of passion. He did not real- 
 ize how wonderful had been the relief of his presence, or 
 what an immense influence his mere age possessed for one 
 of Hugo's reverential nature. But he felt strangely drawn 
 toward this new occupant of his prison-cell, and unspeak- 
 ably thankful that one, who would effect no slight change 
 in the monotonous life, bid fair to prove a welcome addition 
 to their number. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXL 
 
 GRIFFITH DOUBTFULLY REGARDS HUGO. 
 
 Suspicion s among thoughts are like bats among birds, they ever 
 fly by twilight. BACON. 
 
 IT was broad daylight when John Griffith, minister of 
 Dunnings Alley Chapel, Bishopsgate Street, awoke. He 
 glanced sleepily across the prison cell, vaguely wondering 
 whether his friend Bampfield had yet risen, and, perceiv- 
 
202 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 ing some curious change as he looked, he rubbed his eyes 
 vigorously, and looked again. Why, what was this ? In- 
 stead of a hoary head there was a mass of curly, light- 
 brown hair. Where had his friend gone to ? And who 
 was this new comer ? He rose hastily, but his curiosity 
 had to remain unsatisfied, for he perceived that Bampfield 
 was at his devotions at the further end of the cell, and the 
 stranger slept as if nothing on earth would wake him. 
 Griffith was almost irritated by the sight of his peaceful 
 repose. This must be the graceful gallant who had stum- 
 bled in, likely enough half drunk, the night before; he re- 
 membered the incident well enough now, and he remem- 
 bered, too, the deep oaths which he had uttered as he flung 
 himself down upon the vacant bed. How he had managed to 
 obtain possession of Bampfield's quarters was a mystery, 
 and, Griffith grudged them to him, and was not at all in- 
 clined to wish this intruder welcome. 
 
 "How now, Bampfield," he exclaimed, as the old man 
 rose from his knees, "have you been sleeping on boards? 
 And did this godless, drunken blasphemer turn you from 
 your own bed?" 
 
 Bampfield smiled. 
 
 "Gently, good friend Griffith," he said. "Methinks 
 those epithets scarce apply to our new friend." 
 
 "Friend!" said Griffith, looking with scorn at the gay 
 crimson doublet Avhich the stranger had thrown off, and 
 the costly lace cravat which lay beside it. " Friend, Bamp- 
 field ! Nay, but a godless Whitehall idler, an I mistake 
 not. You slept last night, when he entered, but I saw him 
 stagger in, drunk, no doubt, and swearing at the jailer with 
 profane lips. " 
 
 " Nay, he was not drunk, poor lad, but ill and weary, and 
 half starved. Courtier, idler, swearer he may be, yet is 
 there a grace and winsomeness about him which methinks 
 is not all court breeding." 
 
 " You would see good in every living soul!" said Griffith, 
 impatiently. "I shall form ruy own judgment upon him. 
 Is he like to remain here long ?" 
 
 " I trow that he will outlast both of us," said Bampfield, 
 with a curiously pathetic smile. "We are old and gray- 
 headed, but yon poor boy is but nineteen, or at most 
 twenty, and he too has lifelong imprisonment to face. I 
 found him heart-broken last night, tearing and straining 
 at the door as though he would open it or die." 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 203 
 
 " Whereupon you offered him your bed," said Griffith, 
 " and the grace and winsomeness of which you speak did 
 not hinder the profane worldling from letting a venerable 
 man of seventy sleep on a plank bed." 
 
 " You wrong him," said Bamplield. "I forced him to 
 take it, nor could I have slept after witnessing so sad a 
 scene. I had better employment." 
 
 " I have no patience with the rising generation !" said 
 Griffith, vehemently. He could not add that he had no 
 patience with his friend for spending half the night in 
 prayer over the sorrows of an unknown stranger, but he 
 relieved himself by inveighing against the depravity of 
 youth in general, and of this youth in particular. 
 
 Hugo, disturbed by the voices, was struggling to wake 
 up; he had heard the last part of the conversation in a 
 half-dreamy state, and Griffith's vehement generality made 
 him open his eyes. He looked round and saw a tall, 
 gaunt, gray-haired man with a stern and hard expression. 
 He was clad in the habit of a divine, and though he was 
 beyond doubt a very worthy man, and though Hugo was 
 quite aware of the fact, and was conscious, too, that he 
 ought to be thankful enough to find himself in such good 
 company, he nevertheless formed the strongest aversion 
 to Dr. John Griffith at first sight. 
 
 " I wish you a good morning, sir," said Griffith, bowing 
 stiffly. " Had I known that you were in need last night I 
 should gladly have afforded yeu any assistance in my 
 power. But you entered this cell with profane words, to 
 which, I bless God, these walls have not of late echoed." 
 
 Now, in those days, swearing was a cultivated art; it 
 was considered part of good breeding. Hugo, being of a 
 quiet nature, and more given to thinking than to talking, 
 probably swore much less than most men; he had indeed 
 been many a time taken to task by Kandolph and by Den- 
 ham for his want of brilliancy in this respect. To be now 
 reproved for a single oath under exceptionally trying cir- 
 cumstances amazed him. Moreover, he resented the in- 
 terference. 
 
 " I am sorry to have disturbed you, sir," he repliedj 
 coldly. "As to modes of speech, my tongue is my own." 
 
 He tried to rise, but fell back again with an irrepressi- 
 ble exclamation of pain. Bampfield, who had listened 
 with regret to the words which had passed between his 
 companions, now drew near to the bedside. 
 
 " Are you rested ?" he asked, kindly. " Nay, I see you 
 are still but weary." 
 
204 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 " I have to thank you for some hours of forgetf ulness," 
 said Hugo, looking up at him gratefully. 
 
 " Are you in prison for crime or for conscience sake ?" 
 asked Griffith, stern!} 7 . 
 
 "For both, sir," said Hugo, flushing painfully. 
 
 Griffith regarded him for a moment in silence. 
 
 " That is impossible !" he said, with stern emphasis. 
 " Impossible, sir !" 
 
 An indescribable look stole over Hugo's face; he glanced 
 at Bampfield as though to appeal to him against this hard 
 verdict. 
 
 " You are still very weary ?" questioned Bampneld. " Is 
 there naught that we can do for you ?" 
 
 " I don't know," said Hugo, frowning with pain. " I 
 am beaten almost to a jelly." 
 
 " Ha ! how was that ?" said Griffith with sudden interest, 
 for he was a doctor of medicine as well as a divine. Then, 
 his old antagonism to Hugo returning " But perhaps you 
 deserved it." 
 
 The muscles of the new-comer's face worked convuls- 
 ively ; this ruthless handling of an old wound was hard to 
 bear. 
 
 " I did deserve it," he said, in a low voice, and there- 
 with turned his face from the light, and was deaf to all 
 other questions. 
 
 Bampfield looked reproachfully at his companion, and 
 John Griffith softened a little toward the new-comer, 
 reflected that he might have repented of his crime, and, 
 turning away, began vigorously to make preparations 
 for breakfast. 
 
 However, though Griffith's question had been heartless, 
 it proved to be exactly the tonic which Hugo needed. 
 Bampfield's kindness had saved him from blank despair, 
 but that sharp, that torturing, " Perhaps j r ou deserved it," 
 recalled to him the past, and with the hatred of the jast 
 an almost passionate resolve that the future should be 
 very different. What was it that had made him sink so 
 low that night at Mondisfield ? Love of life had, in truth, 
 proverd strong, but it was not merely love of life which had 
 made him yield. Had another man held a pistol to his 
 head, and given him the chance between death and crime 
 he would have assuredly chosen death. The power had 
 lain, not in the pistol, but in Kandolph ; not in the mere 
 tlunio-ht of death,, but the thought of a violent death at 
 his brother's hands. 
 
 He had allowed himself to be held in bondage by that 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DATS. 205 
 
 stronger nature. Randolph had been to him as a god, and 
 he, by yielding with tame and blind submission, by ceding 
 to another what he had no right to cede the direction of 
 his will and his conscience had proved himself to be less 
 than a man. It flashed upon him as a sort of discovery 
 that words which he had heard in a lifeless mechanical 
 way were no poetical image, but a stern reality, a fact as 
 true for him in the seventeenth century as, long ago, to 
 the listeners on the Eastern mountain-side. " No man can 
 serve two masters." He would, to begin with, forfeit the 
 right to be called " man " at all would be a mere cipher, 
 an incarnate compromise ; and ultimately he must, by the 
 very nature of things, give himself wholly either to one or 
 the other, either to the right master or the wrong. He 
 knew well enough that he had of late vaguely desired to 
 do right, that for months he had been also drawn, almost 
 irresistibly, more and more under Randolph's influence. 
 He had been sorely perplexed by the clashing of duties, 
 but at the fatal moment had been quite well aware that he 
 had deliberately chosen amiss. 
 
 It was not, however, till this miserable morning in New- 
 gate that he saw all things clearly ; realized that there is 
 only one Master whom a man can serve without sinking 
 into degrading slavery, only one Master whose service is 
 perfect freedom. The old Church prayer returned to his 
 mind, the Latin version of which had till now been an 
 enigma to him 
 
 " Quern nosse vivere. 
 Ciri servire regnare." 
 
 And hitherto he had not " served " but had been dragged 
 down by the power of circumstance; hitherto he had not 
 " reigned," overcoming by virtue of the Truth and the 
 Right ; he had lived in a despicable slavery, nay, scarcely 
 lived at all, so vague and misty had been his knowledge. 
 
 To pass from a shadowy belief in a sort of fetish to 
 actual knowledge of a Living Being is like passing from 
 death into life like throwing wide a closed casement, and 
 letting the fresh air revive one panting for breath. 
 
 It seemed to Hugo as though the purity of Joyce, the 
 charity of Bampfield, the thoughtful friendship of Mary 
 Denham, the free forgiveness of Colonel Wharncliffe, 
 blended together and helped him to a vision of One whom 
 he had vowed to serve manfully, but had not served One 
 -whom he had vaguely worshiped, but never before known. 
 
206 IN THE GOLDEN DATS. 
 
 Time, then, was nothing, place was nothing ! Bampfield 
 had spoken truly men might imprison the body, but here 
 in Newgate one might "know" and "live," might 
 " serve " and " reigu." He could bear now to say those 
 terrible words which last night had half maddened him, 
 "Lifelong imprisonment;" could pray as he had never 
 prayed before the words of Mary Denham's collect. 
 
 He said no more about being beaten to a jelly, but got 
 up, eager to begin his new life. He paused in tying the 
 cravat which had excited John Griffith's ire, to help that 
 worthy, who was in difficulties, with a steaming saucepan 
 full of porridge. He stifled his inclination to laugh at the 
 portentous length of the grace which Dr. Griffith pro- 
 nounced over the very frugal meal, and he accepted Bamp- 
 field's offer of hospitality with gratitude, gulping down 
 the tasteless and ill-cooked food with heroic resolution, 
 and inwardly debating whether he might not, in course of 
 time, improve upon Griffith's cooking, and serve up por- 
 ridge which savored less of smoke and the pot. 
 
 " Is the food supplied to prisoners ?" he asked, anxious 
 to find out what his expenses would be in his new abode. 
 
 " A small quantity is supplied," said Bampfield, " but 
 scarce sufficient to keep body and soul together. You can, 
 however, purchase what you will. Nowhere is money a 
 greater power than in prison." 
 
 " Ay, that I discovered la.st night," said Hugo. " It was 
 not till the jailer had cajoled me out of forty gold pieces 
 that he brought me hither out of a pestilent dungeon." 
 
 " They ever get heavy premiums in that way," said 
 Bampfield, " and even now you will be charged ten shillings 
 and sixpence rental by Scroop, and one shilling each week 
 by the female who cleans the rooms and makes the fires." 
 
 Hugo looked grave. But ten more gold pieces remained 
 within his purse, and if for mere bed and lodging he must 
 
 Eay fourteen shillings a week his resources would ere long 
 e exhausted. Moreover there would be his share in lights 
 and coals and food to be thought of. The money would 
 not lust him much more than two months. Two months 
 out of a life-time ! 
 
 Presently, when Griffith had retired to the further end 
 of the cell to prepare a sermon, Bampfield heard all Hugo's 
 story; he heard the outline of facts, that is; and his age 
 and experience, together with an innate perception of 
 the new-comer's character, enabled him to fill in the 
 gaps which necessarily occurred in Hugo's narrative. 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 207 
 
 Nor was it difficult to imagine the extraordinary ascenden- 
 cy which the elder brother had exercised over the mind 
 of the younger. Puritan as he was, Bampfield neverthe- 
 less discerned at once that Hugo was one of the artist 
 type receptive, responsive, by nature a worshiper ; over 
 such a character how easy it was to picture the mastery of 
 a strong man, passionately loved ! He could not but hope 
 great things from one who could break such a chain, and 
 Hugo's grief at the separation from Randolph, which was 
 more apparent by what he left unsaid than by any words 
 which he could have uttered, touched the old man deeply. 
 
 " Ay," he said, " separation from lath and kin, in belief 
 and practice, is a hfttd thing to face, but it is what your 
 Lord bore in his life. ' Even his brethren did not believe 
 in him.' Many a time those who suffered for conscience 
 sake will have to heal their smarts with those words." 
 
 " And you, sir ?" asked Hugo. " Did you too have this 
 to bear? Tell me of those imprisonments of which you 
 spoke last night." 
 
 "In good sooth, many are the friends whom I have lost," 
 said Bampfield. " Think not that I blame them nay, oft- 
 times, thinking over it, I blame myself ; for did we live as 
 we ought did not our failings dim the Christ-light let 
 us hold what opinions we would, folks would be slow to 
 leave us. My tale is but a short and uneventful one. I 
 was born of an old and honorable Devonshire family, and 
 was educated at Wadham in the University of Oxford. My 
 young days were cast in evil times ; I was then a loyalist, 
 and an ordained minister of the Church of England. My 
 cure was at Sherbourne in Dorsetshire, and there I con- 
 tinued to read Common Prayer publicly longer than any 
 other minister in Dorsetshire, for which I incurred some 
 danger it had been ever my fortune to go with the losing 
 side, you see !" 
 
 He smiled, a curiously pathetic smile, which touched 
 Hugo. 
 
 " At that time I was also prebendary of Exeter Cathe- 
 dral. It was not till later that I found, as I thought, 
 many matters in the Church which called loudly for ref- 
 ormation. Mr. Richard Baxter was the means of bringing 
 me over to the parliamentary party, and soon after evil 
 days began for us. The king returned, the Act of Unifor- 
 mity was passed, and there was naught for me to do but to 
 quit my living and my prebend, being utterly dissatis- 
 fied with the conditions which it imposed. I was from 
 
208 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 that time forth a marked man, and soon after was ap- 
 prehended and cast into jail for worshiping God in my 
 own family. I smile now at the remembrance. There 
 were five-and-twenty of us thrust into one room with but 
 one bed. However, we passed the time peacefully in re- 
 ligious exercises." 
 
 "And did they keep you there long?" asked Hugo, 
 with the keen interest of a hearer who can realize the sit- 
 uation. 
 
 " Nay, but a short time. However, freedom was not 
 meant for me. I was again apprehended for preaching, for 
 refusing to keep back the message intrusted to me, even 
 Chough this free land had been bound in slavish chains by 
 flaws devised by Clarendon and approved by the king. That 
 time I was in jail eight years. 'Twas in Dorsetshire jail, a 
 grewsome place enough." 
 
 " Did it seem very long ?" asked Hugo, huskily. 
 
 "It was long,yet I knew that it was not too long ; it was the 
 training my Lord thought best for me. Moreover, no one 
 could hinder my preaching in the jail ; I preached every 
 day." 
 
 " And when you were liberated ?" questioned Hugo. 
 
 " Then I wandered about the country again for a while, 
 gaining a hearing when and where I could, but I was 
 again apprehended and cast into Salisbury jail. After 
 that, once more freed, I came to London and gathered a 
 congregation, first at the chapel in Devonshire Square, 
 and later at Pinner's Hall. Last year I was preaching 
 there when there broke in several officers, who dragged 
 me down from my place and carried me o3: under 
 guard to bring me before the Lord Mayor. I was here in 
 Newgate after that for a time, but, being released, found 
 myself in worse odor than ever, and shortly afterward, in 
 March of this year, I and my friend Dr. Griffith were both 
 committed to Newgate for refusing the oaths of supremacy 
 and allegiance, and here we are like to remain the rest 
 of our lives." 
 
 Hugo mused for a while in silence. The story was per- 
 plexing to one of his way of thinking, but no one could for 
 a moment doubt Bampfield's honesty, and, what was more, 
 his holiness. He had not yet seen enough of the world to 
 realize that the sins of any body of men sooner or later 
 cause a schism in that body that the Church, by her sins, 
 lost many of her bravest and noblest sons, and that those 
 who outside her pale fought against tyranny and intoler- 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 209 
 
 ance and maddening restrictions were fighting on God's 
 side. Instinctively, however, lie honored the zeal for truth, 
 the scrupulous conscientiousness w r hich the Nonconformists 
 had shown; instinctively, too, he realized that he must 
 avoid all controversy, and be content to learn what he could 
 from these two old men, whose experience had been so 
 strange and varied. 
 
 Fortunately the beautiful reverence which was one of his 
 most marked characteristics stood him now in good s-tead, 
 and kept peace in the cell where otherwise there must have 
 been discord, seeing that nature and nurture had turned 
 the three so differently. 
 
 Bampfield had only just finished his story when the door 
 was unlocked and Scroop entered, followed by a surly- 
 looking prisoner, who carried Hugo's valise and lute-case. 
 The jailer directed him to put them down on the barrack- 
 bed which he had allotted last night to the new-comer, 
 and then proceeded, in his grim way, to enlighten the 
 owner as to various prison rules and regulations. Hugo 
 could hardly listen to the fellow, so impatient was he to 
 open the lute-case. When at last the jailer had departed 
 he began to tear open the straps and clasps with eager 
 fingers, deaf to Griffith's questions, and mindful only of 
 Joyce. The 1M raised, he looked eagerly in and found, 
 securely packed away beside his lute, three books a vol- 
 ume containing five of Shakespeare's plays, a copy of the 
 " Pilgrim's Progress," but recently published, and a little 
 edition of St. John's Gospel. On the fly-leaf of this last 
 was written, in a clear, but tremulous hand-writing. 
 
 "For my dear love. They are all the books I have." 
 
 Tears rushed to Hugo's eyes, a passionate longing con- 
 sumed him for one more sight of Joyce Joyce, his sweet, 
 tme-hearted love ! Joyce, who belonged to him, and to 
 whom he belonged by right of that mysterious union of 
 souls which no prison walls not even the walls of this 
 hellish Newgate could sever. Unable to see the words 
 which were to him so full of comfort, he pressed the book 
 to his lips and kissed it fervently. 
 
 " Sir," said John Griffith, sternly, " I trust you take no 
 rash oath. Tell me, I pray, why you thus irreverently 
 press the holy book to lips which of late speak profane 
 words ?" 
 
 " Beshrew me, sir, they shall speak such words no more," 
 said Hugo, quickly, his rapture of love lending him a large 
 generosity, which put up with the doctor's interruption, 
 
210 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 and made his impatience of the previous night seem con- 
 temptible. 
 
 Bampfield glanced at him for a moment, a smile of sym- 
 pathy illumining his worn features. This new-comer was 
 already proving a blessing to him ; he had brought an 
 atmosphere of youth and hope and love into the dreary 
 cell which refreshed the old man greatly, and relieved the 
 weary monotony of the prison life. 
 
 On the Saturday, however, when Hugo, somewhat cheered 
 and already growing accustomed to his new quarters, took 
 his lute and began to play, Bampfield's conscience would 
 not permit him to keep silence. 
 
 " My friend," he said, " this is the Sabbath. Will you 
 not keep it with me, and lay aside wordly things ?" 
 
 Hugo, who would have done anything to please the 
 gentle old man, at once put by the late and patiently lis- 
 tened to a series of readings and discourses, finishing with 
 a debate between Griffith and Bampfield as to the observ- 
 ance of the seventh, or the first, day of the week. But 
 when, on the following day, Griffith took him sternty to 
 task for reading Shakespeare, he was less patient. Not 
 being accustomed to the Puritan method of observing Sun- 
 day, it seemed to him intolerable to be required all at once 
 to keep both the rest-day of the seventh-day Christian and 
 the rest-day of the Baptist. It needed all his innate cour- 
 tesy to euable him to pass the two days in a way which 
 should not hurt the feelings of either of the old men, and 
 on the Monday he was so chafed and wearied by the re- 
 straint that he felt ready to quarrel with everybody and 
 everything. 
 
 It was some relief to be allowed to take an hour's walk. 
 One of the privileges of this part of Newgate consisted in 
 the possession of a paved passage running between the 
 outer wall and the building itself, a dreary enough place, 
 paved with purbeck stone, and running to a length of some 
 fifty feet or more. It was something, however, even to be 
 in the open air, within hearing of the life and bustle of 
 Newgate Street, and Hugo walked up and down, working 
 off some of his weariness and despondency by the help of 
 rapid and mechanical exercise. 
 
 As he paced to and fro a stranger happened to enter the 
 court at the further end. Visitors frequented Newgate all 
 day long in those times, and consorted freely with the 
 prisoners; for although the privations and discomforts of 
 prison life in he seventeenth century were much greater 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 211 
 
 than in the present day, there was a sort of rude liberty 
 and license permitted which would scandalize the stern 
 disciplinarians of our time. 
 
 The visitor was a man who quickly arrested the atten- 
 tion. There was something unusual about his person and 
 mien which made every one look a second time at him. 
 He moved with a peculiar ease and dignity, his face was 
 calm, serene, and thoughtful; he seemed to walk the world 
 as an acute observer of men and manners, but there was 
 about him nothing of the censorious critic. Before all 
 things he was sympathetic in fact, he observed every one 
 with such deep sympathy that he practically lived with 
 them, seeming almost to lose the sense of his own person- 
 ality, so deeply was he absorbed in the life around him. 
 He leaned now against the grim door-way at the entrance 
 to the paved yard, his easy attitude contrasting curiously 
 with the gait of the downcast prisoner, who tramped dog- 
 gedly to and fro. 
 
 Betterton for it was none other than the great trage- 
 dian watched every motion of the walker, watched keenly, 
 but with that living sympathy which distinguishes the 
 artist from the scientist. 
 
 A slight figure, clad in a crimson-cloth doublet, black- 
 silk hose, and broad, black hat, from which trailed a long, 
 yellow ostrich feather ; a walk at once dejected and des- 
 perate, slightly uneaven, too, as though the wayfarer were 
 recovering from some illness ; the head bent, the eyes fixed 
 on the ground, the hands clasped behind him, the iron 
 shackles, which hung loosely on the shapely ankles, clank- 
 ing dismally at each step. The face he could not clearly 
 see, it was hidden by the wide brim of his hat,until, just as 
 the prisoner had taken his third turn up and down, some 
 sound made him look up hastily. The actor, to his intense 
 surprise, saw before him the strange, broad-browed face, 
 with the great gray eyes, and the indefinable something 
 which raised it above other faces. There could be no mis- 
 take he was certain that it must be the young amateur 
 tenor, the favorite at Will's, who not many weeks since had 
 been applauded to the echo in very different circum- 
 stances. He stepped forward hastily. 
 
 "Mr. Wharncliffe !" he exclaimed, holding out his hand. 
 
 Hugo clutched at it as a drowning man clutches at a 
 straw. To hear a familiar voice, to see the well-known 
 and kindly face of Betterton in that dismal abode, gave 
 him a momentary thrill of rapture. He was not long in 
 
212 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS, 
 
 telling the actor all his tale, and Bretterton listened with 
 that sympathetic silence which is better far than words. 
 
 " What can I do for you ?" he said, at the close. 
 
 " Tell me first, an you will, what arrests have been 
 made," said Hugo, anxiously. 
 
 "Many warrants have been issued," said Betterton. 
 " But I have heard naught of arresting any leading man 
 save Lord Russell." 
 
 " Lord Russell !" exclaimed Hugo, in astonishment. 
 
 " Ay, he is in the Tower, and to be brought to his trial 
 shortly." 
 
 " And Colonel Sidney ? Heard you aught of him ?" 
 
 "Nay, he is yet at large. I saw him yesternight, nor 
 have I heard of his being involved in the plot." 
 
 "God be thanked !" said Hugo, his face brightening. 
 " You asked what you could do for me, sir. I should bo 
 greatly beholden to you an you would go to Colonel Sid- 
 ney's house, see him privately, and tell him all you have 
 now heard from me." 
 
 " I will see him with pleasure," said Betterton. " And at 
 once." 
 
 " Tell him, sir, that I will not risk writing, fearing to in- 
 volve him in danger. But beg him to send me some word of 
 counsel, and, if it may be, one of forgiveness." His voice 
 faltered, he half broke down, but resumed, after a moment's 
 pause : 
 
 " Tell him I know that I deserve to be despised by him 
 that I will bear it as a just punishment if it must be. But 
 tell him, too, that I would die for him, that I would live in 
 torture for him. Nay, tell him not that, 'tis like the false 
 disciples who afterward fled. Tell him no words of mine, 
 but " he grasped the actor's arm, looking into his eyes 
 with an entreaty which Betterton never forgot "but make 
 him understand." 
 
 "I will do my best," said Betterton, simply. " I see well 
 what your love for Mr. Sidney is, and can at least tell him 
 of that." 
 
 " Ah !" broke in Hugo, " you will never know what he is 
 neveH He has been to me friend, guide, teacher well- 
 nigh father to me who was naught to him naught but a 
 stranger. My God ! and it is such a one that men deem 
 cold and harsh a traitor one to be hunted from the land 
 he loves !" 
 
 "Time's up, sir!" shouted a grim voice. 
 
 The agitation, the light of love and devotion died out of 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 213 
 
 Hugo's face, and a stern look settled down upon his fea- 
 tures. "Farewell," lie said, grasping Betterton's hand. 
 " Farewell, and thank you." 
 
 Then with a curious dignity of obedience he followed 
 his imperious jailer, and disappeared within the gloomy 
 pile. 
 
 The actor watched him out of sight, brushed away a tear 
 from his eyes, and left the prison-yard looking graver than 
 when he entered it. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXII. 
 
 SIDNEY AND BETTEKTON. 
 
 WILL. I pray you, what thinks he of our estate ? 
 KING H. Even as men wrecked upon a sand, that look to be 
 washed off the next tide. King Hairy V. 
 
 IT is a curious fact, but a fact borne out by the experi- 
 ence of most people, that the great actors in the drama of 
 life, the characters who take the leading parts and the 
 difficult roles, are, as a rule, calmer and quieter in face of 
 peri! and in time of commotion than the lesser men, who 
 play humbler parts, and who, while involved in slighter 
 risk, seem to be much more troubled about it. On that 
 bright summer morning which followed Betterton's \isit 
 to Newgate most men in any way connectc d with the Whig 
 party were conscious that they were treading on the brink 
 of a volcano. The bravest could not but be apprehensive 
 at such a time ; the most courageous found it hard to live 
 quietly on in their homes, knowing ihat at any moment a 
 pretext might be made for issuing a warrant against them. 
 The country was stirred to its depths by the news of the 
 plot ; panic reigned supreme. Yet in Algernon Sidney's 
 study all was calm enough on that Tuesday morning, the 
 26th of June. 
 
 The calmness struck Betterton not a little when, ushered 
 in by Ducasse, he found himself in fhe presence of the re- 
 publican. The room, somewhat meagerly furnished, seemed 
 to bear the owner's history stamped upon it. It was 
 lacking in the grace and neatness and comfort betokening 
 womanly care. In the prevailing shabbiness there were, 
 nevertheless, tokens that the owner, though poor, was of 
 noble birth, for here and there a bit of cumbrous family 
 plate was to be seen, the Leicester arms were blazoned up- 
 
214: IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 on the brown morocco of more than one volume lying on 
 the table, and relics of Penshurst might have been noted 
 among the ordinary furniture of a London house. Pres- 
 ent, too, were signs that Sidney was one of the wanderers 
 of the earth. An old trunk fuli of letters and papers stood 
 open beside the writing-table ; a pillow-beer friend of 
 many a weary journey lay hard by ; while the literary 
 tastes of the patriot were plainly evidenced by what, for 
 those days, was a large collection of books. 
 
 Betterton had a moment in which to take in all these 
 details, and to become conscious of an atmosphere of hard 
 work which pervaded the room. Sidney was so absorbed 
 in his writing that he had not noticed the opening of the 
 door, and his servant crossed the room and mentioned the 
 visitor's name a second time before he looked up. For 
 one moment the actor caught the two faces full in the 
 bright light which streamed in from the window. The face 
 of the faithful valet bearing traces of care and harassing 
 anxiety; the face of the patriot a little sterner than it waa 
 wont to be, but pervaded by that majestic calm which 
 seems to be the panoply wherewith strong souls are indued 
 in time of trouble. There flashed across Betterton's mind 
 the description of a noble man in words which he had 
 often spoken upon the stage: 
 
 "E'en as just a man as e'er my conversation coped 
 Withal . . . That man who is not passion's slave." 
 
 It was not often that such a one was to be met with; yet 
 here was a man, even in this vile age, noble of soul and 
 pure of life. 
 
 The slight air of hauteur was evidently an inherited ex- 
 pression ; it was not in accord either with Sidney's life 
 or with his principles. Moreover, it was only noticeable 
 when the face was in repose. He received the actor with 
 perfect courtesy, which soon deepened into anxious in- 
 terest and that strange, rapid intimacy born of trouble. 
 Hugo could not by any possibility have selected a better 
 messenger than the great tragedian. He told his tale 
 with a simple directness, with a vividness of description, 
 with an absence of personal comment, but with a living 
 sympathy which was irresistible. Sidney was deeply 
 moved, nor did he even for a moment take a harsh view of 
 Hugo's fall. The difficulty and the struggle he had long 
 foreseen, the failure he had half-feared, but he had 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 215 
 
 prophetic consciousness that such a nature as Hugo's 
 would not forever lie in slavery. 
 
 " You will send him the word of counsel he craves ?" 
 said the actor. 
 
 "Nay, rather, I will see him myself," said Sidney, 
 quickly. " Would that I could lay hands on that caitiff 
 brother of his, and give him a piece of my mind. 'Tis 
 passing strange what divers shoots spring from the same 
 stem." 
 
 And he smiled rather bitterly, thinking, perhaps, of the 
 grave differences which had been the cause of so much 
 strife and contention between him and both his brothers. 
 
 "Pardon me," said Betterton, "but will not a visit from 
 you be a source of mutual danger ? To bring you into 
 any risk would be small satisfaction to Mr. Wharncliffe." 
 
 "You are right," said Sidney, "I spoke hastily; forget- 
 ting that we live in an age which maketh truth pass for 
 treason. Ay, I must not visit him, 'twould make his lot 
 harder. Yet, poor lad, I would fain have spoken with 
 him. Hugo is one of those who are over-pure for the age 
 they live in, and from Him of Nazareth onward, life is 
 hard with such." 
 
 " If there be aught that I can do in the way of bearing 
 message or letter, I am entirely at your disposal," said 
 Betterton. 
 
 "I am very sensible of your courtesy," said Sidney. 
 " Perchance that were the best way, at least till the worst 
 of this panic has passed by. I will write to him at once, 
 for, indeed carpe diem who can tell but that I may be 
 even as he ere the sun goes down." 
 
 He smiled sadly, but with the calmness of one who has 
 passed a life-time in constant risks and perils. 
 
 " You deem yourself indeed in clanger, sir ?" asked Bet- 
 terton, marveling at the serenity with which such words 
 had been spoken. 
 
 " I have never known what it is to be out of danger, Mr. 
 Betterton, for these many years," replied Sidney. " "When 
 I only looked over a balcony to see what passed at the 
 election of the sheriffs I was indicted for a riot. And I am 
 well informed that, had the Meal-Tub Sham succeeded, I 
 should have been involved in it." 
 
 " Yet such a scheme would have sorted ill with your 
 likings, sir." 
 
 " In truth, you say well," said Sidney, with a bitter smile. 
 "As I told his majesty at Whitehall, nothing could be 
 
216 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 more repugnant to my feeling than a measure which must 
 eventually unite the Papists and the crown. But he that is 
 unpopular must not look for justice in our land. For such 
 a one there is naught but exile. 3 
 
 " Will you not once more be warned, and make good your 
 escape ?" said the tragedian. 
 
 "You echo the words that my faithful valet dins into my 
 ears day and night," said Sidney. "But look you, Mr. 
 Betterton, I am growing old, and I am weary of these end- 
 less precautions, and exile is hateful to me, and my country 
 overdear. If I flee I shall but leave my heart Behind me. 
 That may answer at five-and-twenty, but at sixty it is not 
 so well. Now, an you will permit me, I will pen a note to 
 young Mr. Wharncliffe." 
 
 jHe sat down at his writing-table, leaving the actor. time 
 for a further study of the room and its owner, thid daunt- 
 less patriot, whose lot it had been to win the undying 
 hatred of the court party, the fear of all half-hearted and 
 timid men, and the fervent, devoted love of a very few. 
 Presently he drew forth his purse, examining its contents 
 with the air of one who is accustomed to find it lighter 
 than might be wished. He had, in truth, known what it 
 was to be "poor even to misery," and though at present 
 able to live upon the small sum which his father had left 
 him, and which after long legal disputes, had at length 
 been pronounced his, he would fain have sent much more 
 substantial help to Hugo than was at all within his power. 
 
 " You will then kindly be the bearer of this letter and 
 purse," he said, turning to Betterton. " I am very grate- 
 ful to you for your help. As to the purse, he must accept 
 it as from a father. I see plainly enough that his brother's 
 aim will be to keep him in such sore discomfort that he 
 shall at length succumb and own what he knows. Tell 
 him he must use the money to defeat that unjust end, so 
 will his independence not be wounded or his pride of- 
 fended." 
 
 Then, with a few more words of gratitude, a last message 
 for Hugo, a finely turned compliment which, for all his or- 
 dinary bluutness of speech, proved the republican to be a 
 polished man of the world, Betterton found his mission 
 ended, and the interview over. 
 
 After he had left the house, Sidney paced to and fro in 
 his study for some time, wrapped in anxious thought. 
 Hugo was very much upon his mind, for he felt a great 
 responsibility for him, knowing well how large a shaVe he 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 217 
 
 had had in forming his character and his opinions. Bet- 
 terton's description of the prisoner returned to him again 
 and again, and ever with afresh pang of sorrow and regret. 
 There was something indescribably mournful to him in the 
 thought of that young life doomed to long imprisonment. 
 After a while Ducasse entered and began to lay the table for 
 the one-o'clock dinner, and Sidney sat down and began to 
 eat, more to please the faithful servant than because he had 
 any appetite. Troubles were thickening day by day, and 
 he was heavy of heart. 
 
 " Ah, sir," said Ducasse, " I could have made you a bet- 
 ter omelet than this, an we were once more in France." 
 
 " All things are best there in my mind, from thy master 
 down to eggs and poultry," said Sidney, smiling. "But I 
 am growing old, Ducasse, and would fain end my days here, 
 even though things right themselves but slowly in our 
 foggy island." 
 
 " Ah, sir," said the valet, " 'tis ever ' the land, the land/ 
 you speak of. But of what use is the land, if monsieur's 
 countrymen will but give him a six-foot strip in a cemetery, 
 or perchance so much as will serve for a prison-cell. Ah, 
 sir, think of yourself, and flee while yet there is time." 
 
 "But, look you, Joseph, in France I do but vegetate to 
 no profit. Whereas here I may perchance serve my coun- 
 try, if free, in a hundred ways ; if in prison, as an en- 
 sample to future ages ; if on the scaffold, as one of the 
 martyrs from whose blood shall spring one day our true 
 republic." 
 
 " Ah, sir, it is of yourself that I think," said the valet, 
 sadly. 
 
 " Thou art but a Frenchman, after all, Joseph ? Yet, 
 methinks, after these long years we have lived together, 
 thou shouldst know me better," said Sidney, smiling. 
 "Hark! there is a knock without. Go, see who calls. I 
 have as little stomach for visitors as for my dinner this 
 morning." 
 
 Ducasse left the room, and Sidney let his knife and fork 
 lie idle for a minute, leaning back in his chair with the air 
 of one who is glad for once to be free from even friendly 
 inspection, An intense quietness reigned in the room- 
 one of those timeless pauses which occur sometimes in 
 life ; for the moment his brain was at rest, his anxious 
 thoughts were lulled ; a breath of soft warm June air floated 
 in from the open window, and gave him a distinct 
 feeling of pleasure; a bee went buzzing about the room, 
 
218 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 and finally settled upon his plate. Outside there were 
 voices, but he did not heed them; outside \yere steps 
 but what then ? Ducasse, perhaps, had not been able to 
 get rid of some importunate visitor. The door was thrown 
 open; he glanced round. What did it all mean ? The valet 
 stood there with blanched face, and announced nobody, 
 yet the footsteps drew nearer, an officer entered, bowed 
 slightly, advanced, and touched him on the shoulder. 
 
 All at once that strange hush was broken; the stillness, 
 the calm, the timeless pause ended, and the room seemed 
 in a tumult, above which there rang, sharply and grating- 
 ly, the words, 
 
 " Algernon Sidney, I arrest thee, in the king's name, on 
 a charge of high treason." 
 
 With a swift pang he realized that the minute of intense 
 stillness had been his last minute of freedom in this world, 
 and involuntarily his eyes followed the bee, as, alarmed by 
 the noise and the sudden intrusion of officers and men, it 
 flew noisily round the room and out beyond through the 
 open window. 
 
 A fresh knock without, and yet another unwelcome visi- 
 tor. Sir Philip Lloyd entered, greeting the prisoner 
 courteously enough. 
 
 " I have an order, Mr. Sidney, to seize all papers found 
 within your house," he said. "And I must, therefore, 
 search the premises." 
 
 Sidney bowed acquiescence. 
 
 " Lay covers for two," he said, turning to Ducasse, 
 "These gentlemen will dine with me unless" turning 
 to Sir Philip Lloyd "you. think it not meet to take salt 
 with one arrested on such a charge ?" 
 
 There was a sort of veiled irony in his tone, but the 
 officers could not well refuse his hospitality, and the strange 
 trio sat down to the table, and Ducasse waited on them, 
 having much ado to keep his eyes clear enough to see the 
 plates and dishes. Every one, save the republican him- 
 self, seemed embarrassed. Throughout the meal he main- 
 tained a stately composure, talking with the officers as 
 thougn they had been ordinary guests, and apparently 
 doing hisbest to set them at their ease. Perhaps, however, 
 their abashed manner was not altogether ungrateful to him, 
 and he was quite human enough to enjoy the conscious- 
 ness of being master of the situation. 
 
 Dinner over, Sir Philip Lloyd, nothing loath, set about 
 the more congenial task of searching the house. What 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 219 
 
 papers there were, however, were all in the study, and, 
 after a vain quest in the upper regions, he returned, and 
 began to ransack the drawers and cupboards of an oaken 
 cabinet, while his men seized upon the papers lying on the 
 writing-table, and stowed them away with the others in the 
 open trunk and the pillow-beer. 
 
 This part of the proceedings tried Sidney's patience 
 considerably. His dark eyes flashed as he noted the seiz- 
 ure by these strangers of all that was most private to him. 
 Ducasse could see that his master had much ado to keep 
 back a torrent of angry remonstrance. He held his peace, 
 however, sitting somewhat rigidly in his high-backed 
 chair at the dinner-table, and only following every move- 
 ment with lynx eyes. 
 
 At length Sir Philip had made what selection of papers 
 he deemed fit, a cord w r as placed round both the trunk and 
 the pillow-beer, and Ducasse was despatched for wax and 
 candle. The men dragged forward the heavy package. 
 
 " Bring the light hither," said Sir Philip ; and the valet, 
 doing as he was bid, held the wax and the light close to 
 his master. 
 
 " What is this for ?" asked Sidney, with a shade of 
 hauteur in his tone. 
 
 " I desire that you put your seal upon these papers, Mr. 
 Sidney, said Sir Philip. " They shall not be opened but 
 in your presence." 
 
 Sidney drew the signet-ring from his finger, but then 
 hesitated. Had not something of this sort passed at 
 Colonel Mansell's rooms, when he was accused of com- 
 plicity in the Meal-Tub plot ? And had not those who 
 searched contrived to slip a treasonable paper in among 
 the private documents ? 
 
 "You will affix your seal in this place," said Sir Philip, 
 in a voice of authority, and indicating the knotted cord. 
 
 "Pardon me, sir, I shall do nothing of the kind," said 
 Sidney, with asperity. And, while every one stared at 
 him, he put his ring on again with great Calmness and de- 
 liberation. 
 
 Sir Philip shrugged his shoulders, and looking but ill 
 pleased, put his own seal upon the cord. 
 
 " As you please, Mr. Sidney," he said, coldly. " We did 
 but consult your own convenience. A coach is in waiting, 
 and we must make no further delay, since you are to be 
 examined before the Privy Council," 
 
 Sidney bowed. 
 
220 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. . 
 
 "My bat and cloak, Joseph." Then as the valet returned, 
 be spoke a few words of gratitude and affection to him in 
 his native tongue, grasped his hand, bade him Godspeed, 
 and turned abruptly toward his captors. " Gentlemen, I am 
 ready. Bear me whither you will." 
 
 CHAPTER XXHI. 
 
 A MIDNIGHT ESCAPE. 
 
 I shall not want false witness to condemn me, 
 Nor store of treasons to augment my guilt ; 
 The ancient proverb will be well effected : 
 A staff is quickly found to beat a dog. 
 
 King Henry VI. 
 
 " JOYCE, my love, your father would speak with you," 
 said Mrs. Wharncliffe, softly opening the door of the bed- 
 room shared by Joyce and little Evelyn, and closing it as 
 softly behind her. 
 
 The household had retired as usual, and it had been 
 deemed prudent to tell none of the servants, save the old 
 nurse, that Colonel WLarucliffe intended that night to 
 make his escape. A secret shared among many is always 
 in danger of being betrayed, and faithful devotion to a 
 master does not always inspire prudence, or entirely crush 
 the love of gossip. 
 
 It was past ten o'clock, but Joyce knowing that she 
 should be summoned ere long, had made no preparations 
 for the night. She stood at the open casement, looking 
 out into the twilight garden, her arms resting on the sill, 
 and her face propped between both Lands. Without, all 
 was wonderfully still; not a breath of wind stirred the tall, 
 dark elms, no nightingale's song broke the silence, no 
 wakeful bird stirred in its nest, no sound of human life 
 fell upon the ear. A heavy dew had fallen, there was a 
 delicious, balmy freshness in the air which made breath- 
 ing itself a delight, and from far-distant fields was wafted 
 the fragrance of the newly cut hay. The calmness of nature 
 no longer irritated Joyce as it had done on the previous 
 morning, when she had run out to sink the book in the 
 moat. Since then she had lived through so much that all 
 her thoughts and perceptions were changed; she Lad 
 passed from childhood to womanhood, had learned what 
 it was both to love and to hate. Since then, moreover, she 
 had caught a glimpse of the peace which remains unbrok- 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 221 
 
 en, in spite of earthly tumult and strife, and the peaceful 
 summer night seemed to her a type of the Infinite and 
 Eternal. 
 
 She had been crying, but she dried her tears hastily on 
 hearing her mother's voice, and when she turned round a 
 sudden smile of delight shone in her eyes, for she saw to 
 her astonishment that the door had again been softly 
 opened and her father himself stood there. 
 
 " I want a few words with you, little daughter," he said 
 quietly, stooping to kiss her forehead as he spoke. " We 
 will come together to the south parlor ; but first I will bid 
 Evelyn farewell. No, do not rouse her, 'tis better she 
 should sleep, poor little maid." 
 
 Joyce had to walk to the window once more that she 
 might furtively wipe her eyes, while her father and mother 
 bent over the little sleeping child. When she looked 
 round again, she saw her father kneel down for an in- 
 stant beside Evelyn ; he kissed her rosy cheek, her hair, 
 her little uncovered arm, then he rose quietly, put his arm 
 round his wife, and led the way through the dark and 
 silent house, Joyce stealing after them with a full heart. 
 Slowly and noiselessly they made their way down the 
 broad oak staircase with its many turns, Joyce counting 
 the familiar steps in each flight lest she should stumble 
 and make a noise ; then on through the ghostly looking 
 hall with its white flagstones and its dusky gallery, and its 
 haunting recollections of the previous day. Joyce 
 shuddered and crept closer to her mother, wondering if 
 those terrible sounds would always torment her as she 
 passed by. It was a relief to be in the light and warmtli 
 of the south parlor ; it was a relief to be quite alone with 
 her father, for Mrs. Wharnclifie left them, having many 
 preparations to make. 
 
 For a minute Colonel Wharncliffe did not speak. He 
 found that the words he intended to have spoken to Joyce 
 would not come readily to his lips. How could he tell this 
 child that she was much too young to know her own mind, 
 when all the time she was raising, to his, eyes which were 
 full of a strange new depth and tenderness ? How could 
 he say that love was not for her yet a while when love had 
 already added womanly dignity to the child-like face? In- 
 stead, his thoughts went back to the far past. 
 
 " Thou art just like thy mother, little maid," he said, 
 stroking the soft, rounded cheek tenderly. "And so thy 
 kinsman hath told thee of his love; is it not so?" 
 
222 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 "Ay, father.^ 
 
 " And what did my daughter say when he told her ?" 
 
 " I kissed him, father." 
 
 Colonel "Wharncliffe smiled in spite of himself. 
 
 "And didst own thy love ?" 
 
 "Ay, father, I did say I loved him; it was the truth," 
 said Joyce, blushing vividly. 
 
 "Ah, my little maid," said the father, drawing her closer 
 to him, " dost realize that love brings pain with it ? An 
 thou givest away thy heart thus early, thou canst never 
 again play light-hearted and free like thy sisters." 
 
 "I do not want to be free, father; this is better," said 
 Joyce, shyly, yet with a certain sweet decision in her tone. 
 
 "God help you, poor child; I see but a sad time before 
 you !" said the colonel, with a deep sigh. "Say that I make 
 my escape now, and stay abroad till the danger is past and 
 the country at rest again, that will avail naught to lessen 
 Randolph's hatred. Nothing can free me from his enmity, 
 nothing can save Hugo from his brother's wrath so long as 
 he shields me by silence." 
 
 "But Hugo never thought it would be otherwise, father," 
 said Joyce, with a little quiver in her voice. " He has never 
 expected aught besides; nor have I." 
 
 "And thus my little maid hath half plighted herself to a 
 life of sorrow and trouble." 
 
 " Nay, but to Hugo," she replied, with a thrill of eager- 
 ness in her voice which did not escape the father's notice. 
 " Not to sorrow, but to him, and afterward let come what 
 will." 
 
 Very sadly he watched the sweet, eager face, with its 
 light of love and devotion ; he, with his fatherly desire to 
 see her happy, free from care, and in perfect safety ; he, 
 with his manly longing to shield her from danger and 
 suffering, could not understand that the long vista of pain 
 and uncertainty did not in the least daunt her seemed, 
 on the contrary, rather to stimulate her love. For Joyce 
 was a true woman, and the crown of a woman's love is the 
 bearing of pain for and with the one she loves. 
 
 There was silence for a while. At length Colonel 
 Wharncliffe spoke. 
 
 " Child," he said, " I can not see before me ; all is blank 
 mist save this one step which I must take ere morn, to 
 leave home and country. I can see no future for myself 
 or for you, and do I try to think and scheme for you and 
 the rest my fears distract me. My life is in peril, and, if 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 223 
 
 I were dead, I know not what might Jbecome of you, chil- 
 dren. I believe that Hugo would strive to make you a 
 good and worthy husband. But, Joyce, times are evil ; 
 nay, child, thy pure heart can not see the perils that I 
 know of. I am saying naught against thy lover, but the 
 times are evil, and he hath been overmuch at "Whitehall." 
 
 " Yet would he never take me to the court. Long ago 
 he said that. He said after the duel it were no fit place for 
 me." 
 
 " Hugo may not be able to help it," said the colonel. "A 
 king's commands are not lightly neglected. The world is 
 an evil place, and my little white country -rose, for all her 
 whiteness, might get sullied with the foul atmosphere of 
 the court. Joyce" he took her hands in his and held 
 them fast " Joyce, my child, if ever temptation should 
 come to you, remember this : the love of your father 
 and mother may shield you from much, and the love of 
 your husband may shield you from more, but there is 
 no invincible shield save the love of God himself." 
 
 Tears rushed to her eyes, and she trembled from head 
 to foot. 
 
 " Nay, sweet," he said, putting his arm round her, " I 
 meant not to affright thee. Tremble not. That is invin- 
 cible." 
 
 After that no word passed between them for some time, 
 but in the silence Joyce learned many things, little dream- 
 ing that the father whose strong arm encircled her was 
 learning too, and perchance a harder lesson. 
 
 ' Thou wilt take care of thy mother while I am away," he 
 said, after a time. " She will need fresh help and comfort 
 in many ways. Let that be thy charge, little Joyce. Do 
 thou be her sunshine while I am gone." 
 
 "Evelyn would shine better," said Joyce, doubtfully. 
 
 " And thou wouldst then let the clouds gather in peace," 
 said the colonel, smiling. " Nay, I would fain leave thee 
 as thy mother's special helper ; so will two birds be killed 
 with one stone, as the proverb hath it, and my little daugh- 
 ter will not let herself pine away in a green-and-yellow 
 melancholy." 
 
 Joyce smiled faintly. 
 
 " And you will send for us ere long ?" she said. " Why 
 should not we be with you in Holland?" Then, remember- 
 ing that Holland was further from Newgate than Mondis- 
 field, would fain have unsaid her words. 
 
 The father read it all in her face, and felt a sharp stab 
 
224 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS.' 
 
 of pain. How absolutely in that brief time she had given 
 her heart away ! It^liurt him a little, even while he rec- 
 ognized that it was both natural and inevitable. 
 
 " I can not tell how that may be," he said. " I can not 
 see any future ; we must be content to leave it a blank." 
 
 Poor Joyce! the words struck to her heart with a 
 deathly chill. No future ! and such a heart-breaking 
 present ! The thought of Hugo faded a little in her mind, 
 and she remembered only that her father was going forth 
 alone to brave the perils of the way, that she might per- 
 haps never see him again, and that but now she had 
 grudged the thought of sharing his exile. 
 
 " Take me with you, father," she sobbed, clinging to him 
 like a frightened child. " Go not alone thus take me 
 with you." 
 
 " Bless thee for the thought, sweet one, but it may not 
 be," he said, caressing her. Then, as his wife returned to 
 the room, " Dear heart, I shall leave you with Joyce as my 
 deputy; Joyce is to be her mother's special child till my 
 return. What ! is all ready ? Then let us be going. Delay 
 doth but make things harder." 
 
 Outside in the passage a lamp stood on an old wooden 
 chest, and beside it the saddle-bags and the valise which the 
 colonel was to take with him. Betty, Damaris, Frances, 
 and Robina were in waiting, cloaked and hooded, and Bet- 
 ty came and tied on Joyce's blue hood for her, and took 
 the little sister's cold hand in hers as they followed their 
 father and mother down the drive, across the moat, and 
 into the stable-yard. 
 
 Bobina ran on quickly that she might speak to and 
 quiet the old watch-dog ; then assured that Nettle would 
 not betray them, followed her sisters into the stable, where 
 with Frances to hold the lantern, the other three girls sad- 
 dled their father's horse. Colonel Wharncliffe, standing 
 in the door- way with his wife, watched the scene with a sore 
 heart ; the dusky stable with its high roof lost in shadow, 
 the patient steed, tlie lantern held up high by one of the 
 dack-robed girls, and shedding its yellow light on the 
 others as they deftly arranged saddle and bridle. He 
 fancied that the brightest gleam of all fell upon Joyce, 
 revealing the sweet face with overbright eyes and tremu- 
 lous lips ; she was working away at straps and buckles 
 with a nervous energy, which strove to banish the thought 
 of the parting but the parting had to come. 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 225 
 
 Ere long the good steed was ready, and Kobina led him 
 carefully out into the yard beneath the tall elm trees. 
 
 " With Merlin's help," said the colonel, stroking the 
 glossy mane of his horse," I ought to be at Harwich not 
 long after sunrise ; and at Harwich there will, I think, be 
 small difficulty in getting a ship to Amsterdam. Fare- 
 well, dear heart. Keep up your courage, and be not 
 troubled if you do not hear from me. Trust me to write 
 by the first opportunity." 
 
 After that no one spoke. In dead silence he embraced 
 them, mounted his horse, and rode out into the night. 
 Those who were left behind stood quite still no one 
 stirred, no one cried ; they just waited there, listening 
 with painful intentness to the sound of the horse's hoofs, 
 gradually growing fainter and more faint. At length they 
 all knew that there was nothing more to wait for; the last 
 sound had died away in the distance, and the summer wind 
 stirring in the elm-trees seemed like a deep, sudden sigh, as 
 though Mondisf&ld knew that its master had gone forth 
 into exile. Then one long, quivering, half-restrained sigh 
 escaped the mother, and she was glad to feel a little soft 
 hand steal into hers. Were not her children left to her 
 doubly left ? She must live for them ! 
 
 " Come, my children," she said, quietly. " Close the 
 stable door, Damaris, and let us go back to bed. Nurse 
 shall bring you all a sack-posset." 
 
 So they went back to the deserted house, and Colonel 
 Wharncliffe rode on toward Harwich, well knowing that 
 many perils beset his path. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 AT THE NATIONAL THANKSGIVING. 
 
 With whom an upright zeal to right prevails, 
 More than the nature of a brother's love. 
 
 King Henry VI. 
 
 THE summer had passed, and the house in Norfolk 
 Street, which had been closed for long months, owing to 
 the absence of the family, once more began to show signs 
 of life. Shutters were thrown back, windows opened, and 
 in due time the old family coach rolled up to the door, to 
 the delight of three dirty little boys, who left off playing 
 with the mud in the gutter to watch the arrival of the grand- 
 
226 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 ees Rupert, resplendent in sad-colored cloth faced with 
 green velvet, old Lady Merton, Sir William's sister, and 
 lastly Mary, who had been by no means sorry to leave the 
 country and return under Lady Merton's guardianship to 
 London. Sir William and Lady Denham had gone to Bath 
 and were not to return till Sir William's gout had been 
 cured. 
 
 Letters were rare in those days, and yet Mary had been 
 filled with an uneasy wonder that the long summer months 
 had brought no news of Hugo. The whole family had left 
 London soon after Randolph and Hugo had gone to Long- 
 bridge Hall, and no one had heard from either of the 
 brothers since. True, Lady Merton's lonely old manor 
 house in Warwickshire was so remote that one never did 
 expect any news there ; but the vague rumors as to the 
 Rye House Plot, and the curious silence on Hugo's part, 
 had troubled Mary not a little. More than once she pon- 
 dered over that strange confession he had made to her in 
 the preceding autumn, more than once she wondered how 
 the case of conscience he had put to her could have any- 
 thing to do with himself and Randolph. 
 
 Following her aunt up the broad stone steps and into 
 the somewhat dingy passage beyond she saw in an in- 
 stant that upon the marble table outside the parlor door 
 lay a letter directed in Hugo's clear but rather cramped 
 handwriting. 
 
 " To Rupert Denham, esquire, 
 
 Alt His House in Norfolk Street." 
 
 "Did Mr. Wharncliffe leave this to-day?" she asked, 
 turning to old Thomas, the butler with whom she was a 
 great favorite. 
 
 " Mr. Wharneliffe, mistress ! " said the old man, raising 
 his eyebrows. " 'Twas not Mr. Wharneliffe who brought 
 it. 'Twas one day last July, and one of the sour-faced 
 Puritan ministers brought it to the door. I took him to 
 be a Muggletonian, for he had the ways of them.'' 
 
 rf How ? " asked Mary, forgetting her anxiety for a mo- 
 ment. 
 
 " Why, mistress, I did but keep him a few minutes on 
 the step, and he had but knocked three times, and, when 
 he taxed me with not minding my business better, I made 
 bold to tell him he'd do well to mind his; whereupon he 
 damped me to all eternity." 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 227 
 
 Mary laughed. 
 
 " Perchance it was Muggleon himself. What said you 
 to him, Thomas ? " 
 
 "Why, mistress, I said that would be as the Lord 
 pleased, and reminded him, as the proverb hath it 'Cusses 
 come home to roost.' I thought its letter might bide its 
 time, knowing that Mr. Rupert would not care to pay for 
 damnations on delivery, for I made sure it was from the 
 minister himself." 
 
 Mary longed to hear the contents of the letter, but was 
 obliged to show Lady Merton to the guest-chamber, and 
 then to take off her traveling-dress and put on her white 
 evening gown, that she might not show any indiscreet de- 
 sire for news of Hugo, awakening thereby her aunt's sus- 
 picion and Eupert's love of teasing. 
 
 She thought she would tell Eupert of the Muggleto- 
 nian's interview with the butler, and then, quite compo- 
 sedly and casually, ask how Hugo had come to employ so 
 strange a messenger. But when she entered the parlor, 
 and saw her cousin standing in the window still perusing 
 the letter, something in his face changed all her plans. 
 For Eupert, the merry, careless, light-hearted cousin, who 
 was never grave for two minutes together, was reading the 
 letter with an expression of such deep concern on his face 
 as she had never before seen. 
 
 " What is it, Eupert ?" she asked, breathlessly. " What 
 is the matter ?" 
 
 He looked up, and she saw that there were tears in his 
 eyes. 
 
 " 'Tis from Hugo," he said, hoarsely. " He has got into 
 trouble over this cursed plothe is in Newgate." 
 
 "In Newgate!" she repeated, faintly, "Hugo in New- 
 gate !" 
 
 " Ay, of all folk under the sun !" cried Kupert, passion- 
 ately. " Or rather he^ was there months ago may be yet 
 alive perchance. Oh, why did that old fool forget to send 
 me the letter?" 
 
 " He knew not it was from Hugo, 'twas brought hither 
 by some Muggletonian, who offended him. I suppose 
 Thomas kept it back out of malice to the bearer." 
 
 Eupert damned poor Thomas even more vehemently and 
 explicitly than the Muggletonian had done, while Mary 
 caught eagerly at the first sheet of the letter, and read 
 Hugo's account of .what had passed at Mondisfield, then, 
 half blinded with tears, was obliged to let Eupert make out 
 
228 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 the rest, which he did, not without difficulty, for Hugo had 
 written in haste. 
 
 " Tidings have reached me this day," he read, "that Lord 
 Russell is to be executed for the plot, Lord Howard of Es- 
 crick said to be one of the cabal of six having saved his 
 own neck by swearing against his friend. And, Rupert, 
 this is what they would fain have me do. There are but 
 two ways out of this hell, and God preserve me from taking 
 either of theml I must betray Colonel Wharncliffe, or I 
 must promise to bear witness against Colonel Sidney. 
 
 " Yesternight came to me one whom I take to be an 
 attorney, and urged me much to come forward at Colonel 
 Sidney's trial to prove his disaffection to the Govern- 
 ment, first seeking to entangle me by skillfully framed 
 questions, and then dealing both threats and promises 
 of reward. Seeing that the rewards shall never be 
 earned by me, I take it the threats will be 
 put into execution, and that, belike, I shall be once more 
 thrust into yet straiter confinement. Therefore come 
 to me as soon as may be, for at preient I can see you 
 being in that part of Newgate they call the castle. I 
 have written boldly come, and yet perchance you will not 
 deem it fitting to visit one who is implicated in such an 
 affair. However, though Sir William deems himself a 
 Tory, I know right well that he lets not affairs of state 
 interfere with his friendships, else had he not been 
 friends with Colonel Sidney, to whom, as you know, he 
 introduced me at the first, even while warning me of his 
 views. They tell me, though, that the whole country is 
 stirred by this so-called plot, and I know not how far 
 the atmosphere of Norfolk Street may be changed, 
 only I have great hope that friendship will be over- 
 strong for love of party, and that YOU will come. An you 
 love me, bring me what news there is of Colonel Sidney. 
 Mr. Betterton saw him on the morning of his arrest, and 
 brought me word of it. Since that I have heard naught. 
 Nor has Jeremiah made any answer to a letter which Mr. 
 Betterton's man was to bear to him, from which it seems 
 to me most like that Randolph intercepted the said 
 letter. From him I have no sign whatever, nor am like to. 
 Come to me soon, for I am heavy-hearted, and methinks 
 you would make me smile even in jail. My duty to Sir 
 William and Lady Denham. Tell Mary her counsel served 
 me well in the sharpest strait of all. She will understand. 
 I am in a cell here with two Nonconformists. Griffith, the 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 229 
 
 one I like the best, is at this moment discoursing with the 
 notorious Lodowick Muggleton, whom, however, I must not 
 abuse, since, spite of all my errors, he hath not as yet 
 damned me, and will even, out of charity, bear this letter 
 for me, and deliver it into your keeping. I have waited 
 long in the hope of some such opportunity. The con- 
 troversy seems drawing to an end, therefore, must this 
 letter do so also. For God's sake come to me, and if pos- 
 sible soon. H. W. 
 
 " Written at Newgate, July 16, 1683." 
 
 " You will go to him at once ?" asked Mary, feeling for 
 the first time that her womanhood put her at a terrible 
 disadvantage. 
 
 " Ay," he replied, " at once." 
 
 "Then take this with you;" she puo her purse into his 
 hand. " You will not get in without fees to the turnkeys, 
 and perchance he may be in need of money himself." 
 
 Rupert did not refuse the purse, for, to tell the truth, 
 his own was, as usual, inconveniently light. Mary's money 
 found its way to his pocket among love-letters, betting 
 memoranda, and the tortoise-shell comb with which he kept 
 his periwig in order in society. 
 
 It was a great relief to her to see him start off at once, 
 and, having charged him with whatever message she ven- 
 tured to send, she stationed herself at the window to watch 
 him out of sight, and returning again and again to her post 
 as soon as she deemed it possible for him to return. 
 
 The evening seemed interminable. The September 
 twilight deepened into night, and Thomas brought in the 
 lamp, and insisted on drawing the curtains; she could no 
 longer keep her watch. Lady Merton, tired with her jour- 
 ney, sent down a message that she had gone to bed, and 
 Mary sat idly in the great chair by the hearth, apparently 
 watching old Thomas as he laid the table for supper, but 
 in reality thinking of Rupert's visit to Newgate, and weary- 
 ing for his return. Thomas, who was of a talkative turn, 
 thought he saw an opening for a little conversation. 
 
 " Sad doings in London, mistress, since you went away 
 to Warwickshire. Sad doings we've had." 
 
 Mary looked up, returning from her reverie. It chafed 
 her to feel how much more the old serving-man probably 
 knew about the plot than she did, but she longed so much 
 to know all that had happened that she swallowed her 
 pride, and asked him a question : 
 
230 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 " We heard but little in the country only vague rumors 
 about the plot, and then that Lord Russell had been exe- 
 cuted. Have you heard aught of Colonel Sidney, Thomas?" 
 
 " Ay, indeed, mistress. His man, Joseph, met me some 
 four weeks or more agone, and I made bold to ask him 
 after the colonel. You must know that on the second of 
 August was a great fire in the Inner Temple, over against 
 the great gate at Whitefriars. Three staircases were 
 burned, and Sir Thomas Robinson, of the Common Pleas, 
 he leaped out of window, and was picked up dead as any 
 stone. Well, mistress, I went next day to see the spot, and 
 there among the crowd I espied Colonel Sidney's French 
 valet." 
 
 " And what said he of his master ?" 
 
 " Why, he said he was very straitly confined in the 
 Tower, and that they dealt most severely by him, so that 
 his health had given way. They would let him see no 
 friends, they had seized all his goods and chattels, nor 
 would they permit him to have so much as a change of 
 linen. However, Ducasse did tell me that his master meant 
 to petition the king for at least so much as that." 
 
 Mary was silent for a minute. Her thoughts had flown 
 back to an evening less than a year before, when in that 
 very room Sidney had supped with them, and had dis- 
 coursed of the better education of women, and how she 
 had laughingly offered him some of the red-deer pie of her 
 own making. 
 
 Once more the whole scene rose before her, the empty 
 table was again surrounded by the cheerful party, the re- 
 publican colonel leaned back in one of the chairs, pro- 
 pounding his theories of life ; Hugo sat opposite to him, 
 listening with reverential attention; Rupert made comical 
 signs of disagreement; Sir William and Lady Denham lis- 
 tened with mild amusement and well-bred patience to 
 schemes which did not meet with their approval. Ah! how 
 safe and happy they had all been then ! And now one of the 
 guests lay in the Tower and the other in Newgate, both of 
 them in the gravest danger, both of them enduring untold 
 hardships. She could almost have smiled, had she not 
 baen so wrathfully indignant at the thought of the proud 
 republican obliged to petition the king and such a king 
 for permission to have a clean shirfc. 
 
 Thomas, who had left the room during her silence, now 
 returned, bearing a small box in his hand. 
 
 '' Ab, mistress," he said, looking cautiously round to see 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 231 
 
 that no one else was near, " you may have heard little in 
 the country, but we, here in London, have perchance 
 heard too much. I respects my master, and I respects Sir 
 William's views and opinions, but though folk may say an 
 old serving-man should think with his master, I don't hold 
 with such sayings. Mark me, mistress, the nation won't 
 stand such doings as there have been much longer. Lord 
 Russell he said that those who attacked the liberties of 
 England would have to wade through his blood. Well, 
 God rest his soul ! he is dead and gone, but his blood was 
 not shed in vain." 
 
 He opened the box and took out a handkerchief, one 
 corner of which bore a dark-red stain. Mary looked at it 
 and shuddered. 
 
 " Ay, mistress," continued the old serving-man. " I ever 
 deemed myself a loyal subject, but now my eyes are opened, 
 and I say that he who made such a one die, when all the 
 world knew he was innocent, is a tyrant, and false to his 
 country. I stood in Lincoln's Inn Fields, mistress, the day 
 of Lord Eussell's execution, and I saw him drive up with 
 Dr. Burnet, brave and composed as could be, and, as I 
 think, singing to himself in an undertone. I saw him 
 butchered, mistress, and I will never forget it. I dipped 
 this handkerchief in his blood, as a token to hand down to 
 my children's children; and, right or wrong, every one of 
 us is turned against his majesty from that day." 
 
 " I feel with you," said Mary, in a low voice. " But, 
 Thomas, be cautious in what you say, for after all this is 
 my uncle's house, and we are bound to respect his feelings." 
 
 Truth to tell, Mary had long ago ceased to believe in 
 the " divine right of kings," but she had never confessed 
 it to any one, well knowing that girls of twenty were not 
 supposed to think at all upon such matters. 
 
 8 lie asked for further details of Lord Russell's trial and 
 death, of which Thomas gave her so harrowing a descrip- 
 tion that she could not restrain her tears. Scarcely had 
 the old butler withdrawn from the room when steps 
 sounded in the street without, and Rupert opened the 
 front door. Mary hurried forward to meet him, an eager 
 question on her lips. 
 
 "'Tis all of no use," said her cousin, wrathfully, "they 
 will not let me see him." 
 
 " You have been to Newgate ?" said Mary. 
 
 " Ay, and saw the governor. He admitted that Hugo 
 was there, that he was ill, that he was in the darkest hole 
 
232 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 in Newgate, and that lie had lain there since July, being 
 far more obstinate than they had reckoned for. I tried to 
 bribe him to let me see him, but 'twas of no avail. 
 
 " ' Not if you offered me all the gold in the Indies/ he 
 said. 'The court has an eye to this prisoner ; he is no 
 common case, to be dealt with as I list.' 
 
 " ' The court will defeat its own ends by letting him pine 
 to death in a dungeon,' said I. 
 
 " ' Men don't pine to death so easily as you think for/ 
 said the governor, laughing. ' And you may think your- 
 self lucky for being spared a visit to a pestilent den, where, 
 likely enough, the prisoner would refuse to speak to you, 
 for he had taken to silence of late. The more men would 
 have him to talk the more he persists in holding his tongue.' 
 
 " I asked what his illness was, whereupon the governor 
 rang a bell, and in came a jailer, worse-looking than him- 
 self, who, in presence of his master, gave naught but surly 
 answers and rough jests. 
 
 " Could you not have seen him alone/' said Mary. 
 
 " Ay. Afterward, having taken leave of the governor, I 
 managed, by the aid of one of your golden guineas, to 
 secure this fellow Scroop. He says the damp of the dun- 
 geon and the bad food have made him ill ; he couldn't say 
 how, not being a leech himself. I gave him a message for 
 Hugo, but he would not promise to bear it him. Bough 
 and coarse as he was, though, he is better than the gover- 
 nor, though he looks worse, and he might be bribed." 
 
 The cousins talked together far into the night, planning 
 how to reach Hugo. 
 
 The next morning all London was ringing with the sound 
 of church-bells, for it was the 9th of September, the day 
 appointed for the national thanksgiving for the king's es- 
 cape from the Eye House Plot. Some commotion was 
 caused in one of the churches, for a note was handed in to 
 the unsuspecting reader and delivered by him before he 
 had fairly gathered the drift of the verse.* The astonished 
 congregation, who had come to return thanks for his maj- 
 esty's deliverance, listened in amazement to the following 
 lines : 
 
 "You hypocrites, forbear your pranks, 
 To murder men and then give thanks: 
 Forbear your tricks, pursue no further, 
 For God accepts no thanks for murder." 
 
 * This actually happened. See " Luttrell's Journal. ' 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 233 
 
 In the meantime old Thomas quietly made his way home 
 again, and Mary Denham was not sorry to avail herself oi 
 the large green fan which ladies were in the habit of taking 
 with them to church to screen their devotions. 
 
 One other person in the church also changed color from 
 very different reasons. Randolph's face grew a shade 
 paler, his bitter mouth twitched nervously once or twice. 
 Murder was an ugly word, and there was such a thing as 
 aiding and abetting murder. Then again there was Hugo. 
 They had brought him word that he was ill, and he had re- 
 joiced, thinking that there was the greater chance of gain- 
 ing his point and dragging from his lips the desired in- 
 formation. But if Hugo were to die? 
 
 He shuddered at that thought. And the thought haunted 
 him persistently all through the service. He had vowed 
 that he would not see his brother before his trial, but while 
 the old clergyman delivered his lengthy discourse Ran- 
 dolph was struggling with an almost unconquerable long- 
 ing that had suddenly seized him. A strong desire to see 
 Hugo once more took possession of him. How was he to 
 justify such a change of purpose to himself ? How was he 
 to permit such a weakness ? In truth, the better part of 
 his nature was striving to make itself felt, and to escape 
 from the thralldom of the lower. To do Randolph justice, 
 he had been sufficiently miserable during these summer 
 months, and this day his misery reached its climax. 
 Something, he knew not what, had touched into life the 
 faint love which yet lingered in his heart for Hugo. If 
 he could but justify this desire to see him with his plans 
 and schemes! And, after all, it would defeat these said 
 schemes were Hugo to die in jail, and was he prudent to 
 trust entirely to the word of an ignorant jailer? Hrgo 
 was too valuable to be left in such a way. It would be in 
 every way prudent to visit him. Having thus reconciled 
 himself, and made his excuses to his lower nature, he lost 
 no time in making his way to Newgate, where no difficulty 
 was made about admitting him. He asked a question or 
 two of Scroop as the jailer led him along the ciieary jcs- 
 sages. 
 
 " Was the prisoner better ? What had his illness been ?" 
 and so forth. 
 
 " You'll judge for yourself, sir," said Scroop, grimly. " I 
 never set up for being a leech." 
 
 " But is he yet ill ?" asked the elder brother, with more 
 anxiety in his voice than he cared to betray. 
 
234 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 " Oh, ay, he's ill yet awhile, if so be it he's alive," said 
 Scroop carelessly. " Have a care how you walk, sir, these 
 steps is slippery with the damp." 
 
 " What ! is it down here !" exclaimed Randolph, shud- 
 dering. " 'Tis enough to kill him in good sooth. Why 
 did you put him in such a vile hole ?" 
 
 " I did but obey the governor's orders, sir, and belike 
 you know from whom he received them." Scroop looked 
 sharply back at his companion as he gave utterance to 
 these words. He was pleased to see Randolph wince. 
 " Belike you'll not care to remain long, sir; I will but lock 
 you in with the prisoner for half an hour. This way, sir, 
 and mind your head." 
 
 So saying, he fitted one of his keys into a low door, un- 
 locked it, drew back the bolts, and bade the visitor walk 
 in. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 RANDOLPH'S REMORSE. 
 
 Yea, bless'd is he in life and death 
 That fears not death, nor loves this life ; 
 That sets his will, his wit beneath, 
 And hath continual peace in strife. 
 That doth in spite of all debate 
 Possess his soul in patience ; 
 And pray, in love, for all that hate ; 
 And hate but what doth give offense. 
 
 JOHN DAVIES (1612). 
 
 RANDOLPH made a step or two forward, cautiously gro- 
 ping his way, for at first he could scarcely discern anything 
 in the dim light. He would fain have kept the jailer with 
 him, for it gave him an unpleasant feeling to be locked 
 into this dismal dungeon, where all was silent as the grave. 
 Supposing Hugo were actually dead ? What if his worst 
 fears were realized. 
 
 It was strange that he made no sign, for his eyes must 
 have grown accustomed to the twilight. The floor was 
 rough and uneven, in many places covered with water 
 nearly an inch deep. Randolph splashed straight into it, 
 and swore half a dozen oaths as the chill and muddy 
 stream found its way into his shoes. But soon things 
 grew clear to him, and once more he could see distinctly 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 235 
 
 all there was to be seen in the bare prison cell. Hugo, 
 wrapped in a dark-green cloak, lay on the stony bed in 
 the corner; his white face and hands, gleaming out of the 
 dimness, looked so deathly that Randolph, with an excla- 
 mation of dismay, hurried across the muddy floor, and 
 bent down close to him. At that moment his eyes 
 opened, gazed in astonishment for an instant at the face 
 bent over him, then lit up with a gleam of momentary 
 rapture. 
 
 " Is it you ?" he cried. " Ah, I have had such hateful 
 dreams." 
 
 " I came here to see how you fared," said Randolph, 
 more gently than he was in the habit of speaking. 
 
 " Here ?" repeated Hugo, his face clouding over. 
 " Where is it ? Where are we ?" He half raised himself 
 with a bewildered, troubled look and glanced around. It 
 was after all the dream that had been fair and the reality 
 that was hateful. There was the grim, iron-studded door, 
 and the little grating, and the bare walls, and the wet 
 floor gleaming in the sickly light. He sunk back again, 
 and covered his face with his hands. There was silence in 
 the cell. Randolph was relieved when he looked up once 
 more. 
 
 " I must have slept right sound," he said, in a voice which 
 betrayed repressed suffering. " I did not hear you come in." 
 
 " You have little else to do in Newgate, I should think." 
 
 "No; and here it is not often possible to sleep at night 
 because of the rats ; they are quieter by day." 
 
 He got up as he spoke, and crossed the cell languidly, 
 returning with a rough wooden seat, which he offered to 
 bis brother. 
 
 Then he sat down on the bed with his back against the 
 wall, and his head resting on his hand. 
 
 " Your head is aching ?" asked Randolph. 
 
 " Yes," he said, quietly, " it always aches now." 
 
 " They should have told me how ill you were." 
 
 " Scroop said he did tell you. Scroop is very good to 
 me." 
 
 " What does he do for you ?" 
 
 Randolph glanced round as though to discover traces of 
 the jailer's attention. 
 
 " He brings the bread and water himself instead of send- 
 ing one of the prisoners ; and he is never uncivil now. 
 And on the bad days he will bring me a double share of 
 water." 
 
236 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 "There is no other prisoner with you, then?" 
 
 " No, save for the first day and night, when poor Baillie 
 was here. Baillie of Jerviswood, a Scotsman, near of kin 
 to Dr. Burnet." 
 
 " I have heard of him," said Randolph. " He too was 
 implicated in the plot. What has come to him ? Is he 
 executed ?" 
 
 " No," said Hugo. " Worse than that. They bore him 
 back to Scotland because here they may not legally torture 
 him for evidence. There he may have both rack and 
 boot." 
 
 " And since he went you have been alone ?" 
 
 " Yes, save when Scroop comes in, or Mr. Ambrose 
 Philips." 
 
 Who is he ?" 
 
 " One who hath an order from one of the secretaries to 
 come here as oft as he will and try to drag evidence from 
 me." 
 
 " Ah, lad," said Randolph, with a sigh, " when are you 
 going to yield to him ? What heart have I for joining in a 
 national thanksgiving while you languish here ?" 
 
 Hugo turned his languid eyes upon him for a minute, 
 but he seemed too weak and depressed to care very much 
 for anything. 
 
 "Is there a thanksgiving?" he asked. "I heard St. 
 Sepulchre's bells ring. They tolled for Lord Russell the 
 day I came in here, and now they ring for the king's 
 triumph. What day is it ? I have lost count of time." 
 
 " 'Tis the 9th of September." 
 
 " Then I have but been in this cell nigh upon two months. 
 Yet it seems like two years." Then, half dreamily, " How 
 merry the bells sound. I thought it must be Gunpowder- 
 plot Day. Only September ! Only September ! My God ! 
 keep me from thinking of the whole !" 
 
 " The whole of what?" asked Randolph, startled by the 
 sudden tone of agony. 
 
 Hugo seemed to return to the world again. 
 
 ."Of life," he said. " Jt is thinking of the whole that 
 drives men wild." 
 
 Randolph knew not what to say. The interview had not 
 been at all what he had expected. Hugo did not seem 
 overpowered with delight at seeing him, nor much struck 
 by his condescension in coming ; he was so ill and weak, 
 too, that the elder brother's manhood kept him from saying 
 what was harsh and bitter, and tender words did not come 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 237 
 
 naturally to his lips. So once more lie fell back into an 
 uncomfortable silence. 
 
 All at once voices were heard outside, and the key grated 
 in the lock. An extraordinary change came over Hugo. 
 His pale face flushed as though he had made some sudden 
 effort ; he sprung up, crossed the cell hurriedly, and took 
 up a position with his back to the light, leaning against 
 the wall below the grating. Meanwhile Scroop hud opened 
 the door, and there entered a bland-looking man, who 
 glanced swiftly at Eandolph. 
 
 " Ah, the jailer told me I should find you here. I have 
 merely come to have my little conversation with your 
 brother. I will not interrupt you long." 
 
 Randolph perceived that this must be Mr. Philips. The 
 little man turned to Hugo, who merely bowed to him, and 
 then once more leaned back against the wall with folded 
 arms. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Wharncliffe, I hope I see you better. What 
 do you think of our national thanksgiving, eh ? What, still 
 playing the mute ? I hoped you had tired of that game. 
 But in truth I have some news for you this morning. I 
 have been to the Tower, and have seen your friend Sidney." 
 
 Hugo's face relaxed a little, and a very eager look dawned 
 in his eyes. 
 
 " How is he ?" he asked, anxiously. 
 
 " Nay," said Philips," why should I tell you what you 
 would fain know, when you will not tell me aught that I 
 desire ? Promise to give evidence against the colonel and 
 I'll not only tell yo^ about him, but I'll bear you to him 
 this very day." 
 
 Hugo vouchsafed no answer to this. Philips continued, 
 more warmly. 
 
 " You know that your fate is in your own hands. 'Tis in 
 your own power to make yourself what you will, for you 
 know this rogue Sidney is a traitor, and you may make 
 yourself what you will, if you will discover what you know 
 of his designs against the Government." 
 
 "You are mistaken," said Hugo, sternly. "I could say 
 naught that could touch a hair of Colonel Sidney's head. I 
 have told you so a hundred times." 
 
 "If I might advise the king," said Philips, wrathfully, 
 "I would bid him have all you damned Whig rogues 
 hanged. The colonel sent a message to you, moreover," he 
 continued, tantalizingly ; "but it is impossible for me to de- 
 liver it while you still keep up this stubborn resistance." 
 
238 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 And thus in much the same strain the interview went on, 
 Philips alternately coaxing and threatening, Hugo loftily 
 silent, his face stern, his lips firmly set, his eyes, which just 
 before had been so languid, full of strength and resist- 
 ance.* 
 
 At length the questioner's patience was exhausted, and 
 he took his leave. 
 
 " You may think to baffle me, Mr. Wh arn cliff e," he said, 
 angrily, " and for a time you may succeed, but in the end 
 you will be forced to succumb. Mark my words, there are 
 worse things in our power than you wot of. I have known 
 folk not allowed to sleep by day or by night for weeks that 
 evidence might be gained. I shall see you again on the 
 morrow." 
 
 Hugo bowed, but made no reply, and Philips, rapping 
 loudly on the door, was released by Scroop, who had 
 remained outside. When the door had been closed and 
 locked Hugo, with an air of great exhaustion, recrossed 
 the cell, and once more lay down on the bed. 
 
 "That is over," he muttered to himself, in a tone of 
 relief. 
 
 " You dread Mr. Philips, then ?" said Kandolph. 
 
 Hugo started. 
 
 " I had forgot you were there," he said. " No, I do not 
 dread the man, but I dread myself. Oh, must you go ?" as 
 Randolph rose and and began to readjust his cloak. " Will 
 you not stay yet a little while ? There is so much I would 
 ask you, and who knows if we shall meet again ?" 
 
 There was such entreaty in his voice that Randolph sat 
 down once more. 
 
 " We shall meet again at your trial," he said, coldly. 
 " Have you not remembered that I shall have to bear wit- 
 ness against you ? " 
 
 "Yes," said Hugo. "But perchance that may never 
 come off. There is a deliverer on whom Ambrose Philips 
 does not reckon. Every second day the fever returns to 
 me, and with that a chance of death. But I waste the 
 time. Tell me of Jeremiah of the Denhams." 
 
 * Ambrose Philips was really employed to extort evidence 
 against Sidney from one Aaron Smith, who was kept for some 
 time a prisoner. See Ewald's "Life of Sidney." Meadley says 
 that prisons were ransacked, and menaces and persuasions alter- 
 nately employed among the prisoners, in order to get a second 
 witness to prove Sidney's treason, but none could be found. 
 
IN ^HE GOLDEN DAYS. 239 
 
 Randolph had not the heart to refuse his request 
 
 " You don't know what it is to have you to talk to," he 
 said, gratefully; " the days are like eternity." 
 
 " They do not permit books ?" 
 
 "No; I have naught to pass the time save an old bit of 
 charcoal, with which I can draw, and a rat which I have 
 tamed. Were it not for those I should have gone mad." 
 
 " By your own confession, you see, you are altogether 
 miserable. Why, then, be such a fool as to stay ?" 
 
 " No," said Hugo, quietly, " I am not wholly miserable. 
 Can you not understand that 'tis sweet to feel you hold the 
 safety of two men in your keeping ? Did I betray them, 
 then indeed I should be, and deserve to .be, right misera- 
 ble. What! one o'clock by St. Sepulchre's ?" 
 
 "Ay; is that your dinner-hour?" asked Randolph. 
 
 Hugo smiled faintly. 
 
 " One does not dine in Newgate," he said. " But this is 
 the hour when my fever returns. Perchance it were, after 
 all, best that you should go." 
 
 Randolph half hesitated. Truth to tell, he wanted his 
 own dinner, and yet a vague uneasiness prompted him to 
 stay with his brother. He looked down at him intently, 
 and that look made him decide to stay. For, true to 
 Hugo's prediction, the paroxysm of ague had already 
 begun. He had turned ghastly pale, his lips were blue, 
 his face haggard and drawn. Randolph thought him 
 dying. 
 
 " There is naught to fear," he said, speaking as well as 
 he could with chattering teeth. " It is ever like this." 
 
 But Randolph did fear. For soon Hugo was shivering 
 from head to foot, and a strange blue shade had overspread 
 his face. 
 
 " Do they not even allow straw in this wretched hole ?" 
 said Randolph, wrathfully. 
 
 " No," he replied ; " for fear of fire." 
 
 To speak of fear of fire in that miserable, damp dun- 
 geon seemed a mockery. With an oath Randolph tore off 
 both his cloak and doublet and wrapped them around the 
 shivering form. 
 
 " Is that better ?" he asked. 
 
 But there was no reply. Hugo seemed to be drifting 
 away into unconsciousness. Was it the unconsciousness of 
 death? 
 
 " He shall not die !" said Randolph to himself. "He 
 shall not !" And, with a pang, Hugo's own words returned 
 
240 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 to him " 'Tis sweet to feel you hold the safety of others in 
 your keeping." 
 
 Sweet ! It was hideous beyond description it was in- 
 tolerable ! But his brother should not die ; death should 
 not deliver him. His life was too precious to be lost. Not 
 that Randolph would permit himself weakly to be turned 
 from his purpose by the sight of a little pain. Hugo 
 should remain in Newgate till he had been forced into 
 giving evidence, but he should not stay another day even 
 in that pestilent dungeon. He rapped loudly on the door 
 to attract Scroop's attention ; but Ihe jailer was out of 
 hearing, and, to tell the truth, hud forgotten him. He 
 knocked, he swore, he stormed, all to no purpose. 
 " Must you go?" said Hugo, reviving a little. 
 "No, but I want to send that varlet to fetch blankets for 
 you. A plague on his foolish pate. Why doth he not 
 hear ?" 
 
 " Never mind ; a dozen blankets would not warm me. 
 Moreover, I am well used to it." 
 
 Randolph stood watching him in miserable helplessness. 
 At length, prompted by common sense, he sat down on the 
 stony pillow and lifted Hugo so that his head and shoulders 
 rested against him instead of upon the stones. 
 
 "Ah, that is better," he said, and spite of the pain and 
 misery a look of relief almost of happiness stole over his 
 worn face. 
 
 They did not speak much, but for hours Randolph held 
 him in his strong arms and did what he could for him, 
 Hugo responding with the sort of dog-like gratitude with 
 which he had always accepted kindness from his guardian. 
 At length, when the shivering fits had given place to rag- 
 ing fever and thirst, when the third and final stage of the 
 attack was over and had left the patient worn out and 
 drowsy, Randolph once more resumed his doublet and hat, 
 and this time succeeded in attracting Scroop's notice. 
 
 " Had as much as you like of dungeon life, sir ?" asked 
 the jailer. 
 
 "Ay, and the prisoner hath had too much," said 
 Randolph. Then bending down over his brother, "It 
 shall be your last night in this hole, trust me." 
 
 Hastily embracing him, he turned away, and was con- 
 ducted by Scroop to the upper regions. 
 
 " Ah, my Ratto," said Hugo, as his little brown friend 
 appeared the moment the cell was quiet once more, " you 
 and your family may dance all night an you will, I'll 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 241 
 
 not grumble ; for to-morrow, Ratto, I shall breath freely 
 once more, to-morrow I shall have better company than 
 
 you." 
 
 But when the next evening he thought things over he 
 came to the conclusion that he had wronged Eatto. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 CLEVELAND HOUSE. 
 
 Oh, most delicate fiend 
 Who is't can read a woman ? 
 
 Cymbeline. 
 
 APTEB the first moment of intense relief on breathing 
 the fresh air in Newgate Street, Randolph fell into a train 
 of very unpleasant thought. The struggle first awakened 
 in his mind by that curious rhyme in the church returned 
 now with tenfold force. He could not get his will, at any 
 rate at present; but neither could he make up his mind to 
 resign his will and accept defeat at the hands of his younger 
 brother. Without accepting defeat he could not save Hugo 
 from the hard fate that awaited him. In this strait what 
 was he to do? Not for long years had so sharp a struggle 
 raged within him, not for long years had the good so nearly 
 triumphed. 
 
 He had walked gloomily along Fleet Street, chafed and 
 annoyed by the loyal crowd who were preparing the even- 
 ing illuminations. Somehow this thanksgiving grated on 
 him, seemed to his guilty conscience but a hideous mock- 
 ery. Again and again he heard Hugo's voice dreamily re- 
 peating, " How merry the bells sound," and he shuddered 
 as he remembered the dreary prison cell. 
 
 By this time he had reached the entrance to the Tem- 
 ple, and for a moment he stood irresolute, vaguely listening 
 to the bells of St. Clement's, vaguely watching the men 
 and boys as they heaped fagots upon a bonfire hard by. 
 Should he go home to encounter Jeremiah's stern face and 
 unspoken reproaches, or should he divert his thoughts 
 from the unpleasant subject altogether and go to Cleve- 
 land House ? He looked past the bonfire in the direc- 
 tion of the Strand, he looked to the left toward the dark 
 and quiet temple. Which was it to be ? His whole future 
 life hung upon the choice, little as he was aware of the 
 
242 * IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 fact. An insignificant turning-point, a decision which 
 seemed scarce worth pausing over, but, as is so often the 
 case, one upon which hung great issues. 
 
 The chambers in King's Bench Walk rose vividly before 
 him the empty chair, the untouched books, the silence, 
 the sad-faced serving-man. Why, it would all reproach 
 him, all re-echo the inward voice of his self-reproach. He 
 could not bear it. He must seek diversion, dancing, 
 drink, flattery, vice, anything, he cared not what, so that 
 it would take him out of his true self. He turned into 
 the Grecian, made a hasty meal, then, threading his way 
 through the crowded streets, sought refuge from his tor- 
 menting thoughts in the costly and magnificent house a 
 palace in all but the name which had been built for the 
 Duchess of Cleveland. This evening it was quieter than 
 usual, for there were festivities at Whitehall, and the 
 duchess would have been there herself had she not been 
 detained by a slight indisposition. Randolph was ushered 
 through stately corridors and gorgeous but tenantless 
 rooms to a little boudoir which he knew quite well. It 
 was a charming little room ; the most beautiful tapestry 
 hung upon the walls, the softest skin rugs covered the 
 floor, a cheerful wood fire threw its mellow light upon one 
 of Grinling Gibbon's most delicately carved chimney 
 pieces, and wax candles disposed here and there beneath 
 rose-colored shades diffused a soft glow on all around. At 
 one end of the room an open door-way, half veiled by 
 silken draperies of gold and crimson, betrayed a vision of 
 white-robed attendants with lutes, harps, and guitars, and 
 as Randolph entered a girl s voice was filling the room 
 with the exquisite air and the abominable words of one of 
 the songs of the day. Beside the wood fire in the boudoir 
 sat the Duchess of Cleveland, her shapely head with its 
 rich brown curls resting in languid comfort among crim- 
 son velvet cushions, her tiny feet stretched out to the 
 blaze upon a French taboret, her long, loose dress of 
 creamy Indian silk falling in rich folds on the tiger-skin 
 rirg, and her swan-like neck partly veiled by a soft, white 
 fur tippet which she had drawn around her. 
 
 " Ah, is it you, Randolph ?" she said, smiling and motion- 
 ing him to a seat beside her. " You have come to cheer 
 me in my desolation. I took cold upon the river last 
 night, and so dare not share in the Whitehall festival." 
 
 So carefully and delicately did her attendants dispose 
 the rouge and powder that it was almost impossible to 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 243 
 
 believe the duchess to be a middle-aged woman. She Lad 
 all the charms of youth and all the savoir-faire and acute 
 observation of a woman of great experience. Her penciled 
 eyebrows, her large, lustrous, dark eyes, her finely chiseled 
 nose with its arched nostrils, and her full, red lips, bore an 
 expression of calm, haughty consciousness of power. Look- 
 ing far younger than Randolph, she was in truth some 
 years his senior, and, while seeming only to charm and 
 amuse him, she ruled over him despotically. In his inmost 
 heart he was aware that he was her slave, but this was a 
 slavery which he did not deem bondage. It was the 
 fashion. What then ! he must follow with the multitude, and 
 there was no shame connected with such conquest. But to 
 be conquered by principles, to own the sovereignty of con- 
 science, to sacrifice present gain to some shadowy notion 
 of right, this was a " bondage " which he could not en- 
 dure, which, in fact, he had not the courage to face. He 
 had come to Cleveland House to be soothed out of the 
 rugged vision of hateful duty, of humiliating reparation 
 which had dawned upon him. He had come because his 
 love of Hugo had made him miserable, and because his 
 love of self made him hate the misery, and because, in 
 good truth, vice was so easy and natural, and the first steps 
 in virtue so perplexing and hard. 
 
 " I can not so much as smell a flower," said the duchess, 
 laughing and taking from her bosom a cluster of red roses. 
 " There, you happy mortal, exempt from colds and coughs, 
 bear them for me. Oh, crimini ! how he crushes my poor 
 gift in his manly grasp ! Thou art out of temper to-night, 
 
 i ami" 
 
 And therefore I came to you," he said, looking at her 
 bright, laughing eyes. 
 
 " That is ever the fate of women," said the duchess, pout- 
 ing and rearranging her dress. She had taper fingers, but 
 her wrists were large and ugly. " When the men are worth 
 talking to they stay away. When they are in the dumps 
 they come and expect to be amused, for all the world like 
 peevish nursery imps. I dare swear it is that brother of 
 yours who troubles your peace. Ah ! I thought as much." 
 
 "I have seen him this day. He is ill, well-nigh dying." 
 
 " That must not be allowed," said the duchess, decidedly. 
 
 "What, have they been starving him ?" 
 
 "They have done their worst to him, and he will reveal 
 naught. Misery seems to have no power to shake him from 
 his purpose." 
 
2M IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 " He was ever obstinate as a mule, our little court saint," 
 said the duchess. "But since misery will not move him, 
 try yet another plan. Let him have the best private cell which 
 Newgate will afford, and I will send a sweet little temptress 
 to nurse him into health and to play the part of a 
 Delilah." 
 
 Randolph did not speak, there was a curious look of 
 doubt and hesitation in his face. 
 
 " What ! art turning Puritan !" said the duchess, with a 
 mocking laugh. 
 
 " A very idle question, fair lady." he replied, with a 
 slightly sarcastic smile, " while I sit here in this palace of 
 delight! However, you know well that in some sense 
 Hugo may be accounted one." 
 
 " That was all very well when he was a pretty, pale- 
 faced boy. But now he is a man and ought to pay his 
 devoirs to beauty and love. He must be brought down 
 from his lofty heights, very kindly and tenderly an you 
 will, but he must be brought down, else will you never 
 gain from him what you would. Why should you object ? 
 'Twill be a kindness to send him what will best cheer his 
 solitude. And as to my little Blanchette, she will be the 
 queen of his heart ere another day is over. No man can 
 resist Blanchette. I will call her." 
 
 The duchess touched a little silver bell which stood be- 
 side her, and immediately one of the white-robed attend- 
 ants appeared at the doorway, with one hand holding back 
 the silken curtain which hung in soft, sheeny folds on 
 each side of her. She was a beautiful creature, tall, grace- 
 ful, with snowy neck and arms, masses of loose flaxen hair, 
 and eyes which were constantly veiling themselves beneath 
 dark lashes as though modestly conscious of their own 
 power. 
 
 " What was the name of your song, Blanchette ?" asked 
 the duchess. 
 
 " It was a love song, by my Lord Eochester," said the 
 girl, in a high, clear voice, in which there were pleasant 
 modulations. 
 
 " It suits you well, go sing another like it. After that 
 you may close the door." 
 
 The girl courtesied and withdrew, and ere long another 
 passionate song thrilled through both anteroom and bou- 
 doir. Then the door was softly closed, and there was si- 
 lence. 
 
 " Well, shall we try her ?" said the duchess. 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 245 
 
 " Perchance it might be as well," said Randolph, 
 
 "Still doubtful," said the duchess, laughing. "Why, 
 won ami, St. Antony himself couldn't have resisted her. I 
 see a triumphant end to all your trouble." 
 
 Randolph did not speak. His eye had fallen upon a 
 mirror which hung upon the opposite wall. In it he could 
 see the reflection of the luxurious room, of the magical 
 lights, of the beautiful duchess, with her pearl ear-rings 
 and necklace, of himself lying on the tiger-skin rug at her 
 feet. 
 
 Another picture rose before him. A dark prison wall, 
 a gleam of chill light from a narrow grating, a man stand- 
 ing beneath it with folded arms, set lips, stern brow, bearing 
 threats and taunts in silence, rejecting bribes with scorn. 
 
 And the duchess spoke lightly and cheerfully of a " tri- 
 umphant end." 
 
 Well, it would be worth while to triumph over that other 
 that other whose picture contrasted so unpleasantly with 
 the reflection in the mirror. He would like to falsify that 
 picture, he would like to drag him down, he hated him 
 for his resistance. He should not die, he should not tri- 
 umph, he should be dragged down, and be a little 
 lower than himself. 
 
 " You have cheered me," he said, turning to the duchess 
 with a smile in his dark eyes, in which there lurked already 
 the anticipation of victory. " An you will indeed spare 
 her; Blanchette shall try her skill." 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 THE TRIAL. 
 
 This man is great with little state, 
 
 Lord of the world epitomized : 
 
 Who with staid front outfaceth fate : 
 
 And, being empty, is sufficed 
 
 Or is sufficed with little, since (at least) 
 
 He makes his conscience a perpetual feast. 
 
 JOHN DAVIES (1612). 
 
 SCROOP had never been deficient in that which should be 
 a marked characteristic in a jailer he had never 
 lacked a habit of observation. At the same time he had 
 never observed any prisoner with such acuteness as he 
 observed Hugo Wharncliffe. He had watched men in the 
 
246 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 mass, he had watched them as cases, but he never before 
 watched them with deep interest as individuals. On the 
 night of Hugo's arrival in June, Scroop had for the first 
 time in his life wondered. Through those dreary August 
 days, watching his prisoner in the dungeon as he fought 
 against fever, depression, and misery, Scroop wondered 
 still, and grew pitiful. Through the six weeks of fierce 
 unmitigated temptation that followed the elder brother's 
 visit, Scroop wondered more and more, and grew reveren- 
 tial. At length there came a day when Blanchette failed 
 to appear at Newgate, and thereupon the jailer was sum- 
 moned into the governor's private room. 
 
 " Mr. Wharncliffe hath recovered from his illness ?" 
 
 " Ay, sir. He seems well enough." 
 
 " Good. Then remove him this day to the Common 
 Debtor's Ward. 'Tis well he should try a change of air." 
 
 Scroop dutifully grinned in recognition of his superior's 
 jest, and at once proceeded to obey his orders. 
 
 The room to which Hugo had been removed was dry, 
 well-aired, and by no means uncomfortable; he probably 
 owed his life to the change. As Scroop opened the door, 
 the prisoner looked up apprehensively; when he perceived 
 that the jailer was alone, he could not repress a look of 
 relief. 
 
 The six weeks' temptation had left very visible marks 
 upon his face. It was no longer possible to forget that he 
 was a man the words "boy" and "lad," which bad hither- 
 to most naturally come to the lips in speaking of him, were 
 no longer appropriate. The dreamy look in his eyes had 
 given place to a quiet vigilance. The sweet-tempered 
 mouth had become sterner and straighter and youth had 
 passed forever. 
 
 " I am to be removed, Scroop ? That is well," he said, 
 with a sigh of relief. 
 
 " Your honor does not ask whither," said the jailer. 
 
 " I care not," said Hugo. " So it be from here, and from 
 " fc He broke off and relapsed into silence. 
 
 S6roop felt sorry for his charge. And yet since he had 
 held his own through such numberless temptations, why 
 should he not hold his still, even in the degraded atmosphere 
 of the common jail ? 
 
 Truth to tell, the change was at first welcome to 
 Hugo. It was a relief to see fresh faces, even though 
 they were reckless and often wicked faces ; it was a 
 relief to hear once more the babel of many voices, an 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 247 
 
 it needed all his new strength to resist the craving which 
 came over him to join the majority in drowning wretched- 
 ness in drink, and whiling away the weary days by reckless 
 play. He had been in this new ward about a fortnight, 
 when one day he was ordered into the governor's presence. 
 
 " You had best be preparing your defense, Mr. Wharn- 
 cliffe," said the governor. " For a habeas corpus hath been 
 brought unto me, and I am ordered to bring you before 
 the Court of King's Bench on the morrow." 
 
 " To-morrow !" exclaimed Hugo, hardly knowing whether 
 he were relieved at the news or not. " Am I not to be 
 allowed counsel ?" 
 
 " No, sir," replied the governor. 
 
 " I suppose I can have a copy of the indictment ?" said 
 Hugo, frowning slightly, for he was greatly perplexed to 
 know what possible defense he could make. 
 
 " Oh, yes, you can have that," said the governor, coolly. 
 " And much may it help you." 
 
 Hugo read it in silence. Then he looked up boldly ; not 
 that he felt any confidence whatever, but that he would not 
 let the governor see his hopelessness. 
 
 " I desire to subpoena two witnesses," he said. " Sir 
 William Denham of Norfolk Street, also Mr. Kupert Den- 
 harn." 
 
 " It shall be done," said the governor. " They have 
 both of them been here full oft desiring to see you. 'Twill 
 at any rate look well to have such a Tory name as Denham 
 witnessing in your behalf." 
 
 Hugo made no answer. He knew that the only wit- 
 nesses who could avail him aught were at Mondisfield 
 Hall, knew that there could be but one end to the trial. 
 
 He slept little that night, looking forward with a curi- 
 ous mixture of pain and pleasure to the coming day. It 
 would be bitter beyond all thought to see Eandolph ar- 
 raigned against him, yet it would be inexpressibly delight- 
 ful to breathe fresh air once more, to see the world again, 
 to see and perhaps speak with his old friends. 
 
 Early in the morning he was taken in a hackney-coach 
 to Westminster ; the change of scene was less enjoyable 
 than he had expected ; he felt dazed, confused, and ter- 
 ribly unequal to the work which lay before him. More- 
 over, the sun was not shining, as he had hoped. It was a 
 gloomy November morning, and he could only catch a 
 glimpse of the Abbey looming drearily out of the river 
 fog. 
 
248 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 He tried to fancy himself once more a Westminster boy, 
 tried to think this was all some hideous dream ; and in- 
 deed it scarcely felt real to him when the coach drew up 
 at the entrance to Westminster Hall, and he was marshaled 
 through the staring crowd, to find himself, not in his 
 wonted place, taking notes of the cases among a group of 
 careless Templars, but as a prisoner at the bar. He 
 glanced hastily around, noting many familiar faces, the 
 sight of which disturbed him so much that he was glad to sit 
 down and busy himself with some papers which he had 
 brought, with a few notes as to his defense. He felt that 
 Eandolph was present, but could not bear to look at him; 
 he knew that the lord chief-justice was darkly regarding 
 him, but, having once bowed to him, he would . not cast 
 one glance in his direction, for he feared Jeffreys, and was 
 afraid of showing his fear, and ashamed of the weakness 
 which yet he had never been able to overcome. There 
 was not much time for thought; all was proceeded with 
 very rapidly, the names of the jury hurried through, the 
 indictment read, and the case opened by the counsel for 
 the prosecution. Hugo tried hard to listen, tried hard to 
 think, but the speech reached him in very disjointed 
 fashion. He was vaguely conscious that Mr. Ingram, in a 
 clear, ringing, attractive voice, was saying that he would 
 prove the prisoner to be a member of the Green Ribbon 
 Club, a personal friend of Algernon Sidney, one who pro- 
 tected conventiclers, a betrayer of trust, a hater of mon- 
 archy, and a concealer of treason of the deepest dye. 
 
 The speech was an effective one. At the close the wit- 
 nesses for the crown were called, and the first name which 
 rang through the court was that of Randolph Wharncliffe. 
 The prisoner seemed to come to himself as the familiar 
 name fell upon his ear. He drew himself together, sat 
 more erect, looked up calmly for the first time, unmindful 
 of the myriad eyes fixed upon him mindful only of the 
 face which he had not seen for so many weeks. He 
 watched his brother keenly as the oath was administered 
 to him. Did he think of that scene in the gallery at Mon- 
 disfield, when another oath had been administered on the 
 nun's cross ? If so, the thought left no trace on his stern 
 brow; he looked hard, austere, as though he hated the work 
 before him,, but meant to go through it unscrupulously. 
 Then, skillfully aided by questions from Mr. Ingram, Ran- 
 dolph unfolded the whole story of Hugo's two visits to 
 Mondisfield, omitting only, or adroitly veiling, all that 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 240 
 
 could make his own share in the work appear dishonorable 
 omitting, of course, the scene with the pistol. 
 
 Indignation at this incomplete version began to stir in 
 Hugo's heart, and a pang of wrathful pleasure possessed 
 him when he remembered that it was in his power to cross- 
 examine the witness. He would punish him would drag 
 from his lips the disgraceful confession of that midnight 
 scene would show forth before all men the villainy that 
 had led him astray. Revenge at least was in his power, 
 and revenge he would have. His eye flashed so strangely 
 that the spectators wondered what had come to the pris- 
 oner, who at first had been so passive and downcast. 
 
 And yet? and yet? Was it for him to think of ven- 
 geance ? Was he the greatly forgiven to harbor wrath- 
 ful feelings? Was he to treat his brother as though there 
 was no tie between them no deathless bond of kinship? 
 Well, Randolph had broken the bond had treated him 
 shamefully. Why should he not follow his example ? Why 
 should he not have his turn now? 
 
 "If you have any questions to put to the witness," 
 bawled Jeffreys, "put them at once." 
 
 Hugo stood up. Burning words were on his lips words 
 which would have shamed Randolph before the whole 
 court questions to which he could but have given one re- 
 ply. Nothing could have altered the inevitable result of 
 the trial, but this would have brought to light Randolph's 
 villainy, and proved the strongest excuse for himself ; but 
 at that moment another trial scene flashed before his 
 mind the vision of another prisoner and with that a 
 loathing of his selfish anger and petty revenge, and withal 
 a recollection of what love and brotherhood meant. 
 
 " Of my brother I ask no question," he said, quietly ; and 
 resumed his seat amid murmurs of surprise. 
 
 Only Randolph fully understood all that was involved 
 in the prisoner's silence. A sudden flush overspread his 
 dark face ; he left the witness-box hastily, and passed 
 through the crowd with a face so troubled and downcast 
 that many of the observant people remarked that it must 
 be hard on an elder brother to bear such family disgrace; 
 they felt sorry for Mr. Wharncliffe. 
 
 John Pettit, landlord of the White Horse, Mondisfield, 
 next|deposed to the prisoner's presence at his inn on the 5th 
 of October of the previous year, and corroborated Ran- 
 dolph's assertion that Hugo had accompanied his brother 
 in the evening. Hugo put two or three questions to him, 
 
250 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 but chiefly for the pleasure of speaking to one who knew 
 Joyce. 
 
 Sir Peregrine Blake and other witnesses followed, and 
 there was much discussion upon the papers found in Col- 
 onel Wharncliffe's room. Then Hugo was told to enter 
 upon his defense. Sir William and Ruppert listened now 
 anxiously, and were in truth astonished at the prisoner's 
 intrepid bearing. It was the first time he had ever spoken 
 in public, and to speak amid the perpetual interruptions 
 of Jeffreys was no easy matter. However, he went steadily 
 on, knowing that the defense was useless, yet with simple 
 directness putting forward the sole plea which was left to 
 him. He was charged with misprision of treason, but it 
 had yet to be proved that treasonable matter was contained 
 in the particular book of manuscripts which he had con- 
 cealed ; it had yet to be proved that treasonable words 
 had been spoken at the meeting at Mondisfield. They had 
 but the witness of one man to these facts ; he submitted 
 that the treason was only inferred, and not proven. 
 
 Then he called upon Sir William Denham to bear witness 
 to his character, and Sir William, having described him as 
 the last man on earth to meddle with plots or politics, and 
 one of the king's most loyal subjects, made way for his son, 
 who confirmed his testimony. It was a lame defense, and 
 a poor show of witnesses, yet better than nothing. 
 
 "What! no more witnesses?" shouted Jeffreys, in 
 mocking tones. 
 
 " No, my lord," said Hugo, composedly. 
 
 "Then address yourself to the jury, and don't waste 
 time," said the lord chief -justice. Nothing irritated him so 
 much as quiet composure. " I can tell you we've weightier 
 matters in hand this day than listening to the vain prattle 
 of such lads as you. Speak on, and keep to the point." 
 
 " Gentlemen," said Hugo, his mellow voice contrasting 
 oddly with Jeffrey's hoarse roar, " perchance you will not 
 deem five minutes over long for one who is pleading against 
 lifelong imprisonment. I have been denied the aid of 
 counsel, denied any legal aid whatever, and am therefore at 
 great disadvantage. However, I trust you will hold with 
 the poet 
 
 " 'For lawyers and their pleading, 
 
 They esteem it not a straw ; 
 They think that honest meaning 
 Is of itself a law. ' 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 251 
 
 It hath been shown to you that I have ever been his ma- 
 jesty's loyal subject ; I heard no word of the plot till the 
 whole was made public, nor have you any right to construe 
 a refusal to give evidence against a kinsman into a mute 
 acknowledgment that the said kinsman is guilty of trea- 
 son. You may infer what you please I can not help that 
 but I maintain, gentlemen and I think you will agree 
 with me that the treason is not proven, and that you can 
 not legally find me guilty of misprision, seeing that the 
 whole hangeth upon the word of but one witness. My 
 life is in your hands. I ask you, apart from fear or favor, 
 to give me the verdict of honest citizens, and to say that 
 this case is not proven." 
 
 Had the jury gone away with those unmistakably honest 
 tones ringing in their ears, there might have been some 
 faint hope for Hugo, but there followed Mr. Ingram's pow- 
 erful speech on behalf of the crown, and then Jeffrey's 
 summing up and charge to the jury. Accustomed as he 
 was to the brutality of the lord chief-justice, Hugo was yet 
 amazed at the audacious wickedness of the man, his utter 
 disregard of all reason and right. The jury retired, but 
 speedily returned; after such a charge they could but give 
 one answer. Jeffreys, well pleased, stood up to deliver 
 sentence, and there was a gleam of savage amusement in 
 his eye, for he knew that he had a surprise in store for the 
 prisoner this obstinate fellow, out of whom, nevertheless, 
 he still hoped to drag the desired evidence. 
 
 "Hugo Wharncliffe " the voice sought now to be only 
 judicial and severe " you are found guilty of the crime of 
 misprision of treason; I therefore sentence you to be im- 
 prisoned during the remainder of your natural life, or dur- 
 ing his majesty's pleasure; and, in consideration of your ex- 
 treme youth, I pronounce that the punishment of forfeiture 
 of goods and chattels, or of profits arising upon lands be- 
 longing unto you, shall be commuted, and in lieu thereof 
 you shall be whipped by the common hangman from New- 
 gate to Tyburn." 
 
 A murmur of surprise and astonishment ran through 
 the court, the barristers clustered together in little groups 
 and whispered questions as to the legality of Jeffrey's 
 sentence. Was there any precedent for such a proceed- 
 ing ? Could such punishment be legally substituted ? Sir 
 William Denham shed tears, Rupert swore under his 
 breath, Eandolph flushed slightly, but never took his eyes 
 off his brother's face. Beyond a doubt Hugo was startled; 
 
252 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 as the terrible doom was spoken he looked up hastily, 
 looked up incredulously. Surely his ears must have de- 
 ceived him? Surely that punishment could never be his? 
 " My lord," he said, the color surging up in his pale 
 face, " I have not been guilty of a misdemeanor, and me- 
 thinks your sentence is illegal." 
 
 They were bold words to speak to such a one as the 
 lord chief-justice. Every one looked in amaze at the 
 prisoner, who had dared to make such a remonstrance. 
 Jeffreys grew purple with wrath. 
 
 " What, sirrah !" he exclaimed, in thundering tones, 
 " are you such an adept in legal matters that you can in- 
 struct me ? Say another word, and you shall stand in 
 the pillory into the bargain ! Jailer ! remove the prisoner 
 at once." 
 
 Hugo bowed to his judge, and turned unresistingly 
 toward the jailer, who led him from the court. He felt 
 stunned, stupefied; afterward he recollected sorrowfully 
 that he had not even looked at the Denhams or at Kan- 
 dolph, had not made the most of that brief glimpse of his 
 old haunts. Unresistingly, silently, he was led down West- 
 minster Hall, past the familiar book-stalls, through the 
 staring crowd- the crowd which certainly was far greater 
 than usual. So much greater, that his attention was at 
 length aroused; he came to himself, looked round, and 
 wondered. His own case would certainly have failed to 
 attract any special notice. For what, then, were these 
 spectators waiting ? and why did they all stand with their 
 faces turned to the great door which he was just now ap- 
 proaching ? His eyes followed theirs, he looked forth into 
 the murky November atmosphere, and saw that Palace Yard 
 was full of soldiers. 
 
 " What is all this for ?" he asked of his jailer. 
 "They say Colonel Sidney is to be brought up for trial," 
 said the man, indifferently. 
 
 Hugo's heart beat wildly. Sidney's prophecy was, then, 
 coming true ! "We shall meet again in London." Ay, in- 
 deed ! In London, but in what a manner ! The one com- 
 ing forth from trial, knowing his fearful doom, the other 
 going to receive the same mockery of justice at the hands 
 of the same unrighteous judge. 
 
 But yet he should see his friend and teacher once more, 
 and long months of suffering and confinement had made 
 Hugo thankful for small mercies. He should see him once 
 again, he should meet him as he had foretold at Penshurst. 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 253 
 
 And now they had almost reached the great door-way, and 
 the tramp of soldiers overpowered the confused babel of 
 voices in the hall. Still Hugo's jailer led him on, hoping 
 to get out of the building before the others entered it. 
 But at the very threshold his aim was frustrated. Grip- 
 ping his prisoner fast with one hand, he bade him wait till 
 the incoming stream had passed by and had made motion 
 more possible. Hugo, forgetting his doom, forgetting all 
 but the thought of seeing Sidney, breathed a silent thanks- 
 giving, and waited in eager expectation. Soldiers in 
 bright uniforms passed by him, sweeping back the specta- 
 tors ruthlessly, but taking no heed of the jailer and the 
 prisoner in the door-way his very misery was, in this 
 instance, a gain. No one feared a rescue from him, no one 
 cared for that one insignificant prisoner, with his hand- 
 cuffs and his attendant jailer. 
 
 He j ust stood against the old stone moldings of the 
 door- way, and the strong guard of soldiers passed on, and 
 at length, looking out into Palace Yard, Hugo could dis- 
 cern in the midst of them the dark/ plumed hat which 
 must belong to his friend. Slowly, steadily, the procession 
 moved on. Sidney drew nearer. Hugo could see his face 
 now ; he looked older ; there were deep lines in his fore- 
 head and around his mouth, his cheeks were hollow, and, 
 although he carried his head high, and bore his usual 
 aspect of stern dignity, Hugo could see that he must have 
 suffered much from the prison life, for all his air of health 
 and strength was gone, and he evidently walked with an 
 effort. Would he see him ? Would he look up ? That 
 was now the question which occupied all Hugo's thoughts. 
 That terrible business-like tramp of soldiers' feet went on 
 in maddening monotony. His friend, drew nearer and 
 nearer. Would he not give one glance in his direction ? 
 
 Ah, yes! at length his earnest gaze attracted the re- 
 publican's notice. He looked up just before reaching the 
 threshold, and their eyes met. Surprise, pleasure, regret, 
 sympathy, encouragement, all blent together in that one 
 long look, which was all that the master could give his 
 pupil. 
 
 " God bless you, dear lad, " he said, and looked him 
 through and through, looked at him long and lingeringly, 
 as those look who are borne away to some foreign land 
 and bid a last farewell to the friends who stay behind. 
 
 And Hugo's gray eyes lit up with eager love, and the 
 memory of his doom passed from him altogether as he re- 
 
254 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 peated the words of Sidney's motto, Sanctus amor patrice 
 dal animum. 
 
 Sidney heard the words, turned back once more, and 
 smiled, a smile which Hugo could always recall, a smile 
 which lit up the stern, rugged face, and made it beautiful 
 as a true and noble passion has power to do, be the features 
 what they may. 
 
 Then the line of soldiers closed in around the prisoner, 
 and soon all that Hugo could see was the broad-brimmed 
 felt hat and the brown periwig, the one dark spot amid 
 the bright uniforms and flashing bayonet*. 
 
 " Now, sir," said the jailer, giving his arm a little shake, 
 to arouse him. 
 
 He glanced back once more caught a last vision of the 
 old hall, with its dark, vaulted roof, its crowd of spectators, 
 its bright line of infantry, and its patriot prisoner, then 
 turned and followed his guide into the murky November 
 air without. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 TEMPTATION. 
 
 Virtue may be assailed, but never hurt ; 
 Surprised by unjust force, but not enthralled ; 
 Yea, even that which mischief meant most harm 
 Shall in the happy tidal prove most glory : 
 But evil on itself shall back recoil. 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 HUGO'S trial had taken place on the 7th of November, and 
 the time passed on, and, though each day he asked Scroop 
 when his sentence was to be put into execution, the jailer 
 could never give him any definite reply. The uncertainty 
 was terrible. He hoped much that now the trial was over 
 the Denhams would have been allowed to visit him, but 
 though they had applied for leave, Scroop told him that 
 they had been peremptorily refused. He was deserted of 
 all men, save Mr. Ambrose Philips, who still visited him 
 with great assiduity and patience, dilating much on the 
 horrors of the punishment which awaited him, and offering 
 free pardon, if only he would appear at Colonel Sidney's 
 trial. 
 
 It appeared that on the 7th of November, Sidney had 
 been brought up for trial and, after a stormy scene with 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 255 
 
 the lord chief-justice, had been given a fortnight in which 
 to prepare his defense, being denied, however, the aid of 
 counsel, or even a copy of the indictment. This was all 
 that Hugo could learn, and he passed a hard fortnight. 
 Early on the morning of the 20th he was summoned from 
 his crowded ward; was it to go out to his fate, he won- 
 dered? but Scroop reassured him and spoke cheering 
 words to him as they walked along the stone corridors. 
 
 " Keep up your heart, sir," he said, with rough kindness. 
 " There is a chance for you yet." 
 
 He then took his charge into a private cell, bidding him 
 wash and change his clothes, and to make all speed about 
 it. 
 
 Hugo, greatly wondering, did as he was told, and then 
 followed the jailer to the main entrance, where three of- 
 ficers in plain clothes awaited them. Scroop opened the 
 heavy, iron studded door, and fresh air and golden sun- 
 shine found their way into the gloomy jail and to the 
 prisoner, who looked forth with eager eyes. He was hurried 
 into a hackney-coach which stood without, the officers got in 
 with him, the door was shut, and he was driven off, whither he 
 could only conjecture, since the blinds were down, and the 
 officers would give him no information whatever. Was it, 
 perhaps, the day of Sidney's trial ? Was he to be taken to 
 Westminster Hall and induced to give evidence ? If so, 
 he resolved to take refuge in silence, he would not risk 
 being confused by a preplexing string of questions. At 
 length the coach stopped, he was hurried out of it and 
 taken so speedily into an open door-way that he had no 
 time to make out what the place was, only he felt sure it 
 was not Westminster. He was taken into a small wains- 
 coted room, where a pleasant-looking, middle-aged man 
 sat at a table writing ; the officers withdrew and left them 
 alone together. ' 
 
 " You will wonder who I am," said the stranger, motion- 
 ing him to sit down ; "I am Dr. Pratt, and I have been 
 commanded to examine into the state of your health, Mr. 
 Wharncliffe." 
 
 Hugo, who had struggled through his illness without 
 any medical aid, submitted to a thorough examination, 
 marveling a little what was the meaning of it all. After a 
 a while it began to dawn upon him. 
 
 " Do you know that you are very much out of health ?" 
 said the doctor. 
 
 Hugo replied that he was quite aware of the fact. 
 
256 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 " I fear there is one thing, however, of which you are not 
 aware," said the doctor, kindly. " They tell me you are to- 
 morrow to be whipped from Newgate to Tyburn. Now, in 
 your present state of health such a punishment as that 
 will cost you your life." 
 
 " To-morrow," repeated Hugo. " "Will it be to-morrow ?" 
 
 The doctor looked at him curiously and with some com- 
 passion. 
 
 " Ay, so they tell me. But you do not hear what is of far 
 more importance I assure you that such a punishment will 
 cost you your life." 
 
 " Yes, sir, I hear plainly enough," said Hugo, thought- 
 fully. " And did life mean to you merely eternal Newgate, 
 methinks you might look on death with other eyes." 
 
 The doctor rose hastily and took two or three turns up 
 and down the room before again speaking. 
 
 " Well," he said at length, " I am sorry for you, sir ; I 
 have done what they bade me do and have given you fair 
 warning. 'Tis not for me to argue with you, others will do 
 that." 
 
 "Ay," said Hugo, smiling a little, "there is no lack of 
 arguers. To listen to them is the employment of my life, 
 and I thank you, sir, for sparing your breath and my 
 patience." 
 
 He relapsed into silence and deep thought. It was to 
 be to-morrow, then, to-morrow! 
 
 The doctor regarded him closely for a minute ; then, 
 with a sigh and shake of the head, opened the door and 
 summoned the officers. 
 
 In silence they led the prisoner up a winding staircase, 
 dark and narrow, which opened into a large and hand- 
 somely furnished bedroom ; here an usher met them, and 
 led them in through corridors and empty rooms to the dgor 
 of an apartment which somehow had to Hugo a familiar 
 air. When it was opened the first thing which met his 
 gaze was the " Noli me Tangere " of Hans Holbein. He 
 knew then that he was at Whitehall, and had been ad- 
 mitted by the private staircase, of which he had heard 
 rumors in the old times. He breathed a little faster as the 
 usher went on before to announce them; then, returning, 
 bade them come in. How strangely different it was from 
 that evening long ago, when he had last entered this room 
 in company with the little Duchess of Grafton. Involun- 
 tarily he sighed. Life had looked so very bright to him 
 that evening. Coming to himself, he noticed that his com- 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 257 
 
 panions were bowing low. He, too, bowed mechanically, 
 and then, looking up, saw that the king was sitting at a 
 table amusing himself by dissecting a little Dutch clock. 
 He looked much older than when Hugo had last seen him, 
 his face had lost much of its easy good-nature, he seemed 
 gloomy and ill, while there was an unhealthy yellowish 
 tinge in the whites of his eyes, and the lines and wrinkles 
 in his face were very apparent. 
 
 " I would speak with the prisoner alone," he said, turn- 
 ing to the chief officer. " Hath he been searched?" 
 
 The officer, with many apologies, replied in the negative. 
 
 " Then let it be done," said Charles, querulously. " I 
 marvel that in these days of treachery you bring a man 
 from jail into my presence with so little precaution." 
 
 The officer was about to lead Hugo from the room when 
 something in the prisoner's face made the king inter- 
 fere. 
 
 " Nay, hold," he exclaimed. " We do but waste time, for, 
 now I think of it, this gentleman speaks the truth even to 
 his liege lord. Have you aught concealed about you, Mr. 
 Wharncliffe?" 
 
 Hugo opened his doublet, and produced a book, a tiny 
 parcel, and a letter. The officer handed them to the king 
 at his request, and then withdrew, leaving Charles alone 
 with the prisoner. The book was Joyce's St. John ; the 
 king merely glanced at it, and, to Hugo's relief, did not 
 read the words written within. The parcel he unfolded ; 
 it contained a lady's handkerchief embroidered in one 
 corner with a J. At sight of this he smiled broadly, and 
 looked once more the good-natured monarch of former 
 times. 
 
 "Ah! Mr. Wharncliffe," he said, with a laugh. "One 
 touch of nature makes the whole world kin. King or 
 prisoners, we are, after all, alike in this particular." 
 
 Hugo made no reply, and managed to school his face in- 
 to courteous passiveness. Inwardly he raged, and only 
 longed to snatch Joyce's handkerchief from the king's 
 hands. 
 
 Charles took up the letter. It was the one which Sidney 
 had sent by Betterton, and the king's face grew dark as 
 he read it. The perusal took him some time, and Hugo 
 fell into a reverie. At another time the thought of a 
 private interview with the king might have awed him a 
 little, but kings sunk into insignificance before the news 
 which had just been givrn him. He was to suffer 
 
258 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 morrow and to die. He had much to settle, muc^i to 
 think over, and but a few hours left him. 
 
 The king folded the letter, and looked across "at the 
 silent figure which stood opposite to him, taking in with 
 his keen eyes every smallest detail, the clothes which 
 seemed to hang loosely upon their wearer, the quiet, pen- 
 sive face, with its suggestion of latent power, the strange 
 calmness of the expression both of the mouth and eyes. 
 
 It was a bitter November day ; Hugo involuntarily 
 glanced toward the fire, and the glance seemed to make 
 an opening for an interview which, to tell the truth, was 
 sufficiently embarrassing to the king. 
 
 " You look cold," he said, not unkindly. " Do they not 
 give you fires in Newgate ?" 
 
 " Ay, my liege," said Hugo, smiling a little. " But there 
 are many of us, and the ward is large, therefore it is not 
 often that one can come nigh it." 
 
 Never was there a less formal monarch than Charles; he 
 motioned to the prisoner to sit down beside the hearth, 
 and leaving the table with the Dutch clock, he took a seat 
 opposite him. 
 
 " You have seen the leech, they tell me," he resumed, 
 after a moment's pause. "What did he tell you?" 
 
 " That I have probably but one more day in this world, 
 sire," said Hugo, warming his hands at the fire. 
 
 " Ton my soul, you seem to take it quietly enow," said 
 the king. " Hath life no charms for one of your years ?" 
 
 " It hath many charms, sire, while I sit here," said Hugo, 
 glancing round the beautiful room. "But I have lived 
 through months of misery, and in Newgate I find no charms, 
 but hunger and thirst, cold and sickness, vile companions 
 and days of wretchedness." 
 
 The king looked at him with uneasy compassion. 
 
 " Can you imagine what made me command your pres- 
 ence this day?" he asked. 
 
 " Hitherto there hath been but one end sought in every 
 interview, my liege, therefore I presume that your majesty 
 also hath the same in view." 
 
 " Ay, they told me you were stubborn as a mule ; there- 
 fore " and Charles smiled the peculiarly charming Stuart 
 smile which had won so many hearts " therefore I sent 
 for you. Come, Mr. Wharncliffe, I believe you to be my 
 loyal subject in your heart of hearts ; you have but been 
 lead astray by evil men. I will overlook all the past, so 
 only you consent to give evidence against Colonel Sidney. 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 259 
 
 You have withstood Ambrose Philips, but I think you will 
 scarcely withstand your sovereign when he asks you to do 
 this as a personal favor. Believe me, it is but to few men 
 that I could bring myself to make such a request." 
 
 Again that fascinating smile, that winning tone of voice. 
 Hugo's heart beat fast, and the color rose in his pale face. 
 " Sire, I crave your pardon," he said, " but it is impos- 
 siblealtogether impossible." 
 
 " You do not realize the difference it will make," said the 
 king, quietly. "Consent, and you are free this instant. 
 Consent, and I will give you a post about my person ; YOU 
 shall have all that heart can wish. On the other hand, per- 
 severe in your refusal, and on the morrow you will suffer 
 the most horrible and degrading of punishments, intoler- 
 able to one of your birth and breeding, and in this worth- 
 less, miserable way you will end your life. Say, do you not 
 shrink from this?"' 
 
 " Yes," said Hugo nothing but that monosyllable no 
 courteous title, no comment on the king's speech, but yet 
 in the one word a whole world of expression all the con- 
 centrated pain of those weary months, all the terrible ap- 
 prehension, all the shrinking sensitiveness, all the loathing 
 of the shame and publicity, all the natural clinging to life 
 and liberty. 
 
 The king was touched ; there was a painful silence. 
 " Do you not see," he said, after a time, in his persuasive 
 voice ' do you not see how great is the stake you hold? 
 Here is a chance offered you of changing the history of 
 your country." 
 
 Hugo looked up, the moment's agony was past, there was 
 a light in his dark eyes. 
 
 " But already that chance is mine, my liege. What if I 
 do suffer to-morrow what if I die? It is naught, for 
 Colonel Sidney will be free." 
 
 " You are greatly mistaken," said Charles, his face dark- 
 ening. " Colonel Sidney must die. Naught can alter that. 
 The decree has gone forth, and it must be." 
 
 "But there is but my Lord Howard to witness against 
 him," said Hugo. " He can not be executed, my liege, on 
 the word of one witness and such a witness!" 
 
 " I know of no ' can not ' in such a case," said the king, 
 coldly. "There were plenty of 'cannots' at the trial of 
 our blessed martyr, yet in the end his death was com- 
 passed." 
 . "Ah! my liege, have you forgotten that 'twas Colonel 
 
260 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 Sidney who nobly refused to have aught to do with that 
 sentence ? Is this your reward for his honesty ? Will you 
 be less merciful to him, less generous? Nay, 'tis no ques- 
 tion of generosity, but of simple justice, for he is not guilty. 
 Oh ! my liege, my liege, you can not think that such a man 
 as Sidney would stoop to such meanness would attack any 
 man at a disadvantage ? You can not think that such a one 
 would league himself with mere desperadoes like the Bye- 
 House men?" 
 
 " I did not send for you to plead for Colonel Sidney," 
 said the king, gloomily. " I tell you he must die ; say no 
 more." 
 
 There was that in his tone which conveyed a terrible 
 conviction to Hugo's heart. He could not conceal his an- 
 guish. For all these weary months had been rendered 
 bearable to him by the thought that he was suffering for 
 his friend, buying his freedom. In fact, it was well known 
 that the evidence against Sidney was so extremely shaky 
 that almost everybody had deemed it probable that he 
 would merely lie in the Tower for a time and then would 
 be released without trial, or, if brought to trial, would 
 certainly escape with a fine or imprisonment. Now, for the 
 first time the truth broke upon Hugo : he could do nothing 
 for his friend. Eegardless of the king's presence he buried 
 his face in his hands. 
 
 "I have spent my strength in vain !" he groaned. 
 
 " That is precisely what we have been urging upon you 
 all these months, Mr. Wharncliffe," said the king, more 
 cordially. "You have, indeed, spent your strength in vain 
 do not in the bargain throw away your life; give me your 
 word that, instead of going forth to meet that insuffera- 
 ble punishment to-morrow you will repair to Westminster, 
 to Colonel Sidney's trial, and you are free from this 
 moment. Do you not see what a great opportunity we 
 give you ? In any case Colonel Sidney will die, but, by 
 the help of your evidence you may, as we said before, 
 alter the history of this land, you may do us the greatest 
 possible service. Say, lad, will you refuse me ?" 
 
 " Your majesty asks me to bear false witness against a 
 friend," said Hugo. " How can I help but refuse ?" 
 
 " Could you save him by silence, that were another mat- 
 ter," said Charles. " But you can not do so, his fate is 
 fixed. Therefore, for your own sake and for ours also, I 
 beg you to think of what liberty means. Me thinks you 
 are like to break the heart of this fair Juliet, or whatever 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 261 
 
 her name be, who owns this handkerchief, an you choose 
 death and dishonor." 
 
 Hugo's eyes filled with tears as a vision of Joyce 
 before him. The king made haste to follow up his advan- 
 tage. 
 
 " Only do this, Mr. Wharncliffe, and you shall wed this 
 fair damsel, and live in peace and honor. I give you my 
 word that nothing sball come betwixt you." 
 
 " My liege," said Hugo, recovering himself, " did I do 
 this I should not be fit to have her. I respectfully refuse 
 your majesty's request." 
 
 With a fiown and a shrug of the shoulders Charles 
 crossed the room, and, opening the door which led into the 
 adjoining library, spoke a few words to some one within. 
 Hugo did not hear them, he was lost in thoughts of Joyce. 
 He came to himself as the king returned, and the words 
 fell upon his ears, " Stubborn as a mule, and if you read 
 this letter you may perchance gather the reason." 
 
 Thereupon the king took up Sidney's letter and held it 
 out to some one who followed him. Hugo glanced round, 
 and with an irrepressible exclamation started to his feet, 
 for the king had spoken to Randolph. 
 
 The brothers greeted each other silently. Then Ran- 
 dolph read the letter with darkening brow. 
 
 " 'Tis this traitor who hath led him astray !" he said at 
 the close, and he would have torn the letter in pieces had 
 not Hugo darted forward. 
 
 "Hold!" he cried, passionately. "The letter is mine; 
 you shall not tear it." Randolph paused, and Hugo 
 turned to the king. "My liege, I showed it at your 
 request ; but it is mine, he has no right to it. Bid him 
 restore it, sire, I beg you." 
 
 " Ay, give it back, Randolph," said the king, carelessly, 
 " There, take back all of your treasures, I have no wish to 
 deprive you of them, and you had best take leave of your 
 brother,' for you are not like to see him again, unless he 
 succeeds better than we have done in making you hearken 
 to reason." 
 
 So saying Charles picked up a spaniel which had curled 
 itself round in his vacant chair and strolled into the li- 
 brary, fondling the dog's long ears. 
 
 "I have one more chance to offer yon," said Randolph, 
 sternly. "You have ungraciously refused the king's re- 
 quest, but you may yet save yourself by witnessing agaii?rt 
 Colonel Wharncliffe." 
 
262 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 Hugo made a gesture of entreaty. 
 
 " For God's sake begin not that again. Have I not said 
 I will never do it ? Have I not sworn it ?" 
 
 " Yet all things are changed since your trial," said Ran- 
 dolph, much more gently. " Hugo, an you love me, save 
 me from this misery, let me not have this disgrace thrust 
 on to me ! Save me from the pain and ignominy of having 
 brother of mine whipped from Newgate to Tyburn like a 
 common criminal." 
 
 " That lay in your power, but scarce in mine," said Hugo, 
 hoarsely. 
 
 It was far harder to refuse Randolph than to refuse the 
 king. 
 
 " It is in your power to be free to-morrow, by only prom- 
 ising to reveal what you know," said Randolph; and there 
 was such real anxiety, such real solicitude, in his face, that 
 Hugo was obliged to take a turn up and down the room 
 before he could answer him. 
 
 " I will reveal nothing," he said, at length. " I ought to 
 have known nothing." 
 
 There was something in his manner which finally con- 
 vinced Randolph of the hopelessness of his errand. His 
 regret and anxiety and baffled hope turned to hot an- 
 ger. 
 
 "You are a fool! a traitor!" he thundered. "Your 
 blood be on your own head ! Think not to lay the blame 
 on me, an they whip you into a ghost. You are a traitor to 
 your king, to your country, and to me ! I disown you !" 
 
 With a gesture as if this were more than he could bear, 
 Hugo turned away; Randolph, with blazing eyes, laid a 
 strong hand on his shoulder, and forced him to turn 
 round. 
 
 " For the last time," he said, speaking through his teeth, 
 in a voice of repressed passion, " wiil you shield this trai- 
 tor no longer? Will you reveal what you know of Colo- 
 nel Wharncliffe. Will you confess what was in the pa- 
 pers ?" 
 
 Tiie last time they had touched each other it had been 
 in the dungeon. Some recollection of this came to both. 
 Randolph would not suffer his face to move a muscle, 
 though he was conscious of a sharp stab of pain, but 
 Hugo's lips began to quiver. 
 
 "I will not, I can not!" he said, in a choked voice. 
 " Death itself, ay, and even your displeasure, were better 
 fcjLiu such villainy!" 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS, 263 
 
 " To the death you deserve then," said Randolph, remov- 
 ing his hand. " And may the devil take your soul !" 
 
 He turned to go, but before he had reached the door 
 Hugo had sprung forward in an agony and clutched at his 
 arm. 
 
 "Randolph! Randolph!" he cried; and there was such 
 anguish in his voice that, in the adjacent room the king 
 began to hum a love-song to himself, to drown the sound. 
 " Go not like that ! Go not with such words ! I shall never 
 see you again ! For God's sake bid me farewell !" 
 
 " Unhand me !" said Randolph, roughly. Then, as Hugo 
 still retained his hold, he shook himself free with a volley 
 of oaths. " Have I not disowned you, and cursed you ? 
 What more would you have ? Go to your fate ! You are 
 naught to me 1" 
 
 He strode out of the room, and there was silence, until 
 in a few minutes the king strode back again, still fondling 
 the little spaniel. Hugo had thrown himself into a chair, 
 with his arms stretched across the table and his face hid- 
 den. The king could hear his hard breathing ; he 
 watched him for a moment in silence. 
 
 " I have tried to save you," he said at length, regretfully. 
 " 'Tis your own doing you will not be saved." 
 
 Hugo hastily raised himself. His face was white and 
 haggard; but the king's words seemed to awaken in his 
 mind a fresh train of thought, and for the time to divert 
 him from the recollection of Randolph's cruelty. 
 
 " You would save me, the unworthy, my liege," he ex- 
 claimed. " You would fain show mercy to me, then, why 
 not to one who demands infinitely more at your hands ? I 
 deemed Colonel Sidney's fate rested with me, but I was 
 cruelly deceived. His fate rests with your majesty. You 
 tell me that I may change the course of history, but oh, 
 sire ! think how great a change might be effected by your 
 majesty. Think how by one just and generous deed your 
 majesty might endear yourself to future generations. My 
 God ! to think what power rests with one man !" 
 
 There was something so heartfelt in the last ejaculation 
 that Charles was not offended by it, even though he felt 
 reproached by the prisoner's searching look of mingled 
 wonder and despair. That moment did for Hugo what all 
 Sidney's teachings had failed to do, it made him a true re- 
 publican. He glanced round the beautiful room with its 
 tapestried walls, its fine pictures, its curious clocks and 
 pendules, its silken curtains and rich carvings; he looked 
 
264 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 long at the hard-featured man in black velvet doublet and 
 brown periwig, who still idly toyed with his little dog. He 
 looked at the sensual eyes, which glanced now at him, now 
 at the spaniel; he looked at the voluptuous lips, about 
 which there lurked now a faint smile, for to Charles there 
 was always something laughable in earnestness. 
 
 " I see you deem the power ill placed," said the king, 
 good-humoredly. " Well, Mr. Wharncliffe, I need detain 
 you no longer, for we do but waste time, and you will not 
 serve my purpose." 
 
 With that he held out his hand graciously, intending to 
 show a very unusual mark of confidence and condescension 
 in permitting the prisoner to kiss it. But to his surprise 
 Hugo drew back. 
 
 " Pardon me, sire," he said, bowing, and coloring crim- 
 son with the effort of uttering such words. " There is 
 blood upon it." 
 
 The king swore a deep oath, and his dark face turned 
 almost purple for a minute. But, recovering his self- 
 possession, he gave a careless laugh. 
 
 " You are a true disciple of Algernon Sidney," he said, 
 marveling a little that one of so sensitive a temperament 
 should have adopted such principles, or have been capa- 
 ble of showing himself so disagreeably consistent with 
 them." " I pardon your blnntness, however, for though 
 you are no courtier, Mr. Wharncliffe, I believe you to be 
 an honest man misled by those who should have known 
 better. Remember that I tried to save you." 
 
 With that the officers were summoned, and Hugo, bow- 
 ing low, looked his last at the king, and was led from the 
 room. 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. .65 
 
 CHAPTEE XXIX. 
 
 HUGO'S LAST DAY. 
 
 Love is a spirit high, presuming, 
 That falleth oft ere he sit fast; 
 Care is a sorrow long consuming. 
 Which yet cloth kill the heart at last. 
 Death is a wrong to life and love; 
 And I the pains of all must prove. 
 
 SIB PHTLIP SYDNEY. 
 
 " SCROOP," said Hugo, as the jailer led him back to his 
 ward, "it is all up with me, and to-morrow you'll be 
 troubled by me no longer. Say, will you do me one favor 
 ere we part ?" 
 
 The jailer, to his secret indignation, felt a curious moist- 
 ure about his eyes. 
 
 " Let's hear first what it may be," he said, gruffly. 
 
 " 'Tis no great matter," said Hugo. " An inkhorn, a 
 a goosequill, three sheets of letter-paper, and to-night your 
 promise to convey the budget to Sir William Denham's 
 house in Norfolk Street." 
 
 The jailer promised to grant him this favor, and indeed, 
 short of allowing him to escape, he would have done al- 
 most anything for him, for over his rough and semi-bru- 
 alized nature Hugo had acquired a most strange influence. 
 
 The contrast between "Whitehall and the Common Debt- 
 or's ward struck upon Hugo sharply as once more he found 
 himself in his prison quarters. The ward was bitterly cold, 
 though a fire burned in the grate, over which several of the 
 prisoners were making preparations for dinner, cooking 
 such scraps of meat or vegetables as they had been able to 
 secure, either with their own money or by the charity of 
 the London shop-keepers. These were in the habit of 
 placing stale bread, and such bones and scrapings as they 
 could spare, in baskets provided for that purpose, with an 
 appeal for " Some bread and meat for the poor prisoners in 
 Newgate ! For the Lord's sake pity the poor!" 
 
 Those who were not cooking were smoking, drinking, 
 dicing, or quarreling, while above the confused uproar there 
 rose an unusual sound the sound of a child's voice crying 
 bitterly. Hugo, shaking himself free from the importunate 
 questioners who would fain have learned where he had been 
 to, made his way to that part of the ward whence the 
 
266 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 crying came. A pitiful little group met his gaze as be 
 drew near. Upon the floor sat a delicate-looking woman, 
 trying to comfort the sobbing child in her arms; beside 
 her, playing unconcernedly with an apple, was a little fel- 
 low of three years old, his bright face quite free from care 
 or anxiety, and contrasting painfully with that of the 
 father, who stood close by, a sombre-looking Puritan, upon 
 whose face there now rested the shadow of grievous troub- 
 le. He was not an attractive looking man, but he seemed 
 so miserable, and looked so out of place amid his surround- 
 ings, that Hugo felt impelled to make some sort of advance 
 to him. 
 
 "Metlrinks you are a new-comer, sir,'* he said, court- 
 eously, with a vivid recollection of his first day in the 
 ward, and a longing to do what he could for this forlorn 
 group. 
 
 " Yes, sir," said the Nonconformist, severely, " I am a 
 new-comer, and I do not desire to make any acquaintance 
 in this foul place." 
 
 Hugo felt baffled, but would not give in. 
 
 " 'Tis ever harder to fresh comers," he said, quietly. 
 " An you have not dined, I will go yonder and forage for 
 you, for they serve strangers but roughly." 
 
 Without waiting for a reply he crossed the ward, and 
 with his own money bargained with a prisoner who was 
 called the caterer for enough dinner for himself and the 
 strangers, returning with some very passable broth and 
 half a loaf. 
 
 " A scanty meal, I fear," he said, smiling, " but the best 
 I could get. The children look hungry." 
 
 It was not in the heart of man to resist such kindness. 
 The sad-looking Nonconformist relented, and was soon 
 dining with his fellow-prisoner. 
 
 " May I ask your name, sir," he said at length. " I 
 looked not to find such as you in this place." 
 
 " My name is Wharncliffe, and I got into trouble over 
 the Plot. But this is like to be my last day here," said 
 Hugo, quietly, having no mind to go into details just then. 
 
 " I, sir, am one Thomas Delaune," said the Nonconform- 
 ist ; " my trial doth not come on till the 30th of this month, 
 but they would not admit me to bail, therefore I and my 
 wife and children are forced to come here ; I can not per- 
 suade my wife to leave, nor indeed were it fitting that she 
 remained alone with no protector." 
 
 " Yet is this a terrible place for her," said Hugo. 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 267 
 
 " So much the worse for the Churchmen who force us 
 into Newgate. My sole offense, sir, is that I accepted the 
 invitation of one of your Church of England men, Doctor 
 Calamy, in his sermon entitled 'A Scrupulous Conscience,' 
 to propose our doubts with respect to church ceremonies. 
 I accepted that invitation and printed in reply ' A Plea for 
 Nonconformists.' And for printing that work am I here 
 in this foul place." 
 
 " But surely Doctor Calamy will in that case procure 
 your release ?" said Hugo. 
 
 " I know not, sir," said Delaune. " Of a churchman I 
 never expect aught." 
 
 " I am a churchman," said Hugo, smiling a little. " And 
 now methinks you must have divined the fact, for you 
 were loath to expect aught but ill from me !" 
 
 Delaune would fain have converted him tbere and then, 
 but before long Scroop entered with the writing materials 
 which Hugo had asked for, and, excusing himself, he re- 
 tired to his own corner to write, as well as he could in the 
 din and uproar, his three farewell letters, one to Mary 
 Denham, one to Algernon Sidney, one to Joyce. 
 
 It was then that he first fully realized what the sentence 
 of death meant. They were terrible letters to write 
 terrible when he thought of himself, more terrible when 
 he thought of those to whom he was writing. It was quite 
 dusk in the ward before he had finished in fact, Scroop 
 stood beside him waiting for the budget before he had 
 made it ready ; it had taken him far longer than he had 
 thought, and had cost him much. The jailer watched him 
 in grim yet not unsympathetic silence. 
 
 " You will bear it yourself ?" asked Hugo, sealing the 
 packet and handing it to Scroop. 
 
 " What matter who bears it, so as it goes ?" said the 
 jailer. 
 
 " It matters to me," said Hugo, " because I trust you, 
 Scroop." 
 
 " Well, then, I will bear it," said the jailer, and without 
 another word he left the ward. 
 
 Hugo looked wistfully after the budget ; then, as the 
 door was closed and locked behind the jailer, he covered 
 his face with his hands. He had spoken boldly at White- 
 hall, had thought of the miseries of his life at Newgate, 
 but, fresh from that last letter to Joyce, a wild clinging 
 to life, a wild hope of escape, an intolerable longing for 
 one more sight of his love had overmastered him. With 
 
268 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 all the vividness of a lively imagination he lived through the 
 horrible fate that awaited him on the morrow lived 
 through the pain and the shame and indignity, strug- 
 gled in the death agony, till his heart sickened and his brain 
 reeled. Not even the quiet of the condemned cell was to 
 be his, for he was not condemned to death, only he had 
 been warned of bis fate. Laughter and brutal jests fell 
 upon his ear; the ward seemed like a hell that night yet 
 that night, for the first time, he nearly succumbed to its 
 temptations. 
 
 A number of drunken revelers were sitting not far from 
 him ; their noisy song reached him distinctly in his dusky 
 corner; he watched the group with a sort of fascination, 
 and listened to the following words : 
 
 "And when grim death doth take my breath, 
 He'll find me with boon comrades merry; 
 He'll find me drinking, drinking deep, 
 Sing derry down, down deny ! 
 Death we defy ! Pain comes not nigh 
 \Vhile drinking, drinking, drinking !" 
 
 He sprung to his feet, and was on the way to join the 
 merry party, when something dragging at his doublet 
 made him pause. 
 
 He looked down, and saw Delaune's little child. All the 
 afternoon he had been contentedly trundling his apple 
 about the ward ; now he had cut it in half, and, hungrily 
 eating one bit, held the other up to Hugo. It diverted him 
 from his purpose ; he took the child on his knee, touched 
 with the little thing's love and gratitude. His childish 
 prattle made him smile. 
 
 Laughingly they fed each other with the apple, Hugo 
 making a feint of eating a little to please the child. At 
 last, when all was finished, the little one began to yawn 
 and rub his eyes. 
 
 " Tom sleepy !" he said, piteously ; " no bed for Tom." 
 
 Hugo was roused by this remark ; the ward was terri- 
 bly^ crowded that night, for in the last few days there had 
 been many fresh arrivals. He looked around and saw that 
 Delaune and his wife and her babe were sitting all hud- 
 dled up together on a rough wooden bench at the other 
 side of the room. They looked so miserable that he for- 
 got his own misery in pitying them. What could be done 
 for them ? He looked at his own particular corner and his 
 uncomfortable plank bed. It would be better than noth- 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 269 
 
 ing. Examining the place carefully be found two nails i:i 
 the angle of the wall ; he tried hanging his cloak across 
 the corner, but it made a very ineffectual screen. Just at 
 that minute Scroop returned to the ward. 
 
 " Have you borne the letter ?" 
 
 Then, as the jailer nodded, Hugo placed in his hand one 
 of his few remaining coins. 
 
 " Tli ere is one thing more I would fain have. 'Tis the last 
 f avor I will ask of you. I want a piece of sacking a large 
 piece." 
 
 The jailer muttered something inarticulate, but went 
 away, returning in a few minutes with a piece large enough 
 to screen off as much of the crowded ward as was at Hugo's 
 disposal. He had some difficulty in getting it up ; in 
 doing it he forgot his own fate, and was, for the time, al- 
 most happy, while Tom sat on the floor watching him and 
 sucking his thumb philosophically. 
 
 " Now, little imp," said Hugo, smiling, " come and peep 
 at your new chamber." 
 
 Tom lifted the sacking and looked in at the dim expanse 
 of planks. 
 
 " Comfy," he said, clapping his hands and laughing mer- 
 rily, " comfy !" 
 
 That was reward enough for Hugo. He laughed a little, 
 caught the child up in his arms and strode across the ward 
 to speak to the parents. 
 
 " I have done what I can for you, sir," he said to Delaune. 
 "Your wife will find a sort of rough shelter yonder; I beg 
 that you will take my quarters for to-night, for I shall be 
 gone on the morrow." 
 
 Delaune grasped his hand and thanked him warmly. 
 His wife did not speak, but as she rose, with her baby in 
 her arms, she looked up at Hugo with a gratitude in her 
 eyes which lingered pleasantly in his memory. But not 
 even the charms of the dusky little corner behind the cur- 
 tain could tempt little Tom to desert his new friend; he 
 clung tightly to him, and begged so piteously to be "kept" 
 that Hugo yielded, and, finding by good chance a vacant 
 place beside the hearth, crouched down on the ground as 
 near the fire as might be, with the child in his arms. 
 
 "Take me wiv you on the morrow," said Tom, sleepily. 
 
 There was such a babel all around that they could talk 
 without the risk of being overheard. 
 
 " I can not do that." 
 
 "Why can't you take Tom, too?" 
 
270 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 "Because I am going to die." 
 
 " To Die," repeated Torn, dreamily. " Where is Die ? 
 I would like to go, too." 
 
 " Not yet, poor little imp," said Hugo, smiling sadly. 
 " There, kiss me and go to sleep." 
 
 The child looked up at him for a moment with his 
 solemn, sleepy eyes. " Good-night," he said, drowsily. 
 " But I wish little children could go to Die. Die is better 
 than prison, isn't it ?" 
 
 " Yes, J> said Hugo, with a quiver in his voice, " it is bet- 
 ter. Good-night, little one." 
 
 The rosy lips met his, and almost the next minute the 
 child was fast asleep. 
 
 After awhile the drunken revel ended, oaths, songs, 
 laughter died away into silence, sleep fell on the wretched 
 prisoners, and stillness reigned in the ward ; by the light 
 of the dying embers Hugo could dimly discern the outline 
 of the prostrate forms, and the untroubled face of the little 
 sleeping child on his knee. He was glad to be quiet ; the 
 solemn stillness seemed to calm his mind, he could think 
 of the morrow with less dread, could see through to the 
 other sic!* of the suffering. 
 
 " Was it not for Joyce's father ? Was it not in a sense 
 for Sidney ?" He could think of Joyce more calmly now 
 Joyce, whom he had bidden to hold herself as free Joyce, 
 who might now be wooed and won by other men. That 
 thought did not torture him as it had done when Scroop 
 had borne away the budget. He lost the thought of him- 
 self, thought only of her in her guileless simplicity, her 
 sweet purity. Lovingly, and with much joy mingled with 
 the pain, he lingered over his recollections of her. In the 
 dreary Newgate ward there rose up for him the fairest of 
 visions, the sweet, sunshiny face, the blue eyes that had 
 always met his so innocently and confidingly, the tender 
 little mouth with its mingled sweetness and firmness. 
 Never once had he seen a shade of aught that was hard or 
 better in her expression. Even on that memorable night 
 when he had made his confession to her, when with 
 natural indignation she had turned upon him with the 
 question, "Why did you seek to injure my father?" there 
 had been nothing petty or personal in her anger. And 
 how soon her tender charity had sought an excuse for 
 him I how quick she had been to check that impulse to 
 blamo another! 
 
 Far on into the night he sat dreaming of her, or rather, 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DATS. 271 
 
 wakefully living through again that brief passage in his 
 life which had changed his whole world, as love does 
 change the world of all of us, for good or for ill. His arms 
 grew stiff and weary with holding little Torn, but he could 
 not bear to disturb the child, and at length from excessive 
 weariness he fell asleep, forgetting the fatigues of the long 
 and eventful day, nor bestowing one thought upon them in 
 his dreams. For two hours he slept as tranquilly as a child. 
 But toward morning he dreamed strangely. 
 
 He thought he was once more in Germany; Count Hugo's 
 castle on the Rhine once more rose before him, with its 
 brown and rugged towers, and its battlements sharply de- 
 fined against a clear, frosty blue sky. Something of stir 
 and commotion in the air warned him of change in that 
 quiet country-side, and, drawing nearer to tie foot of the 
 hill on which the castle stood, he saw that it was in a state 
 of siege, and that the enemy had pitched their tents in the 
 valley. He could hear the busy sounds of life coming from 
 the camp, could see the soldiers fetching water frcm the 
 Rhine, and at the door of the largest tent, from which 
 floated the royal pennon, he could see the king and Ran- 
 dolph talking together. Just then lie became aware of a 
 sound of voices, and looking up he saw close beside him 
 an old peasant talking to a little, crying child. He ap- 
 proached them, and asked who the child was, and what he 
 did there. 
 
 " Sir," said the old peasant, " he is the son of Count 
 Hugo up yonder at the castle, but the count's enemies 
 have taken him prisoner, and though they treat him kind- 
 ly, and let him roam about thus far, the little lad frets for 
 his father, and to be in the old castle once m re." Thtn, 
 turning to the child, "Yet do I not tell thee, boy, that 'tis 
 best here, where thou canst eat and drink as thou wilt 
 with no let or hinderance." 
 
 But the child only sobbed the more, calling for its 
 father, and for one to bear it home. 
 
 Hugo looked irresolutely, now at the royal tent, now at 
 the crying child. Finally he thought of good Count Hugo, 
 and looked at the castle high up on its lofty rock. 
 
 "They have no right, no right to steal you!" he cried, 
 suddenly, snatching up the child in his arms. 
 
 ^ The peasant whimpered something about the " divine 
 right of kings." 
 
 "Nothing is divine save the just and the loving!" cried 
 
272 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 Hugo. "He who is just and true and wise, lie who lives 
 for the people, is king of men none other." 
 
 " Bear me home !" sobbed the child. " Bear me home !" 
 
 Then he gathered himself togethar, and, with one glance 
 
 at the hostile camp below, began to scale the steep rock, 
 
 and he knew that to scale it meant death to himself, yet 
 
 hoped that he might shield the child, and struggle on till 
 
 he reached the summit. All around him whizzed the 
 
 arrows ; one pierced his shoulder, then another and 
 
 another, till he was like the picture of St. Sebastian in the 
 
 church, and, growing faint with loss of blood, he staggered 
 
 and almost fell with his burden. But the child was 
 
 unhurt ; that nerved him to struggle on to the end, nerved 
 
 him to resist the creeping, numbing cold that made his 
 
 limbs almost powerless. At last, with a mighty effort, he 
 
 dragged himself to the summit of the rock, and staggered 
 
 along the narrow platform which led from the di aw-bridge ; 
 
 the watchman caught sight of the child, ordered the 
 
 bridge to be lowered, and gave the word in the castle. 
 
 There was a great shout of joy raised, and a sound of doors 
 
 opening and many feet approaching, while Hugo staggered 
 
 across the court-yard, and laid his burden at the feet of 
 
 his great namesake. And when, exhausted by the effort, 
 
 he lay dying, the count bent over him with a beautiful 
 
 smile on his face, and whispered in his ear so that he alone 
 
 might hearken : 
 
 " It is the Christ-Kind you have carried." 
 Then yet another form drew near, a black-robed form 
 with stern face, and drawing closer so as to hide all sight 
 of Count Hugo and the child, he laid a cold hand upon his 
 shoulder, and said : 
 
 " Your time is come ! Has death no terrors for you, 
 that you lie thus smiling ?" 
 
 " No terrors !" he exclaimed, conscious of a great joy in 
 his heart of which he could not speak. " No terrors ! I 
 die for the Christ-Kind !" 
 
 He opened his eyes. Scroop stood beside him, shaking 
 his shoulder roughly but not unkindly. 
 
 " Well, sir, they most of them sleep quiet enough, poor 
 souls, afore they go out to die," he said, regarding Hugo 
 curiously ; " but I never yet saw one who could speak of 
 dying with a smile." 
 
 Hugo glanced round the ward, where, in the dim light 
 of the winter morning, he could discern the worn faces of 
 his fellow-prisoners. 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS 273 
 
 " It is death that I am leaving here," he said, thought- 
 fully. Then kissing the little child, who still slept in his 
 arms, he placed him carefully on the floor, covering him 
 with his cloak. " Be kind to that little imp for my sake, 
 Scroop," he said. 
 
 The jailer promised, and led him out of the ward to his 
 own room, where he had prepared a breakfast for him. 
 Hugo was touched. He tried to eat enough of the broiled 
 beef, and to drink enough of the spiced ale, to satisfy 
 Scroop, who hovered over him with a restless look, which 
 sat strangely on his hard, grim features. Then came a 
 final interview with Ambrose Philips, one more ineffectual 
 effort to make him yield ; but neither threats nor re- 
 proaches nor taunts could ruffle him that day. Philips 
 retired, owning himself beaten, -and almost immediately 
 after Scroop returned. 
 
 " You have but a couple of minutes more, sir," he said, 
 his gruff voice a degree gruffer than usual. 
 
 "It is enough," said Hugo, quietly; and kneeling, he 
 once more repeated Mary Denham's collect, breathed the 
 names of Joyce, Colonel Wharncliffe, Sidney, Randolph ; 
 then, rising to his feet, threw aside his doublet and vest. 
 " I am ready," he said. " Lead on." 
 Scroop thought of that first night, when he had led him 
 into Newgate, and his heart smote him. 
 
 " I have oftentimes been rough and rude with you, sir," 
 he said, regretfully ; " I crave your forgiveness." 
 
 " I am sure you have it," said Hugo, smiling a little. "I 
 should have fared ill without you, Scroop." 
 
 After that he did not speak, but walked steadily along 
 the cold stone passages. Then the great door was thrown 
 wide, and he was led forth. The cold November wind on 
 his bare shoulders made him shiver slightly; but, with 
 head erect, he walked on, fearlessly taking in all the de- 
 tails of the scene; the staring crowd, the cart and horse, 
 Ketch, the hangman, armed with the terrible "cat," 
 and the prison official waiting with a cord to bind his 
 arms. He had scarcely advanced more than two or three 
 paces, however, when there was a movement in the crowd, 
 as of some one forcing his way to the front. A moment 
 more, and old Jeremiah rushed forward, his blue livery 
 half torn off his back, his white hair streaming in the 
 wind, his wrinkled face wet with tears. 
 
 " My master ! my dear young master !" he cried. " They 
 can not keep me from you LOW !' 
 
274 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 " Why, Jerry !" exclaimed Hugo, his face lighting up. 
 " To see you is almost worth a whipping. Come ! there is 
 no call to weep over me. I shall, at any rate, be a man of 
 action to-day!" 
 
 But at this Jeremiah only wept the more. 
 
 " Do not grieve/* said Hugo, in a low voice. " "Tis for the 
 sake of one whom you love. A less glorious and sure way 
 of helping him than that which the Ironsides effected at 
 Mar sto n Moor, but perhaps not wholly inglorious neither." 
 
 In comforting the old serving man he had forgotten to 
 feel the humiliation of being tied to the cart's tail, and the 
 presence of the old soldier gave him a curious strength. 
 
 "They cannot part me from thee now, lad," said 
 Jeremiah, dashing the tears from his eyes that he might 
 see more clearly. 
 
 "No," said Hugo, thoughtfully. "Freedom lies along 
 this road, Jerry." 
 
 And as the procession moved off, and that last terrible 
 journey began, he repeated again and again words which 
 had often comforted him in Newgate, 
 
 "Sleepe after toyle, port after stormie seas, 
 Ease after warre, death after life, does greatly please." 
 
 And Jeremiah walked side by side with his master. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXX. 
 
 JOYCE'S JOURNAL. 
 
 When sorrow would he seen, 
 
 In her bright majesty 
 
 For she is a queen 
 
 Then is she dressed by none but thee ; 
 
 Then, only then, she wears 
 
 Her richest pearls I nieau thy tears. 
 
 Not in the evening's eyes, 
 When they red with weeping are, 
 For the sun that dies, 
 \ Sits sorrow with a face so fair ; 
 
 Nowhere but here doth meet 
 Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet. 
 
 CBASHAW. 
 
 NOVEMBER, 1683. I never thought months could seem so 
 long. 
 
 But five have passed by since the day Hugo was borne 
 away from Mondisfield, and yet the time seems to me more 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 275 
 
 like to five years. "We have tried to go on just as usual, 
 thinking it best so, but oftentimes it has been hard to do 
 it. A great gloom has fallen on the whole place. The 
 corn ripened as usual, and we went into the harvest-field 
 and watched the men at work and helped the women 
 to bind the sheaves, and afterward went a-gleaning, as 
 usual, to help some of the poorer village folk. Then came 
 the in-gathering, bnt with no harvest supper, for how could 
 we feast and make merry with my father in exile ! After 
 that came the apple-gathering, which made me think of that 
 October day last year when I first saw Hugo. It seems to 
 me now passing strange to think of that duel upon which 
 so much hinged. It frightens me4o recollect how much 
 has in truth sprung from just that simple fact that Evelyn 
 and I went into the road a-blackberrying. If we had not 
 gone there would have been no duel, no meeting of Hugo, 
 no delay of their cavalcade at the White Horse, no knowl- 
 edge of Mr. Ferguson's visit, no dispersal of the congrega- 
 tion in the barn, no secret clew for Cousin Randolph to 
 work upon, no temptati< >n for Hugo, no exile for my father. 
 I suppose it is indeed ever so, and that upon all our trivial 
 actions and words there' follow long chains of results that 
 we little dream of at the time. And this, methinks, is a 
 conviction which should sober us impulsive folk, and make 
 us seek right patiently the true wisdom. 
 
 April, 1684. 
 
 I was writing this in the musicians' gallery, a place I must 
 ever love now above all others in the house, when I heard 
 the galloping of horse's feet in the drive. I thought it 
 might be the postboy with perchance a letter from my 
 father, for now that he is in safety at Amsterdam he has 
 ventured to write to my mother more than once. Running 
 down the stairs with all speed, I hurried out to the door, 
 and had flung it open just as the postboy reined in his 
 steed, a gallant bay, with wreaths of foam on his neck, for 
 the posit ever rides apace. The boy raised his hat respect- 
 fully, and took from his bag a letter actually a letter for 
 me the first I ever received in my life. I knew in an in- 
 stant that it must be from Hugo, and this I suppose must 
 have shown in my face, for the postboy, well pleased, mut- 
 tered something which I had rather he had not so much 
 as thought, and made me blush hotly. I ran quickly in 
 search of my mother, having no money to pay the postage, 
 and, finding her in the north parlor, showed her the letter. 
 
276 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 " Stay here and read it, my little daughter," she said. 
 " I will pay the man." 
 
 I needed no second bidding, for a great hope had arisen 
 in my heart. Surely, if Hugo had at length found means 
 to write to me, then he must be at liberty once more, or at 
 any rate in less strict durance. I know not what vain castle 
 in the air I bad raised even while breaking the seal, for I fear 
 it hatli ever been my way to hope, and to look for a speedy 
 end to all care, since trouble and sorrow doth seem foreign 
 to one's nature. Thus the sudden downfall of the vain 
 hopes made the reading of that letter all the harder; I 
 came more nigh to swooning than ever before in my life, 
 yet did not wholly giveaway, for we Wharncliffesare strong 
 and healthy, and do not easily succumb. My mother was 
 some time gone; I had taken that one fatal glance at the 
 letter, and then, after a long pause, had been able to read 
 it steadily through before she returned. It was very 
 clearly written; indeed, it was the most beautiful and deli- 
 cate handwriting I had ever seen. This was how it ran 
 I copy it here in my journal, for I should like the de- 
 scendants to know how true and noble my Hugo was, and 
 naught can show that so well as his own words : 
 
 "MY DEAB LOVE, At length there comes to me an opportu- 
 nity of writing to you ; my jailer, to whom I owe much, and who 
 of late hath ever been kind to me, having promised to bear this 
 letter to one Mistress Denhain, a friend of mine, who, knowing 
 yoiir name, will, withcmt risk, be able to forward this to you. My 
 dear heart, you will pardon these ill-penned lines, but I write in 
 the midst of noise and confusion in the common prison, and my 
 mind is like to the ward full, too, of confusion and trouble. ] 
 do not know whether, perchance, you have heard of my trial, 
 which took place on the seventh day of this month. My sentence 
 was, as I had looked for, lifelong imprisonment, with, moreover, 
 some additional severities, which, I am well informed are like to 
 cost me my life. But, dear heart, these said severities are in 
 truth a kindness, for a long life in Newgate would be a sore trial 
 and temptation. Did you know how terrible have been these five 
 months since I parted from you did you know what pain and 
 suffeTmg I have borne, and what grievous temptation hath assailed 
 me, you would rejoice when hearing that he who loves you he 
 whom you love is like to die shortly. 
 
 " 'Sleepe after toyle, port after stormie seas, 
 Ease after warre, death after life, does greatly please.' 
 
 Often have those words comforted me in my dungeon; and though 
 there doth at times come the craving for life, and the pining for 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 277 
 
 liberty, and most of all the longing for you, my dear one, yet I 
 willingly embrace a death which means the safety and life of 
 your father, and which may, perchance, blot out the memory of 
 the wrong I wrought him. I pray you give my duty to both 
 your father and mother, and I crave their forgiveness for all my 
 offenses. Especially I trust they will not deem that I did very 
 wrong in speaking that day of my love. In any case, tell them 
 this that your love hath been to me as a strong shield, and hath 
 saved me from hell on earth. 
 
 "When all is said, however, it doth still remain that our joy 
 has been cruelly short-lived. But at least let me feel that I have 
 not spoiled your life let me believe that you will not be the 
 poorer all your days for this brief interlude. Above all things, 
 I would have you happy. To have saddened those dear eyes, to 
 have darkened the life I found so bright that would indeed be 
 a hard fate. Dear one, I pray that you will not let this fate be 
 mine. 
 
 "The jailer waits, and these poor words must go. Head in 
 them, dearest heart, the love I can not write. I dreamed last 
 night that your father was at home and in safety once more, that 
 the household was again bright and peaceful, and that you were 
 standing by the elm tree at the gate, happy and smiling, as was 
 ever your wont. I think the dream will come true; I pray you 
 to let your share in it be true, and wherever I may be, I think I 
 shall know it. My dear one, I kiss your hands. And so fare- 
 well. 
 
 "Yours in all love and devotion, 
 
 " HUGO WHABNCLIFFE. 
 
 "Written in Newgate, the 20th November, 1683." 
 
 I do not well know what happened afterward, only the 
 day was lived through somehow, and the next, and the 
 next, till a sennight had gone by. My mother kept me 
 much with her, and taught me some difficult new stitches 
 in embroidery, and drove over with me to St. Edmondsbury 
 in the coach, and bought some fine woolen material, which 
 she said I might embroider as a gown for the little daugh- 
 ter of the Vicar of Osedean. I found a strange comfort in 
 learning this embroidery, which was odd for one who cared 
 so little for needlework ; but I seemed to have no heart 
 for books or music, and it was a sort of relief to stitch my 
 grief into that little gown. And at length hope, which 
 should have been killed by that letter, sprung up once 
 more, and I could not but think that God would not let 
 Hugo perish in that horrible place, but that He would save 
 him and bring him back to us. My mother thought there 
 might be some mention of him perchance in the new r s-let- 
 ter, and, oh, how I watched for its advent ! There was un- 
 
278 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 luckily a snowstorm that made it two days later than usual, 
 but at length one snowy forenoon there rode up the drive 
 Sir Henry Dale's groom Sir Henry being a neighbor of 
 ours some six miles hence, and wLo undertakes to pass us 
 on the news-letter, which we in turn send to the vicar of 
 Osedean. I was sitting in the window-seat of the north 
 parlor when I saw the groom ride over the bridge, but 
 though so longing to have the letter, I could not stir an 
 inch to get it could only wait what seemed an eternity 
 while Koger took it in at the front door, and paused to 
 fetch the man a tankard of ale to hearten him for his 
 return journey. Then at last and how plainly I can see 
 it all! Eoger came into the parlor bearing the letter on 
 the salver, and handed it unconcernedly to my mother, 
 rubbing the salver with his coat-sleeve as soon as she had 
 removed the damp budget, lest the silver, which is the 
 pride of his dear old heart, should be tarnished. 
 
 Then my mother broke the seal of the budget and hastily 
 read through the letter. I saw her turn very pale as she 
 read, and then, unable to bear the waiting any longer, I 
 sprung forward, begging her to tell me the worst at once. 
 
 " It is as we feared, my little daughter," said my mother, 
 putting her arm round me, and trying to check her tears. 
 " But in this be comforted, dear child your lover has died 
 right nobly." 
 
 I think my heart must have stopped beating ; it seemed 
 to me that I left off living, and when life began again I was 
 years older. And yet there we were still in the north 
 parlor the room where he told me he loved me and 
 there were all the portraits looking down at us, just as 
 they had looked down upon Hugo and me that midsummer 
 day ; but he, my own true love, was dead ! 
 
 I wanted to know more, and held out my hand for the 
 letter, and, after a moment's hesitation, my mother gave it 
 to me, and pointed to the paragraph. I remember it came 
 after a far longer one about the illness of the King of 
 Portugal, the queen's brother, and the news-letter dis- 
 coursed much as to whether the whole town would be put 
 into solemn mourning, as well as the court, upon his death, 
 which appeared imminent. 
 
 Then followed these lines : 
 
 " Some talk hath been raised about the sentence passed by the 
 lord chief -justice on a young Templar, who, it is said, had much 
 knowledge of the Plot, which, however, naught would induce 
 him to reveal. The said Mr. Hugo Wharncliffe, who is well 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 279 
 
 known in the town on account of his fine voice, was yesterday 
 morning whipped from Newgate to Tyburn by the common 
 hangman. It is said that he was warned by the authorities that 
 he ran much risk, seeing that he was weakened by illness and 
 long imprisonment, but, though offered a free pardon did he but 
 reveal what he knew against the enemies jf the Government, he 
 persisted in his obstinate silence, and to the general regret hath 
 in this useless way sacrificed a life which promised great things. 
 His friends were in waiting at Tyburn with a hackney-coach, to 
 which he was carried in a dying condition, and, though a leech 
 was at hand to render prompt assistance, Mr. Wharncliffe expired 
 just as they reached'Newgate. " 
 
 After that came an account of the trial of Mr. Algernon 
 Sidney, but I could not read it then, because I could think 
 of nothing but that awful scene which the news-letter put 
 so blandly in a few cold lines. 
 
 Oh, my love! my love! do they call yours an "obstinate 
 silence ?" Do they seek to shelter themselves by casting 
 blame on you ? As though, forsooth, you were like to save 
 yourself ? As though you were like to ruin those for whom 
 already you had done so much! 
 
 Just a few more words to this journal, which began so 
 peacefully and ends so sorrowfully. After hearing of 
 Hugo's death I had a long illness. I am well again now, 
 and my hair has grown once more and my color come 
 back, yet there are times when it is hard to try to keep my 
 love's last wish and request. It seems to me like one of 
 these April days, when you have been glorying in the sun- 
 shine, and all at once the sun goes behind a cloud and 
 leaves you shivering. And my sun will not come out again. 
 Yet is the sun eternal, and shining still behind the black- 
 ness that separates us, and my true love is at rest, and has 
 left pain and grief forever. 
 
 The bad winter the worst we have had in England for 
 many generations has kept us much to ourselves ; and 
 many of the news-letters have never been forwarded, so 
 impassable were the roads. My mother wrote to Cousin 
 Randolph Wharncliffe, but he took no notice of her letter, 
 therefore we have had no further account of Hugo's last 
 days. But we have learned of his trial from John Pettit, at 
 the White Horse, who had to appear as witness, and grum- 
 bled sore at having to make so long a journey. He must 
 have left London just before that 21st of November which 
 must ever be for me a day of mourning. But, since he 
 had not seen his father for nigh upon fourteen years, he 
 tarried at Bishop-Stortford on his way back, and so did not 
 
280 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 bring us his news until after the fatal news-letter had 
 reached us. I remember well the day of his coming. It 
 was just before I was taken ill, and I was sitting with my 
 spinning-wheel in the gallery when Pettit was shown into 
 the hall, and my mother made him sit by the hearth and 
 tell all he could about the trial. And when I heard how 
 Hugo would ask of his brother no question at all, and that 
 he had made his own defense right ably, and had ever 
 kept a steady and even temper, though that bad judge 
 treated him so ill then a glow of pride, almost of happi- 
 ness, filled my heart, even though I could not help but 
 weep when Pettit told how wan and ill he seemed, so 
 changed he hardly knew him for the same. 
 
 But all that is over now, nor will I dwell on that last ter- 
 rible day, which yet will haunt me in my dreams. I will 
 not think of my love's pain and suffering, but of bis cour- 
 age and of his noble constancy, of his patience, and of his 
 forgiveness of the one who had wronged him most of all. 
 Thinking thus will, I know, help me to keep his last wish, 
 and to bear a cheerful heart and face. It shall never be 
 said that he darkened my life ! Nay, rather my life, God 
 helping me, shall be a better and truer and fuller thing for 
 these brief months. 
 
 There is like to be much on hand in these next weeks, for 
 my father desires us to join him at Amsterdam, seeing that 
 there is as .yet no likelihood of his being able to return to 
 England. He can no longer endure to have us away from 
 him, and so, if all things can be arranged, we are to leave 
 Mondisfield before long, a kinsman of my mother's taking 
 charge of the property until if ever we return. I think 
 we shall return, because I can not believe that Hugo's life 
 was given in vain. I think my father will one day have his 
 own again. I think Hugo's dream will come true. 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 281 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 WOMAN'S WORK. 
 
 A heart unspotted is not easily daunted. 
 
 King Henry VI. 
 
 THE king paced to and fro in his private room at White- 
 hall, the room in which he had interviewed Hugo. He was 
 evidently ill at ease; the wrinkles and lines on his fore- 
 head, which Hugo had noted on the previous day, were now 
 far deeper, and a lameness to which he had of late been 
 subject showed more than ever in his gait. The ticking of 
 his many clocks and pendules annoyed him. He ordered 
 one of his attendants to stop them, with the exception of 
 one which stood upon the carved mantelshelf. Then, fur- 
 ther giving orders that he should be left alone, he continued 
 his restless walk, glancing now at the clock, now at the pic- 
 tures of Hobbes just above it, now at the " Noli me tangere " 
 opposite the doer. The clock struck six, and the king 
 muttered an impatient oath. 
 
 "So late!" he exclaimed, under, his breath. "I doubt 
 matters have, after all, gone ill. Damnation take Jeffreys, 
 if he fails in getting the verdict ! " 
 
 He continued his restless walk for some quarter of an 
 hour making every now and then ejaculations of im- 
 patience, until at length one of the ushers appeared at the 
 door. 
 
 " The lord chief-justice is in waiting, and craves an au- 
 dience of your majesty," he announced. 
 
 The king gave orders that he should be at once admitted 
 to his presence, and in a few moments the choleric looking 
 Jeffreys, with his large, heavy- jawed, sensual face, was 
 ushered into the king's private room. 
 
 "I bring your majesty good news," he said, modulating 
 his harsh voice to a fawning and courtier-like tone. " The 
 jury have brought in a verdict of ' guilty/ I and my learned 
 friends, having consulted together how we might best 
 compass the death of Colonel Sidney, have succeeded in- 
 different well, my liege." 
 
 He smiled blandly, but it was a smile that made even 
 the king wince. 
 
 " Did the jurors take long in agreeing ?" asked the king, 
 sharply. 
 
282 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 "Well, my liege," said Jeffreys, "I own that they were 
 inclined to be restive, even though they had been most care- 
 fully selected for the purpose;" he chuckled to himself in- 
 voluntarily. Then, remembering that he was in the king's 
 presence, went on, more soberly. " Knowing the import- 
 ance of the case, I made bold, my liege, to follow them out 
 of court, on pretense of taking a cup of sack, and then I 
 took the opportunity of giving them more particular in- 
 structions. After that they were but a half hour gone and 
 returned with the verdict against Colonel Sidney. I trust 
 your majesty is satisfied ?" 
 
 " Quite satisfied," said the king; but nevertheless there 
 were signs in his face that he was passing through some 
 inward struggle. 
 
 " My liege," said Jeffreys, "I trust you will pardon me 
 the boast, but I must say that no man in my place hath 
 ever rendered unto any king of England such services as 
 I have rendered your majesty this day. Not only have I 
 made it pass for law that any man may be tried by jurors 
 who are not freeholders, but I have made it pass also that 
 one witness can condemn a man, provided there be any 
 concurrent circumstances. Your majesty is well rid of this 
 traitor." 
 
 " That is very true," said the king. " I am aware that 
 you have rendered me very valuable services in an excep- 
 tional case. Wear this in remembrance of the day ;" he 
 drew from his finger a costly ring, and handed it to the 
 lord chief-justice, who withdrew with many expressions of 
 gratitude and loyalty. 
 
 When he was gone the king flung himself back in a 
 chair with a sigh of weariness and disgust. He had ob- 
 tained his wish, but he had obtained it in a way which 
 jarred upon his better nature ; and then, moreover, it 
 sickened him to think that fiends incarnate like Jeffreys 
 would fawn upon him and kiss his hand, while such as 
 Hugo Wharncliffe shrunk back, and told him to his face 
 that he was no better than a murderer. He looked at the 
 place where the ring had lately been, as though he half 
 expected to see there the blood-stain of which Hugo had 
 spoken. Then, suddenly remembering that by this time the 
 speaker's fate would have been decided he hastily sum- 
 moned one of his attendants. 
 
 " Have you heard aught of Mr. Wharncliffe ?" he Qsked, 
 not trying to conceal his anxiety. 
 
 It was well known, however, that the young tenor had 
 
IN HEE GOLDEN DAYS. 283 
 
 always been a favorite with the king, and the gentleman 
 showed no surprise. 
 
 " I heard at noon to-day, my liege, that he died as they 
 bore him back to Newgate," he replied. " But it was no 
 more than a rumor, and possibly ill-founded." 
 
 " I wish to know the truth," said Charles, hastily. " Lefc 
 inquiry be made at once, and bring me full particulars." 
 
 The messenger returned more speedily tham the king 
 expected. 
 
 " Tidings have this moment arrived, my liege, that the 
 report was false. Mr. Wharncliffe did but swoon as they 
 bore him back to the jail. His friend, Sir William Denham, 
 had brought to his assistance a noted leech, and he re- 
 covered the prisoner after a while. They say he may last 
 out the night, which will save the scandal of his dying on 
 the road." 
 
 " Then he is after all, dying ?" said the king, with keen 
 disappointment in his voice. " As well have died at once." 
 
 " Yes, my liege, they say he is dying past dispute ; but 
 'tis surely better that he should die in private, as it were. A 
 death on the road would provoke comment and give 
 scandal." 
 
 " Confound scandal !" said the king, angrily. " What is 
 that to me, when I would have the man alive not 
 dead? A fig for scandal! There, leave me! I would be 
 alone." 
 
 Hugo's words returned to him very bitterly : " My 
 God ! to think what power rests with one man !" 
 
 Power did in truth rest with him ! Would that it did 
 not! He hated his power just then, for he was keenly 
 conscious that he had abused it. Gladly, oh, how gladly, 
 would he at that moment have changed places with any of 
 his subjects. Once more it seemed to him that the white, 
 haggard face was raised to his with that passionate appeal 
 for mercy toward Sidney, or, rather for there had been 
 pride mingled with the request not for mercy, but merely 
 common justice. And what had he done? He had al- 
 lowed the noble petitioner, the man whom he knew to be 
 innocent, to be flogged to death, while the man who had 
 violated the law and desecrated justice he had sent away 
 with a special token of his royal favor. Should he even 
 yet save Sidney's life ? Should he make even now an ef- 
 fort to repair the horrible injustice which he had counte- 
 nanced and rewarded ? A strong desire for right took 
 possession of him, After a moment's thought he did 
 
284 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 the wisest thing he could have done, and sent a mes- 
 sage to Lord Halifax, desiring to speak with him. 
 
 Halifax was Sidney's nephew by marriage, and had for 
 some time been one of the ruling spirits of the day. He 
 was the head of those men in the state who were called 
 " Trimmers," but he himself was loath to be looked upon 
 as the head of any party, even of that which avoided all 
 extremes; for he disapproved of party altogether, and, 
 while disagreeing very much with his uncle's views, disap- 
 proved quite as much of the king's despotic rule. He was 
 a keen, clever, broad-minded man, and a man who invari- 
 ably sided with the persecuted. His interview with the 
 king was not long, but it was fruitful in results. 
 
 That evening, when Hugo lay dying in Newgate, and 
 Algernon Sidney in his cell in the Tower sat writing the 
 account of his mockery of a trial to the king, and praying 
 for an audience, Charlea himself was quietly stealing down 
 his back staircase, alone and unattended. Outside he found 
 in waiting a hackney-coach, and within it Lord Halifax, who 
 greeted him as though he were some ordinary friend, and, 
 bending forward, bade the coachman drive to the house of 
 one Major Long, in the city. The king spoke little, but he 
 looked eager and anxious, and from time to time glanced out 
 of the window of the coach to see what progress they were 
 making. Arriving at length at Major Long's house, they 
 were ushered into a large room hung with tapestry and dimly 
 lighted by wax candles, the king made Halifax go first, 
 and kept his own face wrapped in a muffler until the serv- 
 ant who had admitted them was out of sight, then he 
 tossed it impatiently aside, and crossing the room, which 
 was empty, stood before the fire, the look of impatient 
 anxiety in his face deepening every moment. 
 
 " Is this the way for a son to treat a father ?" he 
 exclaimed at last, turning angrily to Halifax. " I did 
 wrong in coming here ; I compromise my dignity. Doth 
 he keep me wating as though I were some churl ?" 
 
 " My liege, believe me, the duke is entirely repentant," 
 said fiord Halifax. " But doubtless he dreads the meet- 
 ing, fearing your displeasure. And for your dignity, my 
 liege, methinks it will not be compromised by going half- 
 way to meet the erring one, like him we read of in the 
 Scriptures." 
 
 As he spoke the door opened and there entered a young 
 man, negligently dressed in a suit of shabby black velvet. 
 He was the prodigal in question, Charles's favorite son, 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 285 
 
 the Duke of Monmouth, who, having compromised himself 
 several times by countenancing insignificant and unsuc- 
 cessful plots, was now in hiding in the city, having con- 
 trived to escape when the news of the Eye-House plot 
 was first published. His face, though a trifie too broad 
 for its length, was strikingly handsome, the dark eyes were 
 large and liquid, the contour of the cheeks beautiful as a 
 woman's. But although his appearance, combined with 
 the unmistakable Stuart charm of manner, precisely fitted 
 him for the role of popular idol, he was altogether lacking 
 in the manliness, the self-reliance, and the dogged per- 
 severance which must characterize a popular leader. 
 
 Lord Halifax looked uneasily from one to the other. 
 Upon the king's brow stern displeasure strove hard to sub- 
 due the tenderer feelings which were at once excited by 
 the sight of his favorite, while Monmouth, though ex- 
 tremely fond of his father, seemed little inclined at that 
 moment to own himself in the wrong, or humbly to sue 
 for forgiveness. The peace-maker, like all peace-mak- 
 ers, had an anxious time of it, particularly as he was natu- 
 rally unable to take any part in the interview, and could 
 only view it from a discreet distance. He knew how much 
 depended on its results, and waited in breathless suspense, 
 while the king, with great severity, yet with the air of a 
 father, reproached the duke for consorting with men who 
 were known to be hostile to him, and for taking counsel 
 with those who must in the end prove his ruin. Finally 
 he offered him a free pardon, provided that he would in all 
 things submit without reserve to the royal pleasure. 
 
 Monmouth seemed to waver ; an impulse seized him to 
 fling himself at his father's feet, and make a comfortable 
 ending of his exile and disgrace, but a second impulse re- 
 strained him ; he swayed to and fro, not knowing what 
 course to take. And thus in uncertainty the interview 
 ended, Charles, however, showing him such marked affec- 
 tion on leaving, that Halifax greatly hoped his mission 
 would, after all, prove successful. 
 
 Making haste to follow up his advantage, he re- 
 turned later in the evening, and after much per- 
 suasion induced Monmouth to write a penitent letter 
 to the king. One by one he forced out the reluct- 
 ant admissions regret for all his past offences, a 
 petition that he might not be put upon his trial or sent 
 to prison, a request for advice as to how he might best ap- 
 pease the wrath of the Duke of York, and, finally a politic 
 
286 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 sentence which cost Halifax a{ least half an hour's argu- 
 ment with the reluctant scribe : " I throw myself at the 
 feet of your majesty, to be disposed of as your majesty 
 shall direct for the remainder of my life." 
 
 Having extorted this much, Halifax was content, and went 
 away wearied, yet not ill-satisfied with his evening's work. 
 He had not calculated, however, on the man with whom he 
 had to deal, nor did he in the least understand the strange 
 mixture of nobility and weakness, impulsiveness and gene- 
 rosity, love of peace and impatience of evil, which charac- 
 terized the youug duke. 
 
 As he passed down Newgate Street the sight of a pri- 
 vate coach at the main entrance, and the somewhat un- 
 usual spectacle of a lady being escorted into the jail, made 
 him pause for an instant. He looked after the retreating 
 forms, then he glanced at the livery of the serving- rnaii 
 and at the device upon the coach-door. Notwithstanding 
 the uncertain light of his torch, he saw enough to convince 
 him that the arms emblazoned on the panel were the Den- 
 ham arms. 
 
 " They go to bid farewell to that poor victim of Jeff- 
 reys'," he said to himself, and with that he sighed and fell 
 into a painful reverie. 
 
 In the meantime Sir William led Mary through the dis- 
 mal passages in the great prison. Their admittance at 
 such an hour was a great privilege, but now that Hugo's 
 sentence had been carried out, now that the work for 
 which he had been needed had perforce been carried 
 through without his aid, the prison authorities were quite 
 willing to grant some slight indulgence to one whom they 
 knew to have b<;en grossly ill-treated. All was over now, 
 the victim had but a few more hours to live ; they were 
 willing to gratify his dying wishes. 
 
 " He has been asking for you all the evening," said Sir 
 William. " Your name is the only one that hath passed 
 his lips. And perhaps you, with your woman's skill, may 
 be able to do more for his comfort, poor lad, than we 
 rough men-folk." 
 
 This had passed in the coach, as they drove from Nor- 
 folk Street to the jail. 
 
 " I am glad you summoned me, sir," said Mary, grate- 
 fully, and there was a tremor in her voice which did not 
 escape her uncle's notice. 
 
 " My dear niece," he said, taking her hand in the dark- 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 287 
 
 ness, "hath aught passed betwixt you and Hugo? Have 
 there been love-passages betwixt you, my dear ?" 
 
 "Never, uncle," she said, resolutely; "but he hath ever 
 counted me as his sister, so much so as to make me the 
 confidante of his troubles. For you must know that he 
 loves a maiden whom I must not name to you. But, me- 
 thinks, I have not broken trust by telling you thus 
 much." 
 
 " I would he had loved thee," said Sir William. " An 
 thou hadst been betrothed to him, it would have been less 
 like to cause scandal that I bring thee to visit him thus. 
 Art prepared for that, my love ? Folks credit not such 
 friendships as thine in these evil days." 
 
 The hot blood rushed to her cheeks and the tears to her 
 eyes. She knew that her uncle spoke the truth ; she knew, 
 moreover, that Hugo had asked for her just because she 
 was the one medium of communication between himsell 
 and Joyce. Well, at least she could be to him that medium. 
 At least, she could bring him a comfort which no ono else 
 could bring. Angrily, and almost contemptuously, she 
 strangled the thoughts of self which had arisen, and 
 turned instead to the two whom she had schooled herself 
 always to think of together Hugo and Joyce. For Joyce, 
 whom she had never seen, had become to her a very real 
 person ; she had loved her when she had only guessed 
 that Hugo loved her ; she had sympathized with her 
 through the long months of that sad autumn, and had 
 gladly forwarded Hugo's letter to her on the previous 
 day. " She had, indeed, learned to think so much of her 
 that, as she walked along the dreary prison corridors, it 
 was no thought of herself which filled her heart with sor- 
 row and her eyes with tears ; neither was it any thought 
 of Hugo. It was the thought of that other, who would so 
 fain have been in her position of the unknown Joyce, far 
 away in the old Suffolk hall, who would not so much as 
 know that her lover was dying. 
 
 They had mounted some tedious nights of stairs, and 
 now the jailer paused before a narrow door, and softly 
 opened it. Mary glanced hastily round. It seemed to 
 her a most wretched little room, almost full of people, but 
 for Newgate it was princely accommodation. For Scroop 
 had taken care that the prisoner should not be taken back 
 to his old quarters in the Common Debtors' Ward ; but 
 determined that he should at least die in peace, had borne 
 him to his old room, for which, upon his entrance, he had 
 
288 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 paid so heavy a fee. Bampfield and Griffith stood beside 
 his bed, and, in carious contrast to the two aged ministers, 
 Eupert Denham, in his usual many-colored raiment, and 
 the richly dressed leech. At their approach Rupert turned, 
 and, drawing back from the bedside, made room for Mary. 
 
 Then, for the first time, she caught sight of Hugo ; for 
 the first time since that May morning when he had come 
 to tell them about his visit to Penshurst, and to claim their 
 pity for himself on account of that visit to Longbridge 
 Hall which he had so greatly dreaded. She remembered 
 how they had managed to cheer him, and had sent him 
 off laughing. His face - young, fresh, and healthful rose 
 before her. Was it possible that could be Hugo this 
 man with lines of care on his brow, with lines of pain 
 round his mouth, with a face so white, so changed, so 
 deathly? Ah! what had they been doing to him to 
 change him. thus? 
 
 A passion of love and pity seemed to fill her whole be- 
 ing, and to crowd out every other thought. She was 
 vaguely conscious all the time that old Jeremiah sat at the 
 head of the bed, holding his young master in his arms, but 
 for the other spectators she had no thought as she knelt 
 beside him, bent down close to him, and called him by 
 name. There was no answer, however, and she heard a 
 whisper from the leech which seemed to pierce her heart 
 like a sword-thrust : 
 
 " Past speaking, I fear. Sinking fast. " 
 
 "Hugo, Hugo!" she cried, in an agony, "I am come to 
 you, Hugo ! I have sent your letter to Joyce !" 
 
 His eyelids seemed to quiver a little, and Mary instinc- 
 tively knew what spell had brought him back to life. 
 
 " I have sent your letter to Joyce," she repeated. 
 
 The great grey eyes were open now, not dreamily peace- 
 ful as of old, but bright with pain, and at the same time 
 eagerly wistful. 
 
 "Have you no message to send to her?" asked Mary. 
 " The poor child, you would not leave her with no comfort 
 rito last word." 
 
 He seemed to make a great effort, in obedience to her 
 request. 
 
 " Tell her," he whispered, faintly, " that it was for her, 
 and therefore sweet." 
 
 " What was sweet ?" 
 
 " To die." 
 
 The words were more breathed than spoken. 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 289 
 
 "Nay," said Mary, "but you must live for her,not die,Hugo." 
 She glanced quickly at the leech, who placed in her hands 
 a cup containing soire strong restorative, and Hugo, who 
 had refused or had been unable to swallow it before, now 
 obeyed mechanically, while Mary talked on soothingly as 
 though he had been a child. " You will take it for her 
 sake, will you not, Hugo ? You would not grieve her by 
 dying, you know; you will struggle hard to live, just for 
 her. She is so young so young to be left to such sorrow. 
 You will get better, and then you will write to her. Trust 
 me, I will send your letters." 
 
 " I don't understand," he said, pitifully, but with more 
 strength in his voice. "I can do naught for her here. 
 'Tis all over. Let me die." 
 
 " That will I not," she said, resolutely. " You can not 
 understand, Hugo, but you must trust me. Some more 
 cordial. There! Now you must sleep. For her sake, you 
 know; for her sake." 
 
 She kept passing her fingers rhythmically through his 
 hair from front to back. She was kneeling upright now, 
 that she might have more power ; she did not understand 
 why it was, but this apparently mechanical action seemed 
 to make vast demands on her strength. No one interfered 
 with her ; they had all tried their best with the patient, 
 and had failed ; they watched with a sort of curiosity, 
 glancing now at the pale, resolute, absorbed face of the 
 girl, now at the calm face on the pillow. Presently they 
 saw, to their surprise, that Hugo had fallen asleep like a 
 child. His nurse rose then ; she looked worn out and ex- 
 hausted, and there were dark shadows beneath her eyes. 
 She laid her hand on Eupert's arm. 
 
 " Take me home, please, cousin, take me home," she 
 said, with, again, that irrepressible quiver in her voice. 
 
 And Eupert silently obeyed. 
 
 The leech looked after her curiously as she left the 
 room. She had succeeded where he had failed. He knew 
 well enough that the patient owed his life to her. 
 
290 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 THE SEVENTH OF DECEMBEK. 
 
 There is no murder which history has recorded of Caesar 
 Borgia exceeds in violence or in fraud that by which Charles 
 took away the life of the gallant and patriotic Sidney. 
 
 LORD JOHN RUSSELL. 
 
 IT was many days before Hugo was capable of thinking 
 clearly. Life was a kind of vague pain. His shoulders 
 were so cruelly torn and lacerated that the slightest move- 
 ment, even the action of breathing, was torture, while the 
 exposure to the raw cold of the November day had brought 
 back his old enemy, the ague. He was as ill as he well 
 could be, but alive, and likely to live. Every one dinned 
 this continually in his ears, and he did not feel grateful to 
 them, though doing his best to feel glad that they were 
 glad. 
 
 Often, as he lay there in his weakness, he would try to 
 call up in vision that 21st of November. But he never 
 could recall it clearly, for, happily for human beings, phys- 
 ical pain can not be very \ividly recalled, but is dimmed 
 and blurred by the passage of time. He had only the 
 vaguest recollections of great suffering, though one or two 
 trivial incidents were indelibly stamped upon his brain. He 
 remembered noticing a holly tree in the Oxford Road, 
 laden with red berries; he remembered the pitying face of 
 a child; he remembered how, just at the end of that awful 
 journey, when Tyburn was in sight, he had heard a robin 
 singing among the bushes by the roadside. And, most 
 vividly, he could recall the comforting presence of old Jere- 
 miah. Thinking it all over one day, he began to wonder 
 how Jerry had learned of his fate; how he had persuaded 
 Randolph to allow him to come to the prison. Had Lis 
 brother some lingering love for him, after all ? Had he, 
 perhaps, sent the old serving-man, though he would not 
 come himself ? He turned round with almost the first volun- 
 tary question he had put since his illness. The old soldier 
 sat beside him, as usual; indeed, he almost lived with him, 
 being the last visitor to leave Newgate at night and the first 
 to arrive in the morning. 
 
 " Did my brother send you ?" he asked, faintly. 
 
 "No, dear lad," said Jeremiah, "he sent me not ; I am 
 no longer in his service," 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 291 
 
 It was a bitter disappointment. Hugo kept silence for 
 some time. Then the consciousness of Jerry's devotion 
 began to comfort him again, and, thinking of the old ser- 
 vant, he turned hastily with a second question. 
 
 " Why did you quit his service ? Was it for me, Jerry, 
 for me ?" 
 
 "Ay, dear lad," said Jeremiah, quietly. "What else 
 would you have ? I did but stay with him till they would 
 let me come to thee here. I will call no one master save 
 thee." 
 
 " A sorry master," said Hugo, with the ghost of a smile 
 flitting across his haggard face. "A master who will 
 end his days in jail, and who has no power of giving -wages. 
 An unprofitable service, Jerry. I am a bad investment." 
 
 Then, seeing the doubtful, bewildered look on the old 
 man's face, he changed his tone, and, taking the rough 
 hand, clasped it fast in both of his. "God bless you for it, 
 Jerry ; God bless you !" 
 
 That was all that ever passed between them on the sub- 
 ject, neither of them being men of many words. 
 
 Mary and Sir William had visited him daily, but it was 
 not until the afternoon when he had had the above con- 
 versation with Jeremiah that he took very much note of 
 their presence or attempted to talk to them. He was now 
 much more himself, and welcomed them with some show 
 of eagerness. Then, when Sir William was engaged in 
 conversation with Bampfield he, for the first time, asked 
 Mary about his other letter. 
 
 "You have said naught of Colonel Sidney," he said, 
 quietly. " You sent him my letter ?" 
 
 " Yes," said Mary, " Ducasse gave it to him that very day." 
 " Do not fear to tell me the worst," said Hugo, gently. 
 " The trial went against him, did it not?" 
 She signed an assent. 
 
 "The king told me his fate was sealed," said Hugo. 
 " When is it to to " he broke off, unable to frame the 
 words. 
 
 " That is not yet certain ; no warrant has been issued as 
 yet ; and, Hugo, I hardly know whether I ought to say it, 
 but we heard it rumored that the king seemed to waver 
 after receiving Colonel Sidney's account of the trial. 
 They say, too, that the pardon of the Duke of Monmouth 
 may have some bearing upon Colonel Sidney's case." 
 " What ! the duke pardoned ?" exclaimed Hugo. 
 "Ay, he was at Whitehall not many days since," said 
 
292 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 Mary. " And they say lie hath made full confession and 
 hath told the king all that he knew of the conspiracy. He 
 saw the king and the Duke of York, and hath received his 
 pardon under the great seal. Moreover, we heard it from 
 one high in authority, whom, however, I must not name, 
 that the king had given him six thousand pounds, and had 
 taken him once more into favor." 
 
 " What does that bode ?" said Hugo, musingly. " I 
 should not have thought the duke would have turned 
 informer. " 
 
 " That is what no one will believe," replied Mary ; " and 
 they say that lie goes about everywhere dropping hints 
 that he said naught to the king which would criminate 
 any of those brought up for trial. And this having reached 
 the king's ears, he is very angry with him again, and they 
 say he insists that the duke shall write and sign a state- 
 ment confirming all that passed in the interview." 
 
 " You have brought me hope," said Hugo, gratefully ; 
 " you have made me better already." 
 
 " There is one thing more I must tell you," said Mary, 
 with a happy light in her eyes. "That same one whom I 
 mentioned to you told us also that he believed your inter- 
 view with the king had much to do with his hesitation 
 about Colonel Sidney, that and your your illness." 
 
 They were both of them young and hopeful ; they thought 
 tliat immediately the good would be brought out of the 
 evil ; they thought they should see of the travail of their 
 souls, and be satisfied here and now. But the very next 
 day there came a sharp reverse. Whigs and Tories alike 
 were startled and shocked when the warrant was issued, 
 " contrary to all men's expectations," for the execution of 
 Algernon Sidney. They hesitated at first to tell the ill 
 news to Hugo, but at length Sir William bade his niece 
 break the tidings to him as gently as might be. It was 
 hard work, and yet she was glad that they had chosen her 
 for the task. 
 
 It was a bitterly cold winter's morning, and she had 
 brought with her to the prison all manner of wraps for the 
 invalid, from Lady Denham ; she talked as long as she 
 could about trivial matters, deferring the evil day. But 
 such little expedients are of no use between friends. 
 Hugo instantly perceived how matters were. 
 
 " You have something to tell me ?" he said, quietly. 
 
 " We hoped too soon, Hugo," she replied, in a choked 
 voice. 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 293 
 
 " The warrant is issued ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "What day?" 
 
 " The 7th day of December." 
 
 " Friday," said Hugo, musingly. * ' A fit day for one who 
 dies for the people." Then shuddering, and with a look of 
 horror in his eyes, " It will not be the worst way, will it ?'' 
 
 " No, no," she replied, quickly. " They will spare him 
 that. He will be beheaded." 
 
 "Oh, God," he cried, " if I could but be with him ! 'Tis 
 hard, 'tis hard, that the wretchedest beggar in London 
 may look his last on him while I lie here in jail!" 
 
 He turned faint, and Mary had as much as she could do 
 to recover him, Bampfield assisting her, and speaking- 
 kindly words, which comforted her afterward more than at 
 the time. Presently, when Hugo was himself again, he 
 turned to her with another question. 
 
 "What of the Duke of Monmouth?" 
 
 "We have heard from the same source that he did 
 write the letter which the king demanded, but wrote it 
 evasively; that the king demanded a plain and unmistak- 
 able statement, and that, after great hesitation, he at 
 length wrote and signed it, but had no sooner done so 
 than he hurried to Whitehall, overwhelmed with shame 
 and horror at what he had done, and pleaded passionately 
 with the king to restore him the paper. The king, after 
 long expostulation, induced him to sleep upon the matter, 
 but the next morning the duke returned with his request, 
 and the king restored the paper to him, but the lord 
 chamberlain sent him word that he was never again to 
 come into the royal presence. They say, the dnke being 
 much grieved at, his father's severity, his wife persuaded 
 him again to sign a paper with the information which the 
 king desired, but his majesty at once refused to entertain 
 the proposal, and it is thought that he will persevere in 
 his intention of never again seeing the duke." 
 
 " And it was after this that the warrant was issued ?" 
 asked Hugo. 
 
 "Yes; the king, being wroth at hearing how Monmouth's 
 friends were everywhere saving how he had not criminated 
 any one by his statement, said that, did he pardon Colonel 
 Sidney, he should be countenancing these said reports 
 Ducasse was at our house this morning. " 
 
 "Ah!" Hugo's face lighted up "what said he of his 
 master?" 
 
294 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 " That lie was busy writing a short account of his life, 
 and that lie asked often after you, and would write to you; 
 that he rejoiced to hear that you were likely to live." 
 
 " And how took he the ill news?" 
 
 " Ducasse was with him when the sheriffs arrived at the 
 Tower. He said his master was surprised, having thought, 
 like every one else, that it was impossible the king would 
 allow such a mockery of a trial to pass. But when they 
 handed him the paper he read it through with an unmoved 
 face, for all the world as though it had been a playbill, 
 with details of some mock tragedy. And when he had 
 ended he turned to the sheriffs, and said to them that he 
 would not say one word to them on his own behalf, seeing 
 that he was ready to die and that the world was naught to 
 him; but very sternly he called to their remembrance how 
 grievously they had sinned against the people of this land, 
 in packing a jury, and in causing their office to be evil 
 spoken of by acting thus with injustice and servility. 
 
 " That was like him," said Hugo, in a low voice. " It 
 was ever the ' people ' with him ' self/ never." 
 
 " And Ducasse says," continued Mary, " that the sheriffs 
 looked blank enough, as though they were pricked at heart, 
 and one of them fairly burst into tears." 
 
 Shortly after Sir William came to fetch his niece home, 
 and seeing that Hugo had talked already more than he 
 ought to have done, and was like to talk so long as she re- 
 mained, she thought it best to leave the jail as soon as 
 might be. 
 
 " Uncle," she said, as they drove back to Norfolk Street, 
 " shall you go to be present at Colonel Sidney's death ?" 
 
 " No, my love," said Sir William, with a shudder. " I 
 am over old for such horrors. My God ! How comes his 
 majesty to permit such an injustice!". And Sir William, 
 staunch Tory as he was, broke into a passionate denuncia- 
 tion of the wrong that had been wrought. 
 
 Arrived at the house, Mary hastily sought her cousin. 
 
 " Rupert," she said, " are you going to Tower Hill next 
 Friday?" 
 
 " Not I," he replied, with an oath and an irrepressible 
 shudder. " I have no taste for death-scenes, least of all 
 for public ones." 
 
 She said no more, but shut herself into the parlor and 
 tried to think out the pros and cons of the idea that had 
 come to her. 
 
 Hugo longed to be present at the last with his fiiend 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 295 
 
 and teacher, but lay helpless in jail. He would wish to 
 hear from a faithful eye-witness all that passed. Yet more 
 he ought to be told carefully, lovingly, not coarsely and 
 brutally, by some prison official or some chance visitor. 
 Her uncle would not go, her cousin would not go should 
 she ah ! horrible idea ! could she possibly go herself ? 
 The mere thought sickened her. And yet, was she to think 
 of her own feelings where Hugo was concerned ? Was she 
 to be conquered by the mere horror of a frightful sight, or 
 dismayed by the thought that people might blame her, 
 mistaking her motive ? She was not much in the habit of 
 consulting other people, being of an independent nature, 
 and having always been obliged to think for herself, since 
 Lady Denham was a semi-invalid, Sir "William absorbed in 
 scientific matters, and Rupert the last person in the world 
 to give help or advice in any difficulty. So, after much in- 
 ward debate, she rang the bell and summoned old Thomas, 
 the butler. 
 
 " Thomas," she said, bidding him close the door behind 
 him, " did you not tell me you had a kinswoman kept a 
 house on Tower Hill ?" 
 
 " Ay, Mistress Mary. 'Tis my cousin by marriage, and 
 a very worthy dame, too; her husband is a vintner in a 
 small way." 
 
 " Ask her, then, if "you may bring me to her house on 
 Friday morning," said Mary. "Tell her that I have 
 special reasons for desiring to see Mr. Sidney once more 
 as he passes to his death." 
 
 The old servant seemed about to make some remon- 
 strance, but on second thought he checked, himself, and 
 without any comment, promised to do as his young mis- 
 tress wished. The deed thus done, the step irrevocably 
 taken, poor Mary underwent a sharp reaction, and awaited 
 the day with dread and shrinking unspeakable. 
 
 It came at length a fresh, bright December day. Very 
 early almost as soon as it was light Mary got into a 
 sedan-chair, and, with Thomas in attendance, they made 
 their way through the streets, having agreed that it was 
 best to reach their destination before the crowd of specta- 
 tors should have assembled; indeed, when they reached 
 Grower Hill there was scarcely a soul about, only a few 
 street boys gaping up with awestruck faces at the scaffold, 
 which some workmen were draping with black cloth. 
 Thomas led the way into a respectable-looking house, 
 where a bustling housewife, with a round, rosy face, came 
 
296 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 out to receive them, courtesying low, and smiling with a 
 bland hospitality which seemed out of keeping with the 
 day. 
 
 " 'Tis the best house on all Tower Hill for the sight," 
 she said, cheerfully, smoothing her apron as she spoke. 
 " Many's the party that come to me on execution days, and 
 many is the golden guinea that my windows have gained 
 me. Not but what I'm proud to do it for Sir William 
 Denham's family just out of respect, and taking no account 
 of payment." 
 
 " No, that must not be," said Mary, pressing a gold 
 coin into the good woman's hand. " But yet, for the love 
 you bear my uncle's family, I will ask you as a favor, let 
 no one else come into the room whence I am to look forth." 
 
 The buxom housewife smiled and promised, conducting 
 the visitor, as she spoke, to a little disused room full of 
 apples stored on long wooden shelves round the walls. 
 
 " This is a poor place, madame, but I assure you the best 
 view of the scaffold. You'll hear every w r ord that passes 
 from here !" and with that the worthy dame threw open 
 the window, and was proceeding to tell Mary of all the 
 executions she had witnessed from this particular spot, 
 when a knock below made her hastily withdraw. 
 
 " More spectators, I warrant," she remarked, with satis- 
 faction. " But I will mind and not let them disturb you, 
 mistress." 
 
 Mary thanked her, but took the precaution of bolting 
 the door as soon as she was out of hearing. Then she knelt 
 down and tried to prepare for the morning that awaited 
 her. After a while, when she had gained the mastery of 
 herself and was quite calm and composed she went to the 
 window and looked forth. By this time an immense crowd 
 had gathered in the open space around the scaffold; she 
 could hear the sound of many voices rising up; a meaning- 
 less and ceaseless roar which seemed to throb against her 
 ears with every now and then more emphatic pulsations. 
 
 (gradually the throng grew thicker and denser, and 
 every window, and even the roofs and chimneys of 
 the houses were crammed with eager onlookers. And 
 now the church clocks struck ten, and Mary observed 
 a sort of a movement in the huge, swaying mass of 
 heads below ; she glanced at the scaffold, and saw that 
 the executioner has just arrived, and stood confronting the 
 people with his black half-mask, and the ax grasped in his 
 right hand. She heard some one below say the sheriffs 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 297 
 
 had gone to the Tower, and that " it " would be soo::. 
 Then came a waiting which, though in reality short, 
 seemed like an eternity. Mary knelt at the window, her 
 elbows on the sill, her hands tightly clasped, her eyes fixed 
 on the most distant point of the narrow gangway, the 
 point where she knew that ere long Sidney would appear. 
 At length came a second movement of the heads below, a 
 vibration seemed to thrill through the dense crowd, the 
 word was passed from one to another that the prisoner was 
 coming. Mary's breath came fast and her heart throbbed 
 painfully as the familiar figure turned the corner, and 
 advanced along the narrow pathway between the people. 
 
 He had walked on foot from the Tower, the sheriffs on 
 either side of him, while close to him was his faithful valet 
 Ducasse, and an old family servant of whom he was fond. 
 They were the sole friends for whose presence he had peti- 
 tioned, nor would he have priest or minister to attend him 
 in his last moments. Had it not been for the grave sheriffs 
 and the sorrowing servants, Mary could have fancied that 
 he was but taking an ordinary walk, so tranquil and un- 
 moved was his face, so natural his mien. Many a time she 
 had seen him enter her uncle's house with a look of care, 
 and with the gait of an elderly man, to-day he looked young 
 and alert, full of life and yet indifferent to death, the centre 
 and chief attraction of that huge assembly, but apparently 
 the least concerned individual in the throng. 
 
 Never once did he speak to his companions ; he had 
 ceased to think of individuals at all, he had ceased even to 
 think of himself, he thought of God of God and the peo- 
 ple. That vast crowd which had gathered together to gaze 
 at his last sufferings did not in the least disturb his peace. 
 The publicity could no longer gall him, since the thought 
 of his own individuality had been lost and merged in 
 something higher. Steadily, briskly, he walked on until 
 lie reached the scaffold the dreary looking scaffold, with 
 its mournful hangings, its floor and staircase covered with 
 black. As his foot touched the first step he paused, his 
 other foot resting for the last time on the fair, beautiful 
 earth which he was leaving forever. The thought of self 
 returned, he glanced up the narrow black stairs, right up 
 to the clear blue December sky. 
 
 The People and Death ! Ay, he, Algernon Sidney he, 
 spite of his sins and shortcomings and manifold failures, 
 was to die for them for them and their liberties. It was 
 well. He raised his eyes to heaven in silent thanksgiving. 
 
298 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 Then, with his usual calm dignity, his usual slightly aus- 
 tere manner, he quietly walked up the stairway, glanced 
 with stoical indifference at the black coffin, and, making 
 his way to the block, stood silently watching the people 
 below. 
 
 There was a breathless silence a silence which might 
 be felt. Was he about to address the assembly ? No, that 
 could hardly be, for he raised his voice scarcely above 
 its ordinary tone. So clear and distinct were his refined 
 accents, however, that every word reached Mary Denham. 
 
 "I have made my peace with God, and have nothing to 
 say to men ; but here is a paper of what I have to say." 
 
 With this he handed a packet to the sheriff who asked 
 whether he would not read it to the crowd or have it read. 
 But Sidney, weakened by long imprisonment, and feeling 
 the keen December air after such close confinement, de- 
 clined. 
 
 " No," he replied. " But if you will not take it, I will 
 tear it." 
 
 " Is the paper written in your handwriting ? " asked the 
 sheriff. 
 
 " Yes," replied Sidney. 
 
 After that the sheriff consented to take the paper, and 
 Sidney, turning to Ducasse, placed in his hand another 
 paper, and bade him farewell, kindly, but with no effusion. 
 The valet had not been so long in the republican's service 
 without learning to control his emotional French nature. 
 Lovingly but silently he received his master's hat, coat, and 
 doublet, nor allowed the tears to start to his eyes until Sid- 
 ney had turned from him to the executioner. 
 
 " I am ready to die, I will give you no further trouble," 
 he said, and, holding out his hand, proffered the execu- 
 tioner three guineas, it being the custom in those days that 
 people should pay for the trouble they gave in having their 
 heads cut off. The executioner chinked the gold in his 
 \and with a discontented air. 
 
 "I looked for more than this from your honor; an earl'^ 
 son v might have come down with more than a paltry three 
 guineas." 
 
 A slightly sarcastic expression stole over Sidney's face, 
 but he turned to his valet. 
 
 " Joseph, my friend, give the fellow another guinea or 
 two," he said. 
 
 Then, while Ducasse produced the money and handed it 
 to the headsman, Sidney knelt down and said a prayer "as 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 299 
 
 short as a grace." When lie uncovered bis face Mary no- 
 ticed that it bore a calm, happy smile, and, without one 
 other word, he laid his head on the block and awaited the 
 end. 
 
 The executioner drew near with raised ax. 
 " Are you ready, sir?" he cried. " Shall you rise again ?" 
 And the serene smile grew brighter, as, with firm voice, 
 Sidney replied, "Not till the general resurrection. Strike 
 on!" ' 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 "LOVE is LORD OF ALL." 
 
 Passion grounded upon confession of excellence outlives hope. 
 . . . For that same love for which God created and beautified the 
 world is the only means for us to return unto Him who is the 
 fountain of our being; and through the imperfections of our 
 natures being not able to see or comprehend His greatness and 
 goodness, otherwise than by his works, must make us from vis- 
 ible things to raise our thoughts up to him. ALGERNON SIDNEY. 
 
 GRIFFITH had been moved to write a sermon that morn- 
 ing, and sat at the further end of the room with his ink- 
 horn and papers, Bampfield read to himself, breaking off 
 occasionally to stir the soup which was simmering over 
 the fire, and Hugo, after a sleepless night, lay idly watch- 
 ing the two old men, though his thoughts were far away. 
 Ah, had he but been free he might have been with his 
 friend to the last, might have walked with him from his 
 prison, might have stood beside him on the scaffold. He 
 could never again serve him nay, he had scarcely served 
 him at all, for those weary months in the prison had been 
 wasted so far as he was concerned and now hope was over, 
 injustice had triumphed, and his master was to be put to 
 death to be judicially murdered ! 
 
 He turned his face from the light in silent anguish, in 
 which he was, nevertheless, conscious of a certain relief 
 in the quiet of the cell, a certain gratitude to his two com- 
 panions for leaving him alone. But all at once the quiet 
 was broken and his sorrow rudely invaded. An ill-con- 
 dition prisoner named Matthew, whose duty it was to go 
 round the prison distributing the daily dole of bread which 
 was allowed to certain classes of prisoners, flung open the 
 door, and, having set down his loaf on the wooden bench 
 which served for table, crossed over to Hugo's bed. 
 
300 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 " Well," he exclaimed, with a horrible grin, as he rubbed 
 his grimy hands, " Mr. Sidney's d d head is off." 
 
 Bampfield, hastily interposing, tried in vain to check 
 the man, but he went on unheeding. 
 
 " Off at one blow, they say, except that the headsman 
 had to finish off just a trifle of skin with his knife." 
 
 At this, however, even Griffith was roused, and, stepping 
 quickly forward, he took the fellow by the shoulders and 
 turned him out of the cell. 
 
 " Take thy vain prating hence !" he said, with righteous 
 indignation ; then, with the anxiety of a doctor, turned 
 to see how it fared with his patient. 
 
 He had long ago ceased to judge Hugo harshly; spite of 
 himself, he had been won, and was now fain to admit that 
 even a man who was familiar with Whitehall, a man who wore 
 lace cravats and gay colors, might after all, be not wholly 
 a reprobate. But neither Dr. Griffith, with his good in- 
 tentions, nor Francis Bampfield, with his saintly love and 
 sympathy, could do much for their fellow-prisoner now. 
 The horrible words had all too vividly called up before 
 him tiie ghastly spectacle, had roused all those terrible 
 thoughts of death which are most repugnant to human 
 nature. Death had never before touched him nearly ; he 
 had almost died himself, it is true, but had been so worn 
 out with pain of mind and body that he had hailed death 
 as a deliverer. He could not do this in the case of his friend. 
 Death was to him only the destroyer, the cruel, merci- 
 less, irresistible destroyer. The brutal words had quenched 
 all higher thoughts, had brought before him only the mate- 
 rial view, with its blood and agony and sickening details. 
 He could only think of the eyes that had smiled on him 
 thus ; the lips that had kissed him thus ; the hand that 
 had clasped his thus. He broke into passionate weeping, 
 into an agony of sobbing, most dangerous in his present 
 state, as both the watchers knew, and yet neither the one 
 nor the other could say one word to check him. 
 
 At length, to their inexpressible relief, the door was un- 
 locked, and Scroop admitted Sir William Denham and 
 Mary. Instinctively the three men drew together, talking 
 in low voices of the event of the day, and leaving to the 
 woman the difficult the almost impossible task which 
 had baffled them. 
 
 She sat down beside the bed, making him aware of her 
 presence, but without speaking. Then after a while, when 
 she thought that, from sheer exhaustion, his sobs were 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 301 
 
 less violent, and that lie might listen to her voice, she said, 
 quietly and distinctly, 
 
 " It was not like death, Hugo, it was like a triumph." 
 
 With a strong effort he controlled himself, and, still 
 with averted face, asked, 
 
 "Who told you of it?" 
 
 " I was there," she answered, quietly, " there all the 
 time." 
 
 " You were there ! " he exclaimed turning toward her, 
 and, in his astonishment, forgetting for the moment all 
 else. 
 
 Was he shocked ? Mary wondered. Did he think she 
 had done an unwomanly thing ? Did he shrink from a girl 
 who could voluntarily go to see an execution ? A faint color 
 came into her face, her eyes filled. She said, falteringly, 
 and as if in excuse, words which she had never meant to 
 say : 
 
 " It was for you I went." 
 
 He caught her hand in his and pressed it to his lips. 
 But he did not thank her she was glad that he did not 
 in words. 
 
 " Tell me," he said, after a silence " tell me all." 
 
 " There can have been very little pain," she said, allowing 
 Hugo still to hold her hand in his. " It was all over so 
 quickly, and even the smile on his face was there afterward. 
 There was such a hush all through the crowd, and not one 
 soul stirred; all the folk standing by weeping quietly, 
 while Ducasse and the other servant laid his body rever- 
 ently in the coffin, and then bore it down to a coach which 
 was in waiting to take it to Penshurst. He wished much 
 to be buried at Penshurst, they say; for he loved the place 
 only the more that he had been so long exiled from it. 
 But, Hugo, I cannot think of him lying there dead. I 
 think of him as he looked just as he ascended the scaf- 
 fold. When he first came in sight, looking so indifferent, 
 so composed, I thought how like he must be to his favor- 
 ite hero, Marcus Brutus. But just as he mounted the 
 stairs he paused and looked up with a look on his face 
 that I can never describe to you- a look I never saw on 
 mortal face before, and it made me understand the words 
 we sing in church: 
 
 " ' The noble army of martyrs praise Thee.' " 
 
 She paused, thinking that the rest had, perhaps, better 
 wait for some other time. Hugo obediently took the wine 
 
302 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 which she held to his lips, but looked up presently with 
 an eager entreaty. 
 
 " Talk on/' he said, pleadingly ; " your voice comforts 
 me." 
 
 " Ducasse caught sight of me afterwards," said Mary, 
 yielding to his entreaty. " And he came and spoke to me, 
 poor fellow. Almost the last thing I had seen Colonel 
 Sidney do before he laid aside his hat and doublet was to 
 place a paper in his man's hand, and speak a few words to 
 him, which I could not hear. And that paper, Hugo, was 
 for you Ducasse gave it me." 
 
 She took from her pocket a letter, directed to Hugo in 
 Sidney's large, bold handwriting. Hugo eagerly unfolded 
 it, but the moment he tried to read his head swam, and he 
 was forced to ask Mary to read it to him. The letter ran 
 as follows : 
 
 "My DEAR FRIEND, I had well-nigh said my son, seeing that 
 of late you have been to me as son to father. I have but a short 
 time left to me in this world, and have many matters to order 
 and arrange, but you shall stand second to none, and I will write 
 you while yet time remains to me. And first, to thank you for 
 your loving silence, for your firm constancy. I rejoice that your 
 life is like to be spared, and that I can hope and pray as I do 
 most fervently that you may be spared to work for the old 
 cause when I am no more. You "will have heard of my trial ere 
 this. The lord chief-justice is said to have bragged unto the 
 king that no man in his place had ever rendered unto any king 
 of England such services as he had done in procuring my death. 
 In truth, he overruled eight or ten very important points of law, 
 and decided them without hearing, whereby the law itself was 
 made a snare which no man could avoid, nor have any security 
 for his life or fortune, if one vile wretch could be found to swear 
 against him such circumstances as he required. God only knows 
 what will be the issue of the like practice in these our days. 
 Perhaps He will in mercy speedily visit His afflicted people. I 
 die in the faith that He will do it, though I know not the time 
 or ways. 
 
 " I believe that the people of God in England have, in these 
 late^years, generally grown faint. Some, through fear, have de- 
 flected from the integrity of their principles. Some have too 
 deeply plunged themselves in worldly cares, and, so they might 
 enjoy their trades and wealth, have less regarded the treasure 
 that is laid up in heaven. But I think there are very many who 
 have kept their garments unspotted ; and hope that God will 
 deliver them and the nation for their sakes. God will not suffer 
 this land, where the Gospel hath of late flourished more than in 
 any part of the world, to become a slave of the world ; He will 
 not suffer it to be made a land of graven images, He will stir up 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 303 
 
 witnesses of the truth, and, in His own time, spirit His people to 
 stand up for his cause, and deliver them, I live in- this belief, 
 and am now about to die in it. I know that my Kedeemer 
 liveth ; and, as He hath in a great measure upheld me in the day 
 of my calamity, hope that He will still uphold me by His Spirit 
 in this last moment, and give me grace to glorify Him in my 
 death. 
 
 "For, in truth, Hugo, I hold it a great honor that God hath 
 permitted me to be singled out as a witness of His truth, and 
 even by the confession of my opposers for that, good old cause 
 in which I was from my youth engaged, and for which God hath 
 often and wonderfully declared Himself. 
 
 "Farewell, dear lad, keep a brave heart in your prison, make 
 the spirit triumph over the flesh, and may God grant you at 
 length your liberty, that you may the better serve Him. What- 
 ever betide whether in prison or at large keep the words of 
 our motto graven on your heart, ' Sanctus amor patrice dat ani- 
 mum.' " Your most faithful friend, 
 
 "AL. SIDNEY." 
 
 When the letter was ended Mary once more told him 
 everything that passed that morning, describing all simply 
 and truthfully, so that he knew she* kept nothing back 
 from him, and was satisfied. The violence of his grief was 
 over; he was quite calm now, only unspeakably weary and sad. 
 
 " After all," he said just before Mary left him, " I too 
 may follow ere long. The scaffold is not the only way to 
 death." 
 
 " You forget," she said, in a low voice " you forget one 
 who needs you, one who wearies for your coming. Do not 
 speak of dying; you must live for Joyce." 
 
 " You do not understand," he said. " That is all over. 
 I have bid her to be free and to think of me no more. 
 What right have I to blight her life, I who must live for- 
 ever in this hellish Newgate ?" 
 
 She would have replied, but at that moment Sir William 
 drew near. 
 
 " My dear," he said, in his kindly voice " my dear, I do 
 not wish to rob Hugo of his nurse, but you look to me 
 overwrought and weary; I think you had better come 
 home." 
 
 Hugo looked up ; even his troubles had not made him 
 very observant ; now, for the first time, he looked search- 
 ingly in Mary's face. Her brilliant color had faded, there 
 were dark shadows below her eyes, effort was written upon 
 her once serene brow, and exhaustion upon her pale lips. 
 As Sir William spoke her head drooped a little, but she 
 made no remonstrance. 
 
304 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 " God bless you for what you have done !" cried Hugo, 
 and again he caught her hand in his ; then, turning to Sir 
 William, "She is the best of comforters the best!" 
 
 Sir William was quite right. Mary was both overwrought 
 and exhausted. She was glad to go straight to bed on reach- 
 ing home, and to escape any further conversation about 
 Sidney's death or Hugo's convalescence. But darkness 
 and solitude brought her no rest, but instead the most hor- 
 rible temptation of her wkole life. Hugo no longer con- 
 sidered himself betrothed to Joyce Wharncliffe ; he had 
 told her so with his own lips bad told her that he would 
 on no account hold Joyce to a promise which would blight 
 her life. And then, just after that, he had held her hand 
 in bis with a touch which yet lingered there, and bad called 
 her tlie best of comforters. Might she not win bis love ? It 
 would not blight her life to love him, though he were 
 imprisoned all bis days ; rather, to be loved by him, and 
 confessedly to love him, would be heaven itself. 
 
 And then her uncle's words leturned to her the words 
 which bad caused hejr sucb burning blushes as tbey drove 
 that first night to tbe prison "I would thou hadsi been 
 betrothed to him, then there could have been no handle 
 for scandal-mongers in this visit." She wished he had 
 never spoken those words, wished that they had not called 
 up for her a double vision of sweet, sheltered, protected 
 peace, and of solitary, hard exposure to all the bitter 
 blasts which in this evil world were like to blow on her. 
 And to love him in his dreary imprisonment, to love him, 
 even without any hope but that of bringing a ray of com- 
 fort to him in that cell, what more could heart of woman 
 crave ? 
 
 No one who truly loved him could think otherwise. 
 What ! were mere prison walls to blight love ? A fig for 
 such love as that ! True love would scorn so trumpery a 
 separation, would gladly wait through years upon years 
 with no other privilege than that of loving and being 
 loved. 
 
 " And thus would Joyce speak," said a voice in her 
 heart. 
 
 That voice made her shudder ; it was the consciousness 
 of right once more claiming its dominion over her ; she 
 burst into an agony of tears, passionately sobbing in the 
 darkness words which until now had never escaped her lips 
 " I love him ! I love him ! My God, I love him ! " 
 
 The reaction from the horrors of the morning, the ex- 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 305 
 
 haustion which naturally followed such a strain, the recol- 
 lection of Hugo's words, the mingled weariness and excite- 
 ment all were against her. Yet because her love was 
 pure, because her love was true, she was saved. She did 
 in very truth love Hugo, therefore the thought of his hap- 
 piness was ever paramount, her own altogether secondary. 
 He loved Joyce Wharncliffe and Joyce loved him then 
 she would move heaven and earth to end their sorrow and 
 separation, she would keep Hugo from sinking into that 
 dreary acquiescence with a cruel fate, an acquiescence to 
 which his nature would inevitably incline. Oh, yes ! she 
 would serve them would serve them. And with that her 
 tears flowed more gently she even smiled through them, 
 and her old visions of Joyce came back to her, and she 
 chid herself for haying allowed them to fade. 
 
 The next day things favored her plans. Griffith went 
 out to walk in the paved passage to which they were 
 allowed access, and Francis Bampfield, who for some time 
 past had been in failing health, lay asleep on his bed, 
 leaving her to what was practically a tete-a-tete with Hugo. 
 " Will you give me leave to speak to you plainly, Hugo ?" 
 she asked ; "as old friend, sister, mentor!" 
 He looked up languidly. She resumed. 
 " Had I known what your letter to Mistress Wharncliffe 
 contained I think I should have refused to give it to the 
 post." 
 
 "Do not speak of it," he said, turning away with a 
 gesture of pain "'Twas hard enough to do, but 'tis done 
 now. Did I not tell you yesternight that I would suffer 
 anything rather than blight her life." 
 
 " That is how you men folk talk," said Mary, quickly. 
 " But, believe me,' Hugo, you are mistaken. Lives are not 
 so easily blighted. Trust me, we women are stronger than 
 you think for, ay, and braver and more patient. Mistress 
 "Wharncliffe loves you. Do you believe that any woman who 
 truly loves a man would not rather be a maid all her life for 
 love of him, than be what you call free. Free! In good 
 sooth I know not what you mean by free ! Would you so 
 wrong her as to think that, while you for her father's sake 
 lie here in jail, she would go and wed some other ? You 
 wrong our sex an you can dream of such a thing." 
 
 Hugo was silent ; this was altogether a new view of the 
 case, a view which certainly would never have occurred to 
 him. Yet it had a sound of truth in it. But again the 
 thought of the years of suspense and waiting and sor- 
 
306 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 row for Joyce rose before him. He turned away with a 
 groan. 
 
 " I would I had never told her of my love." 
 
 Mary was silent for a minute. When she could trust 
 herself to speafe, she said, in a low voice, 
 
 " I don't know Mistress Wharncliffe, yet I think that 
 she would never agree to such a sentence as that. Have 
 you not given her the right openly, confessedly, to love you. 
 Have you not given her the best gift a man can give ? And 
 as the thought of her love brings comfort to you in this 
 grewsome jail, so doth your love bring comfort to her at 
 Mondisfield." 
 
 " I do not see it," he groaned ; " I can do naught for 
 her, naught ! My love comfort her, forsooth ! How should 
 it comfort her ?" 
 
 Her eyes swam with tears which would no longer be re- 
 strained. Hastily rising, she made a pretence of stirring 
 the sea-coal fire. 
 
 " You foolish lad !" she exclaimed, taking good care not 
 to turn her face toward him as she spoke " you foolish 
 lad ! Why, to know that she has your love will be com- 
 fort enow. To know that you live for her, keep brave and 
 patient for her, to know that you think of her, dream of 
 her, pray for her, hope for her. To know that by your 
 silence you protect her, by your noble suffering shield her, 
 by your heart's deep love delight to do all this what more 
 could woman desire ? Is not that comfort ? Would bar- 
 ren, painless peace without you have been better ?" 
 
 He was silent. Mary returned to her former place. 
 
 " There, you gave me leave to play the scold," she said, 
 smiling. "And now I will forbear; nay, I will confess 
 what I know to be the truth, that where you have one fault, 
 I have a hundred." 
 
 " One!" said Hugo, with a look of amusement. " Which?" 
 
 ' You acquiesce too readily in suffering, you patiently en- 
 dure when you ought to resist, you are resigned where you 
 ought to hope against hope. Make me a present of your 
 quiet resignation, Hugo; for, in truth, I could very well do 
 with it. Call back the goddess of Hope, and bid her drive 
 away your despondency, and throw her rainbow arch over 
 the future you paint so black." 
 
 " For what would you have me hope ?" 
 
 " For freedom for Joyce !" 
 
 " I have no reasonable ground to look for aught but 
 lifelong imprisonment." 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 307 
 
 " Perhaps not. I am only a woman, and ignorant. But, 
 look you, kings have been known to relent. Moreover, 
 prisoners have oft been pardoned by succeeding monarchs, 
 and the king and the Duke of York are both of them past 
 middle age while you are but twenty. Also " she low- 
 ered her voice to a whisper "prisoners sometimes es- 
 cape. There, I'm weary; scolding is hard work. And, 
 since Thomas is in waiting for me, I will go home. Fare- 
 well. Think of what I have said." 
 
 He did think. What else was there left for him to do ? 
 He escaped from bodily and mental pain, and once 
 more allowed tender thoughts of the past, eager hopes 
 for the future, to cheer his present dreariness. His 
 happy, free life returned to him once more he dared to 
 live through that magic time, the last days of his youth, as 
 it had proved from the October when he had first seen 
 Joyce to the midsummer when all had been ended in 
 Newgate. Those golden months when he had hoped with 
 a delicious, vague hope, had feared with a half-hopeful, 
 half-happy fear. Once more he talked with the little 
 Duchess of Grafton, once more he half confessed to Mary 
 his hopes and fears with regard to Joyce, once more he 
 roamed through the stately old rooms of Penshurst, ever 
 in company with his master and friend, once more he was 
 at Mondisfield telling Joyce of his love, in the north par- 
 lor. And it was no longer all pain that looking back, 
 for Mary's words had done their work. For her, there 
 had been tears and grief, but all the time the sun of 
 love shining ; and thus she had brought Hope's rainbow 
 into the life of another. 
 
308 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXTV. 
 
 THE DUCHESS OF GRA.FTON. 
 
 In all thy need be thou possest 
 Still with a well-prepared breast; 
 Nor let the shackles make thee sad; 
 Thou canst but have what others had. 
 And this for comfort thou must know: 
 Times that are ill won't still be so; 
 Clouds will not ever pour down rain, 
 A sullen day will clear again; 
 First peals of thunder we must hear, 
 Then lutes and harps shall strike the ear. 
 
 HEKBICK. 
 
 THAT afternoon Mary went to visit the little duchess, 
 who, married in her babyhood, was now, at the age of six- 
 teen, a mother. The grand bed-chamber, with its magni- 
 ficant fittings and furnishings, was a strange contrast to 
 the Newgate cell where lay her other friend, and the con- 
 trast struck Mary somewhat painfully as she was ushered 
 in by a pompous old nurse; but when the silken bed-cur- 
 tains were drawn back she forgot the contrast in the pleas- 
 ure of once more seeing her friend. 
 
 The little Duchess of Graf ton looked sweeter than ever 
 in her lying-in cap and dainty, lace-trimmed robe; she was 
 pale as a lily, but seemed bright and well, and with already 
 the soft, tender light of maternity in her eyes. The tiny, 
 red-faced baby was nestled close to her; she kept stroking 
 his dark, downy head as she talked. 
 
 "I have been looking for you this age, Mary!" she ex- 
 claimed. " Do you know that I began to receive visitors 
 on the twenty-sixth of last month? And you, my cldteest 
 friend, put me off with the 9th of December." 
 
 " I would have come," said Mary, " but indeed my aunt 
 advised not, and said you would be overdone with seeing 
 so many. And, moreover, we have had much to occupy us 
 of late. Mr. Evelyn told a^e ks had seen you and the babe. 
 What a bonny wee man he is." 
 
 " Is he not ?" said the little mother, raising herself on her 
 elbow that she might better display her first-born. " Yes, 
 Mr. Evelyn saw him the first of all, and is so much in love 
 that he is coming again to-day. I hear he has taken a house 
 in London for the winter. That is good hearing." 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 309 
 
 " Yes, he has taken a house in Villiers Street, and so is 
 a near neighbor. He is come chiefly the better to educate 
 his daughters. Mr. Evelyn thinks much of education." 
 
 " Ay," said the little duchess, laughing ; " he and I have 
 already discussed my babe's future. Have we not, my 
 bonny Charlie ?" 
 
 "Is he to be Charles?" 
 
 " After his grandfather. But you are not to be like his 
 majesty, for all that, my son. No, no, we know better, 
 you and I. There! take him, Mary, before I talk any 
 more treason to him. You can not see him under this 
 dark canopy." 
 
 Mary sat nursing the babe, and ere long in came the old 
 nurse with the caudle-cup and the cake-basket. 
 
 " There, now, you must do your duty," said the little 
 duchess, laughing. " For my part, I affect the cake, but 
 not the caudle ; and that tyrant nurse will never let me 
 have all I should like. Your mother is a gourmande, my 
 wee Charlie, an outrageous gourmande. She must mend 
 her ways ere you come to years of discretion." 
 
 " The caudle is good for your grace," said the old nurse, 
 sententiously. " Good wine, good bread, good spice and 
 sugar will hearten up your grave, and bring the color back 
 to your cheeks. But cakes there be nought that is whole- 
 some in cakes." 
 
 " Good flour, good spices and sugar," retorted the duch- 
 ess, laughing. " But there, 'tis ever the same, is it not, 
 Mary ? What we best like, that is not for our good; what we 
 shrink from, that is ever the one thing needful. Who 
 would have thought so much philosophy was to be found 
 in my old nurse, with her cakes and caudle ! And now," 
 said the duchess, growing grave once more, as the nurse 
 withdrew from the apartment; "and now, Mary, tell me 
 of all that hath happened. Do not fear. The rumor of all 
 the horrors hath penetrated even this quiet room. Oh, 
 never think that I have forgot you all, that I have been 
 selfish and heedless in this luxury of illness. I have prayed 
 for you, and for them; only, for the sake of my babe, I 
 dared not hear too much, dared not ask too many ques- 
 tions." 
 
 " Dear, do not ask them now," said Mary, quietly. " Of 
 what avail is it that you should know what could only make 
 you sorrowful ?" 
 
 " They told me, or, rather, I heard, of Colonel Sidney's 
 death. I knew it was to be the seventh. Some visitor 
 
310 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 mentioned it to my father, forgetting perchance that I lay 
 behind these curtains, and might possibly care that a brave 
 man was to be done to death. Yet I am glad too that I 
 knew ; for, as the hour drew near, I lay here and prayed 
 for him. Tell me, how died he ?" 
 
 " Like one of the noble army of martyrs," said Mary. 
 
 " And Hugo Wharncliffe yet lives ?" 
 
 " He yet lives, and is like to live." 
 
 " Oh, it is terrible to me to think of him," said the little 
 duchess, keeping back her tears with difficulty. "It 
 seems to me worse than Colonel Sidney's case, for he at 
 least is at rest, and his pain must have been sharp and 
 short ; but the other such a long torture ; and to be 
 made thus a public spectacle ! When I think of him as he 
 was at Whitehall but a few months since when I remem- 
 ber him at the Gray's Inn masque, so bravely clad, so 
 happy, I could weep my heart out." 
 
 " They say the king would fain have saved him," said 
 Mary. " Do you think he will ever be induced to set him 
 at liberty?" 
 
 "I can not tell, he changes so; he is not what he once 
 was, kind and gracious; now he is ofttimes heavy and sul- 
 len; no one knows how to take him." 
 
 " They say he is ill, that this humor in his leg affects 
 him more than was at first thought for. But you, he is 
 fond of you, he might hearken to you." 
 
 " What ! you think I might plead for Mr. Wharncliffe ? 
 I would do so most gladly. Oh ! do you really think he 
 would hearken to me ? Perhaps now now that I have 
 brought him a grandson and a namesake. Oh, little son ! 
 we will put it all upon you ! You shall rescue Mr. 
 Wharncliffe from Newgate! You shall be a deliverer 
 while yet in swaddling-clothes. And here in good time 
 comes Mr. Evelyn. We will consult with him." 
 
 There entered an elderly man, quietly but richly dressed 
 in dark purple ; his face was delightful the brow high 
 and intellectual, the features refined, the expression 
 thoughtful but not abstracted, the eyes kind and gentle, 
 yet keenly observant. The little duchess had chosen her 
 adviser well. Mr. Evelyn was before all things a man to 
 be consulted. He thought well of their plan, and spoke 
 hopefully of Hugo's release. 
 
 "They tell me young Mr. Wharncliffe was intimate 
 with Colonel Sidney, and that this had much to do with 
 the severity of his sentence." 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 311 
 
 "Yes," said Mary. "He knew Mr. Sidney well, and 
 reverenced him greatly. He is half heart-broken now, for, 
 like all the rest of the world, the sentence was a surprise 
 to him." 
 
 " Sir George Jeffreys hath much to answer for," said 
 Mr. Evelyn gravely. " It was an ill day for England when 
 he was promoted. But a day or two since I met with him 
 at a wedding the wedding of jolly Mrs. Castle, of whom 
 no doubt you have heard." 
 
 " What, the lady that hath had five husbands ? Was Sir 
 George Jeffreys there ?" 
 
 " Ay, he was there, and the lord mayor and the sheriff, 
 too, besides many aldermen and persons of quality. 
 Jeffreys danced with the bride, and spent the night till 
 eleven of the clock drinking healths, taking tobacco, and 
 talking, to my mind, much beneath the gravity of a judge 
 who, but a day or two before, condemned Mr. Algernon 
 Sidney." 
 
 Mary treasured this up to tell Hugo, who, in his bitter- 
 ness of soul, was beginning to think that justice and 
 mercy were qualities which existed in no other Tory save 
 Sir William Denham. Mr. Evelyn was no partisan ; he 
 was too broad-minded, too gentle, for that, but he was 
 emphatically a Tory, refined, cultured, scientific, and, in so 
 far as science went, progressive ; but in political matters 
 he had always been, and always would be, opposed to all 
 change. 
 
 " "You think he was unjustly condemned ?" asked the lit- 
 tle duchess, wistfully. 
 
 " Most assuredly," said Mr. Evelyn. " For he was con- 
 demned on the single witness of that monster of a man, 
 Lord Howard of Escrick, and some sheets of paper taken in 
 Mr. Sidney's study, pretended to be written by him, but not 
 fully proved, nor the time when, but appearing to have 
 been written before his majesty's restoration, and thus par- 
 doned by the Act of Oblivion." 
 
 " I suppose every one knows that Mr. Sidney was averse 
 to Government by a king," said Mary, wishing to elicit 
 more from Mr. Evelyn. 
 
 " Quite true, and he had been an inveterate enemy to our 
 blessed martyr, nathless, he had hard measure. Sidney 
 was a man of great courage, great sense, great parts. He 
 showed that both at his trial and his death. Methought 
 there was something very fine in the way he told the peo- 
 ple he came not there to talk, but to die. However, we 
 
312 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 must not discourse of executions in this room ; 'tis not fit- 
 ting. Train up your son to be loyal to Iris sovereign, my 
 dear little friend, and pray God to keep him from being in- 
 volved in wild schemes for reform." 
 
 "lam scheming already to make him a reformer, or 
 rather, a deliverer," said the duchess, laughing. "You 
 are to fascinate his majesty at your christening, my son, 
 and then I will plead with him for young Mr. Wharncliffe." 
 
 But, alas, the pleading was of no avail. The little 
 duchess did her best, but she failed completely. The king 
 protested that he had done all he could for Mr. HugoWbarn- 
 cliffe, that he had obstinately rejected all offers of help, 
 and that now he must be left to his fate. It would be im- 
 possible for the king to pardon him after certain words 
 that had passed between them at their last interview. 
 
 " Would you have me deal more leniently with him than 
 with my son ?" he asked, his brow darkening. " No, no, 
 my love, I am sorry to refuse you aught on this gala-day, 
 but recall to mind the French proverb, ' Comme on fait son 
 lit on se couche.' I offered Hugo Wharncliffe a post at 
 Whitehall ; he elected to stay in Newgate. What would 
 you, then ? Am I to blame ?" 
 
 So Hugo stayed in Newgate, and, thanks to the care and 
 solicitude of tbe Denhams, slowly recovered his health and 
 spirits. He was, after all, young and full of life ; even tbe 
 cruel cold which now set in did not retard his convales- 
 cence ; be suffered severely from it, but it did him little 
 harm. With Francis Bampfield it was otherwise. As the 
 younger man grew stronger the elder grew weaker. It 
 was quite right, he said, quite natural ; he had fought a 
 good fight, and had well irigb finished his course. 
 
 Kupert Denbam had felt himself to be out of place 
 during Hugo's illness, and after that first night had not 
 returned to Newgate, but had left his friend to the care of 
 Sir William, Mary, and old Jeremiah. Illness and sorrow 
 were so foreign to bis nature that perhaps he did well to 
 keep aloof ; but when Hugo recovered be made a point of 
 
 going often to the prison, and doing his best to enliven 
 im. His first visit was in January, and Scroop, always 
 pleased to usher in visitors to see the one prisoner whose 
 welfare he had at heart, grinned broadly as he showed 
 into the dreary-looking cell this incongruous gallant in 
 his feathers and furbelows. Griffith was aghast at his 
 swaggering gait and jovial, hearty manner. 
 
 He embraced his friend with much affection and many 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 313 
 
 oaths ; then, turning to the two old men, bowed cour- 
 teously. 
 
 " Good-morrow, Mr. Bampfield; good-morrow, good Doc- 
 tor Griffith; I hope I see you both well. Why, by the 
 powers ! you have made another man of my friend here. 
 Hugo, the gods must have given you the hide of a rhi- 
 noceros and the strength of a Hercules, to have recovered 
 so speedily. Here, jailer ! bring us some wine, we must 
 drink my good friend's health. They tell me you have a 
 full cellar in this grim hole, and that Bacchus smiles 
 kindly on the wan prisoner if he doth but show him the 
 glint of gold. Come, bring us your best," 
 
 Griffith, aghast at this unseemly merriment, asked leave 
 of Scroop to go forth for his daily exercise, and Hugo, 
 much relieved to see him depart, gave himself up to the 
 enjoyment of his friend's visit, only bidding him moderate 
 his noise, lest Bampfield should be disturbed. 
 
 " Nay," said the old man, from the other side of the 
 hearth, "nay, you disturb me not: Enjoy your friend, my 
 lad, and do not trouble about me." 
 
 " A jolly old sinner, worth ten of the other, with his 
 vinegar face !" exclaimed Rupert in an audible aside. 
 " Sir, we drink to your health. Long life and prosperity 
 to Mr. Francis Bampfield." 
 
 " I thank you for the toast, gentlemen," said Bampfield, 
 smiling kindly on them. " 'Twas courteously meant. Yet 
 I do not desire either the one or the other. I am content 
 to be without what men call prosperity, preferring to be 
 the Lord's free prisoner. And as to long life, why, your 
 friend will tell you it is scarce to be wished for in this 
 cell." 
 
 " In truth, we have suffered much since this cold," said 
 Hugo. ' Scroop tells me prisoners die by scores in the 
 other wards. We are lapped in luxury here, yet the cold 
 is so intense that our breath freezes on the pillow, and we 
 almost forget what warmth means." 
 
 "Ah! if you were but free, what times we would have!" 
 exclaimed Denham with a sigh. "The Thames is frozen 
 did they tell you ? A fresh town is springing up in mid- 
 river streets of booths, folks walking or skating in all 
 parts, coaches plying up and down from Westminster to the 
 Temple, and all London turned out to see the fun. It is a 
 carnival, I tell you. By St. Kit, I would give the world for 
 you to be there to see. Oxen roasted whole, bull-baiting, 
 horse-races, puppet-plays, and gewgaws and venders 
 
314 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 enough for a Bartholomew fair. See here, I had my name 
 printed right in mid-stream, for some wily craftsman hath 
 set up a printing press there, which takes mighty well, and 
 brings in much custom." 
 
 He took from his pocket a neatly printed card, with a 
 treble border, and the words, 
 
 " Mr. Rupert Denham, 
 
 Printed on the River of Thames, being frozen, 
 
 In the 36th year of King Charles II., 
 
 24*/i January, 1684." 
 
 Hugo was eager to hear all the news; even to look at 
 Denham's jolly face cheered him. At length, with some- 
 thing of an effort, he stemmed the tide of his merriment, 
 and asked the question that was most at his heart. 
 
 " My brother have you seen him ?" 
 
 " Ay, I saw him not long since," said Denham, frowning. 
 
 "And you spoke with- him?" 
 
 "I!" exclaimed Denham, wrathfully. "Odds-fish, my 
 dear fellow, I would sooner be hanged! Speak to him, 
 i' faith ! Why, I would not so much as touch my beaver to 
 him in the street !" 
 
 Hugo was silent for a minute. 
 
 " Where did you see him ?" he asked, at length. 
 
 " At the Temple Church." Then, as Hugo looked sur- 
 prised, " Oh, all the world and his wife, was there, 'twas no 
 ordinary day; it was to hear the rival organs played, and 
 to be present at the final decision." 
 
 " Ah ! hath that at length been done ?" said Hugo, much 
 interested. 
 
 He had watched the rival organ-builders, Father Smith 
 and Renatus Harris, for many months; each had built an 
 organ in different parts of the Temple Church, and the 
 finer organ was to be retained; they both proved, however, 
 so perfect that the decision was a most difficult one, and 
 the builders went on challenging each other, and adding 
 new stops to each organ, until it seemed that the choice 
 would never be made. 
 
 " And how hath it ended !" asked Hugo, eagerly. 
 
 "Well, Dr. Tudway came and performed on Father 
 Smith's instrument, and Lulli on the other, and all the 
 world came to hearken; and whom do you think they chose 
 to judge betwixt the two? why, that beast, that fiend, that 
 devil incarnate, Jeffreys i 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 315 
 
 " I am sorry lie had a hand in it," said Hugo. " To 
 which builder did he award the palm ?" 
 
 "To Father Smith; but they say the other organ hath 
 suffered nothing in reputation, for the choice hath baffled 
 better judges than Jeffreys." 
 
 " And Randolph," returned Hugo ; " did he look well ?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Eupert. "He had been drinking, 
 and seemed in very jovial mood. There, don't speak of him ; 
 it makes my gorge rise. Pardon me, I know he was your 
 brother once, but, methinks, now he hath disowned you, 
 you might give me leave to rail at him." 
 
 " I have not disowned him," said Hugo, quietly; " there- 
 fore, let us say no more on that point." 
 
 Denham bottled up his wrath till he was out of New- 
 gate ; but then, finding it no longer controllable, joined a 
 band of scourers, and spent the evening in wrenching off 
 door-knockers, assaulting defenseless shop-signs, frighten- 
 ing the chapmen into fits, and hustling everything that was 
 capable of being hustled. Seeing Randolph "Wharncliffe 
 and his villainy in all these innocent objects, he at length 
 worked off his indignation, and returned to Norfolk Street 
 by and by, fairly well content with his day's work. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 FRANCIS BAMPFIELD, SAINT. 
 
 Come, gentle death ! the ebb of care ; 
 The ebb of care, the flood of life ; 
 The flood of life, the joyful fare ; 
 The joyful fare, the end of strife ; 
 The end of strife, that thing wish I, 
 Wherefore come death, and let me die. 
 
 Anon., 1557. 
 
 ALL was very quiet in the Newgate cell. It was night. 
 Griffith slept, and forgot the cold, but a rushlight dimly 
 revealed two wakeful figures. Bampfield lay on a mattress 
 close to the fire, and Hugo sat beside him, or, rather, 
 crouched beside him, for the cold was excruciating, and 
 made him shiver from head to foot. He had piled almost 
 all the wraps at his disposal on the dying man, and, when 
 Bampfield remonstrated, made light of it. 
 
 " After two months of this weather I am acclimatized," 
 
316 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 he said, smiling. " Your age and infirmity make you feel 
 the cold more." 
 
 " Nay, dear lad," said the old man, " 'tis not my age 
 makes me cold; 'tis the beginning of death. I shall never 
 be warm again never again. Tell me what day is it ?" 
 
 " I heard St. Sepulchre's bell ring twelve but a few 
 minutes since," replied Hugo. " It must be the 16th of 
 February." 
 
 He had to think a little to calculate those weary days of 
 the month; for time was monotonous in Newgate, and 
 there was little to note its slow flight. Nay, the word 
 flight was a mockery; time crept. 
 
 " This will be my last day of earth," said Bampfield, 
 smiling. " Do not look so startled, so shocked. I am 
 dying, but if you loved me, you would rejoice. Feel my 
 feet, they are cold as stone; feel my pulse, it waxes feeble. 
 Christ means to call one of his under-shepherd's Lome to 
 Him this day to render his account." 
 
 Hugo looked at the worn, sunken face, with its dark 
 shadows. He saw that Bampfield was right, A great change 
 had come over the features that had grown so dear to him. 
 He covered his face with his hands and wept. 
 
 " I have been more of a care than a comfort to you of 
 late," said Bampfield, feebly. " More of a care than a com- 
 fort, lad. Yet mayhap you will miss me the more for that. 
 I think you will miss the old man. But, dear lad, do not 
 grudge me my release. For I am weary, weary, and heavy- 
 laclen." 
 
 " Let me call Dr. Griffith," said Hugo, dashing the tears 
 from his eyes. " Perchance he might ease you." 
 
 " Nay, wake him not," said Bampfield; " he watched be- 
 side me last night, and is weary. Besides, he could do 
 naught. Hugo, it seems to me something strange that, 
 after years and years of imprisonment for preaching the 
 G-ospel, I at length die in jail, not for the crime of preach- 
 ing, but for refusing to take an oath. A strange crime, 
 meihinks." 
 
 " If you could but have done so with a good conscience !" 
 said Hugo, who never had been able to understand the old 
 man's difficulty. 
 
 "But I could not/ said Bampfield. "For, see here! I 
 do not, only bind my soul to obey the king that now is, but 
 his heirs and successors also. And I know not wh?it his 
 successor may be; for aught I know he may be a Popish 
 successor. Neither can I swear to obey laws not, yet in 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 317 
 
 being, nor to be obedient to a Papist. Therefore, as things 
 now are, it is impossible for me to take the oath of alle- 
 giance. Come life, come death, the Lord assisting me, i 
 will never take it." 
 
 "'Tis true Christ saith, 'Swear not at all,' " said Hugo, 
 musingly, "and bade men give but a plain yes or no." 
 
 "Ay, dear lad," said Bampfield, his face lighting up, 
 "and inethinks I see a day, far distant as yet, when His rule 
 shall be obeyed in this land that calls itself His, but keeps 
 not His word. Oh ! those university oaths ! so many and 
 so oft multiplied by inconsiderate students ! How much 
 guilt has been contracted thereby !" 
 
 " You die, then, as the proto-martyr in this cause. You 
 die protesting against taking of oaths." 
 
 Bampfield smiled, 
 
 " I have trudged along through evil report and through 
 good report, and, through the help of Christ, I trust I may 
 be his servant and witness to the death. There is one 
 last thing I would ask you." 
 
 "Ask anything," said Hugo, "and, if only it lie in my 
 power, I will do it." 
 
 " Na} r , I know not how that will be," said Bampfield, 
 tenderly. " I would in no way force thy conscience. Didst 
 ever take the sacrament, lad ?" 
 
 " Once only," said Hugo, his thoughts flying away from 
 the dark prison to the sunny church at Mondisfield. 
 
 "Will you take it once more with me before I leave 
 you ? When the sun is risen, we will waken Dr. Griffith 
 and make ready." 
 
 But Hugo hesitated. 
 
 " He would not think me fit," he faltered. 
 
 " When did the Saviour of mankind ever wait for men 
 to be fit for Him ?" said Bampfield, earnestly. " He came 
 unto His own, and His own received Him net. But as 
 many as received Him to them gave He power." 
 
 " But Dr. Griflith will object," said Hugo. 
 
 He had meant Griffith all along, but was too reserved to 
 say so. 
 
 And he was right. Griffith did object. Hugo was not 
 of their communion ; he had made no special profession 
 of devout feeling all these months, had not added his 
 testimony to the testimony of the saints, had not altogether 
 lost the polite art, as it was then considered, of swearing, 
 and, worst of all, had not hesitated to drink with that 
 most noisy and boisterous Templer, Eupert Denham. But 
 
318 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 the dying man overruled all these objections with one 
 gentle sentence. 
 
 " 'Tis my last wish," he said, faintly. " And in truth, 
 good Griffith, I. was always for Christ's open housekeep- 
 ing, since I had inner acquaintance with Him." 
 
 And so when the sun rose the three drew together, for- 
 getting their differences ; and when the brief, solemn 
 service was over, Bampneld bade Hugo rest. 
 
 " You can do no more for me, dear lad," he said, clasp- 
 ing his hand closely. " I have no other wants. For here 
 in Newgate prison my Lord is with me to the full satis- 
 faction of my whole man." 
 
 They were the last words Hugo ever heard him speak. 
 For, when some hours later, he awoke from sound and 
 dreamless sleep, and looked hastily round, he saw that the 
 death-angel had visited the cell. The sunshine of that 
 Saturday morning streamed in through the prison grating, 
 and fell full upon the peaceful face, the face from which 
 Death's gentle hand had smoothed the lines and furrows, 
 leaving only the radiant smile with winch Christ's "under- 
 shepherd " had greeted the dawning Sabbath. 
 
 Bampneld had passed into the unseen, where there will 
 be no dispute as to whether the Lord's Day shall be kept 
 on the Saturday or the Sunday, since rest-days will be 
 merged in the eternal "Work without weariness, which is 
 true rest. 
 
 How infinitely little seemed now the disputes and con- 
 troversies but how priceless the patient endurance, the 
 self-sacrifice, the willingness to suffer for what he had 
 deemed the truth. Who could doubt that, while his worn- 
 out body lay in the prison cell, he himself had seen the 
 King in His beauty had entered into the joy of his 
 Lord. 
 
 They buried him in the presence of a vast crowd of on- 
 lookers, in the burial-ground behind the Baptist Chapel 
 in Glass House Yard, Goswell Street. But, although many 
 mourned for him, none mourned so truly as his fellow- 
 prisoners. 
 
 Hugo seemed unable to recover from this second blow, 
 and in truth it seemed as if that spring he was to be 
 brought into perpetual nearness to death. One day 
 Thomas Delaune was brought to the cell, Scroop having 
 assigned him Bampfield's vacant place. He came, a broken- 
 down, broken-hearted man. His babe was dead, his wife 
 was dead, he himself looked as though his days were 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 319 
 
 numbered, while little Tom, so bonny and rosy a few 
 months before, was now a little ghost of a child, seldom 
 complaining, seldom even speaking, but slowly and silent- 
 ly fading away. That cruel winter in Newgate had much 
 to answer for. 
 
 The new-comers roused Hugo from his dull apathy. He 
 listened to poor Delaune's complaints, he listened a hun- 
 dred times to his favorite assertion that " Newgate was a 
 severe kind of logic, and would probably dispute him out 
 the world." He listened to all the arguments of the luck- 
 less pamphlet which had cost the writer so dear; and the 
 poor, unhappy man learned to love him and to lean on 
 him, even though he showed a hopeless inaptitude for 
 theological discussions. 
 
 Mary came of ten with her uncle to visit them, and she 
 did her best for the little boy, who lingered on until the' 
 spring. The father, though refusing to let the child go, 
 was too ill himself to attend to it, Mary did the nursing by 
 day and Hugo by night. 
 
 One morning Tom looked up languidly from the little 
 bed which they had made for him. 
 
 " I would like to see out of doors," he said, faintly. 
 
 " Could you not hold him up to the window ?" said 
 Mary. " I do not think the air could hurt him." 
 
 And Hugo held him high up in his arms so that the lit- 
 tle fellow could peer out through the bars. 
 
 He saw the sun shining brightly, he saw the trees around 
 Christ's Hospital, and heard the sound of the boys at their 
 play. 
 
 * l You said I couldn't come too when you went to Die," 
 he said, faintly, as they laid him once more in bed. " But 
 I am going now. Die is better than prison ; I dreamed in 
 the night all about it, and there are green trees, and chil- 
 dren that sing, and no bars between no hard, cold bars." 
 
 He glanced up at the window until, to his dazzled sight, 
 the light overpowered the darkness, and where the grat- 
 ing had been was only a golden glory. Then, tired with 
 the brightness, his eyes closed, and gradually unconscious- 
 ness crept over him, and thus death took him painlessly 
 away from Newgate to the land where there are " no bars 
 between." 
 
 Delaune did not long survive his child. Father, mother, 
 and the two poor little children all met their deaths because 
 it was deemed a crime to put forth a pamphlet which stated 
 the views of a Nonconformist. Truly the liberty of the 
 
320 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 press has not been secured to Englishmen -without tears and 
 blood. 
 
 At length Hugo was once more in solitary confinement. 
 For Griffith honest, worthy, narrow Dr. Griffith was 
 pardoned, and once more took his place among free men. 
 They parted in all kindness, and Hugo's congratulations 
 were quite sincere. But although, had they lived together 
 for years, they could never have been friends, he missed 
 the old doctor sorely. Solitude was terrible, even when 
 for part of the day ^Jeremiah was allowed to be with him, 
 and his friends to visit him. But he had that wretched 
 feeling of being left behind which is of all things the most 
 dreary. The king had pardoned Griffith, but he would not 
 pardon him, and even Death, who had released all the others, 
 refused to come to his aid. In vain Mary aud Kupert did 
 their best to keep up his spirits. His attacks of ague re- 
 turned, he lost hope, enduring, indeed, bravely and 
 patiently, but no longer dreaming of escape, of liberty, and 
 of Joyce. 
 
 One day Mary, returning home, fairly burst into tears. 
 
 " He will die, aunt," she sobbed, " he will die if he stays 
 there much longer. Oh I what can be done ? How may 
 we save him ?" 
 
 " My dear niece, I see no way of saving him," said Lady 
 Denham, sadly. " We can but do our best to lighten his 
 imprisonment." 
 
 That evening they went to the theatre. The play was " Bo- 
 rneo and Juliet," the last that Mary would have chosen to wit- 
 ness; but, although sad-hearted and weary, she would not 
 stay at home, for it wa^ against her own rule to allow her 
 attendance on Hugo in any way to interfere with her home 
 life. She still went with her aunt to receptions and balls, she 
 danced and talked, despite her heavy heart, and lived down 
 the gossip which inevitably arose about her friendship for 
 young Mr. Wharncliffe. She felt herself the custodian of 
 his honor, and this gave her strength to meet banter with 
 indifference, teasing with a smile, and searching questions 
 about Hugo with never a blush. To have shut herself up 
 at home would have been to give rise to scandal; she 
 bravely went into society almost every evening, as much 
 for Hugo's sake as she went to Newgate in the morning. 
 
 Suddenly, as the play passed before her tired eyes, a 
 thought flashed into her mind. The Friar was speaking 
 with Juliet, and something in his manner startled her into 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 321 
 
 sudden attention, though she had not noted what had 
 passed just before. 
 
 "Hold, daughter; I do spy a kind of hope, 
 Which craves as desperate an execution 
 As that is desparate which we would prevent." 
 
 She had never read or seen this play before, Shakespeare 
 was emphatically not the poet of the Kestoration, and his 
 plays were but seldom acted. Breathlessly she watched 
 the gift of the magic vial, the contents of which were to 
 make Juliet look as one dead. Eagerly she looked at the 
 fair corpse as it was carried forth to the grave. After all, it 
 was not so hard to counterfeit death. And death might be 
 the deliverer. Death, apparently, was the only deliverer 
 from Newgate. All that night she lay awake in a fever of 
 excitement, as gradually the details of the escape shaped 
 themselves more and more clearly in her mind. The next 
 morning she went straight to her uncle, for without his co- 
 operation she saw that nothing could be done, but she went 
 hopefully, for she knew that he had always refused to see 
 any political principle involved in Hugo's imprisonment; 
 she knew that he was extremely fond of him and would 
 sacrifice almost anything to save him. The uncle and niece 
 were closeted together for more than an hour. Later in 
 the day they went together to Newgate. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXVI. 
 
 HOPES AND FEAB9. 
 
 I'll be as patient as a gentle stream, 
 And make a pastime of each weary step, 
 Till the last step have brought me to my love: 
 And there I'll rest, as after much turmoil, 
 A blessed soul doth in Elysium. 
 
 SHAKESPEABE. 
 
 " You have been growing ever less hopeful of late," said 
 Mary, reproachfully. 
 
 "For what can I hope ?" said Hugo, wearily. To dream 
 of escape is idle; every day I grow weaker. Do you know 
 that it has come to this, I can no longer climb up to the 
 grating. The men who saw their way through iron and 
 gnaw their way through stone are men strong of limb, 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 sinewy and vigorous; they have not been weakened by tor- 
 ture and starvation, and damp and cold; they are not liable 
 to be overtaken every other day by the ague, or if so then 
 they must be men of tougher nature. It is useless to talk 
 to me of escape. There is only one deliverer from Newgate, 
 and he comes to all prisoners sooner or later, therefore he 
 must some day come to me. 
 
 There was unusual bitterness in his tone. He knew that 
 he was losing strength rapidly, and the consciousness 
 humiliated him. 
 
 " Indeed," said Mary, " it doth seem that death is the 
 only deliverer. Have there been many deaths lately ?" 
 
 "Yes, the hard winter has done its work; the young and 
 the old died in the frost, the others lingered longer, but 
 Scroop tells me there are deaths daily in the common 
 wards." 
 
 " Then perhaps they are not very particular as to the 
 disposal of the dead," said Sir William. 
 
 " Nay, the great thing is to hustle forth the corpse that 
 its space may be taken by some other poor wretch." 
 
 " Scroop is friendly to you, I believe ?" 
 
 " Yes, he hath ever been that. I don't know why." 
 
 " Supposing you were to follow the fair Juliet's exam- 
 ple," said Sir William, " do you think Scroop would, if 
 admitted into the secret, put you himself into the coffin, 
 and see that you were borne to my house ?" 
 
 Hugo started to his feet with an exclamation of surprise 
 and alarm, which was nevertheless tinged with a wild 
 hope. 
 
 " Let us talk the matter over quietly," said Sir William, 
 lowering his voice. " I see no reason why we should not 
 try the plan, and bring it to a more successful issue than 
 the good folks at Verona. The question is, do we do well 
 to risk admitting Scroop to the secret. To ask his help is 
 to betray ourselves." 
 
 " Nothing can be done without him," said Hugo. " He 
 is keen as any hawk ; that is why the governor trusts him 
 with so much. But yet I know not whether he would risk 
 so much out of love for me. Why, indeed, should any 
 one ? why should you run so grave a danger for the sake 
 of one even of your own kin ? Were I discovered think 
 how grave the results might be for yourself. Nay, I can- 
 not permit it. You must not incur so great a risk for me." 
 
 " Why, my dear boy, do you not know that but a few 
 ays since that vile Captain Clifford found friends willing 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 823 
 
 to rescue him from the Meet. If they were willing to 
 run the risk for such a one, do you think we shall not be 
 willing to do as much for you ? And in good time here 
 comes your jailer. We will withdraw, and you shall tell 
 him as much as you think fit." 
 
 Now, the jailer had really learned to love Hugo, and 
 when, bit by bit, the plan of escape was intrusted to him, 
 it was no bribe which made him consent to lend his help. 
 He knew that, if he refused, Hugo would remain a few 
 months longer in Newgate and would then inevitably die. 
 He saw no harm whatever in giving him a false certificate 
 of death ; nay, he rubbed his hands with delight at the 
 prospect of a little plot within the jail, a little excitement 
 in the midst of his dreary life of routine work. As to any 
 drug, he said there was no necessity for it whatever. No 
 one would come to look at the prisoner. He should duly 
 nail him up in his coffin, report his death to the governor, 
 and have his body delivered to his friends. 
 
 When this was arranged, Sir Wiliiam, Mary, and old 
 Jeremiah having joined them in the cell and discussed all 
 the details with Scroop, it only remained to fix the time of 
 the escape. Hugo, hardly able to stand, so great was his 
 excitement, looked eagerly from one to the other, knowing 
 that he must leave the day to them, and yet so eager to 
 seize that very instant that he hardly knew how he should 
 endure any delay. Breathlessly he listened to Sir William's 
 thoughtful, cautious arguments, which, to his satisfaction, 
 ended with the remark, 
 
 " After all, delays are dangerous the sooner the plot is 
 carried through the less risk attaches to it. When are you 
 liable to your nexfr attack of ague ?" 
 
 " This very day," groaned Hugo, who had forgotten his 
 old enemy. 
 
 " Nay, do not be disheartened, that will exactly serve 
 our turn," said Sir William. " We shall let fall that you 
 are not long for this world, Scroop will tell the governor 
 that there is no hope for you, which in truth will be the 
 case if you stay here much longer. Then in the night you 
 will die; next evening we shall send a coffin for your re- 
 mains, with bearers who can be trusted ; Jeremiah would 
 naturally be one, my butler another; Eupert must be in- 
 trusted with our secret, so he might figure as a third, and 
 I have no doubt Colonel Sidney's man, Ducasse, would be 
 a willing and safe man for the fourth. How say you, Mr. 
 Jailer, will that be well ?" 
 
324 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 " Your honor could not have planned it Letter," said 
 Scroop, taking grim delight in all the arrangements. 
 
 " Well, then, do you second our efforts faithfully, and if 
 all is brought to a happy issue, then come to my house 
 this day sennight, and I will give you twenty golden 
 guineas." 
 
 Scroop's little eyes twinkled. He loved gold. Never- 
 theless he would have risked all only for Hugo's sake. 
 
 " There's one thing more, sir," said the jailer, just as the 
 visitors were preparing to leave. " The coffin, sir; you 
 must measure Mr. Wharncliffe." 
 
 Spite of themselves they all laughed, as Hugo lay down 
 on the bed to be measured, while alive, for his coffin. Nor 
 was the task easy since they had no proper implements, 
 and were only too well aware that any error now might 
 prove the destruction of their hopes. In the end Mary 
 sacrificed the lace edging of her mantle, tore it off in long 
 strips and with infinite care took those dread measure- 
 ments. Then, tremulously winding up the lace, she 
 glanced round the little room which had grown so fa- 
 miliar to her. If all went well this was the last time she 
 should ever enter it. There was no denying that, spite of 
 anxiety and sorrow, those months of attendance on Hugo 
 had been very sweet; she knew now that they were over, 
 she knew that he would have to fly the country, and that 
 in all probability she should never look on him again. 
 For a moment the tears rushed to her eyes, even in the 
 fulfillment of her own scheme, and in the prospect of 'the 
 consummation of her hopes after all, she was but a 
 woman. But, driving back her tears, she looked at Hugo. 
 There was new life in his face, new hope, eager and raptu- 
 ous expectation. That look was her reward. She bore it 
 with her all the day; having learned to weep with those 
 that wept, she now learned to rejoice with those that re- 
 joiced. 
 
 In the meantime Hugo, almost beside himself with the 
 thought of all the possibilities of the next few hours, 
 made such preparations as he could for the escape. There 
 was very little to be done. He begged Jeremiah to see 
 that his three beloved books were placed with him in the 
 coffin, then, restlessly pacing the cell, began to discuss the 
 future with the old man. 
 
 "I shall have to leave London at once, Jerry," he said; 
 "I shall have, of course, to leave England, but first I must 
 down to Suffolk to Colonel Wharncliffe's place. In the 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 325 
 
 meantime what will become of you ? How am I ever to 
 reward all that you have done for me?" 
 
 " By letting me be with you, lad," said Jeremiah ; " I 
 want no reward but that, and I have laid by enough to 
 serve us both for a while." 
 
 Hugo wrung his hand. 
 
 " My dear old friend," he said, gratefully, " when once 
 we are safe in Holland I will work for the two of us. See, 
 Jerry, if you will indeed share my fortunes, how would it 
 be if you went on to Harwich, then I will meet you there 
 when I have kept my promise and seen Colonel Wharn- 
 cliffe and and his family." 
 
 " There is one thing we must have a care of," said Jere- 
 miah, gravely. " No rumor of your death must reach Mr. 
 Randolph, else mayhap he may be claiming your body for 
 burial." 
 
 Hugo shuddered. 
 
 " I had not thought of that," he said. " And yet me- 
 thinks there is no fear. He hath disowned me in life, why 
 should he claim me in death?" 
 
 No more was said just then, for ere long Hugo fell into 
 a violent shivering fit, and was forced to go through all the 
 weary stages of his fever, ever with the thought of his es- 
 cape floating through his mind. Night drew on, Jeremiah 
 was obliged to go, and he bent down and embraced his 
 master as he heard the jailer unlock the door, the signal 
 that his time was up. 
 
 " For the last time, dear lad, the last time." he said, 
 fervently. " God have you in his keeping." 
 
 " Last time," said a harsh voice behind him. " Why for 
 the last time, pray?" 
 
 The old Cromwellian was not to be startled, though in 
 mortal terror, he rose quietly, and in the dimly lighted cell 
 turned to confront the speaker. He had made sure that it 
 was Scroop who had unlocked the door. Scroop had al- 
 ways come to him before at that time ; by what evil chance 
 had some other come on this night of all others ! He 
 turned and confronted the governor of Newgate. 
 
 " Come now, explain yourself, what is this about last 
 times?" 
 
 " Sir, yonder lies the explanation," said Jeremiah, waving 
 his hand in the direction of the bed. 
 
 The governor bent down nearer to the patient and saw 
 that he was in a raging fever ; he touched the burning 
 brow and recoiled. 
 
326 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 " 'Tis but the ague," he said, carelessly. " An I remem- 
 ber right, the prisoner hath suffered from it this long 
 time." 
 
 " He will not suffer much longer, the Lord be praised," 
 said Jeremiah. " Oh, sir, for God's sake, let me be with 
 my master this night. Load me with fetters, an you will, 
 but let me be with him to the end." 
 
 " Damnation take your impudence," said the governor, 
 harshly. " Do you think men are to be pampered like 
 princes here in jail? Be off with you! The prisoner is no 
 more dying than I am; he'll outlive you, you grumbling 
 graybeard, that I dare swear." 
 
 Jeremiah said no more but once more embraced the 
 prisoner and went forth with bowed head. 
 
 Hugo was vaguely aware that the governor was present; 
 he fancied that somehow their plans were in great danger, 
 but his fevered brain had not seen the true bearings of 
 the case, he did not know that Jeremiah had adroitly 
 made the most of his illness, and had really impressed the 
 governor with the idea that he was dying. 
 
 Presently Scroop entered. Hugo was aware that he was 
 talking to the governor. He began to tremble. Would 
 the man betray them ? What was this he was saying ? Oh, 
 that he were not in this distorting fever, which would not 
 let him see or hear things as they really were ! 
 
 " How now, Scroop, is this gentleman really dying? His 
 man swears he'll not outlast the night. In that case, maybe 
 we ought to let his brother have due notice. Methinks they 
 would try to force evidence from him once more." 
 
 " Oh, he'll outlast the night, sir," said Scroop, confidently. 
 " I don't think there's any call to send at this hour." 
 
 After that the governor went away, and Scroop having 
 placed some water beside the patient, locked him up for the 
 night. 
 
 It was a terrible night for Hugo, for when at length the 
 fever-stage passed, he was left to an agony of fear and ap- 
 prehension, vaguely remembering scraps of the conversa- 
 tion that had passed in the cell, and seeing as he had never 
 seen before the thousand risks which lay before him. 
 
 Had Scroop been faithful ? He could not feel sure. Had 
 the governor suspected aught? He could not tell. Would 
 they indeed send word to Randolph ? And would his broth- 
 er claim his body, and perhaps bury it before the others 
 could interfere ? Horrible visions rose before him in the 
 darkness. He was buried alive; he was discovered before the 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 327 
 
 coffin was nailed down, and all his friends suffered for their 
 attempts to help him. He was permitted to escape, but 
 was overtaken on the Newmarket Road by Randolph. Or 
 again, all was checked at the outset, and he remained in 
 that cell, deserted by all men, until he was old and gray- 
 headed. 
 
 His brain reeled, he groaned aloud in the anguish of 
 his imaginings. And then in the dark cell there came to 
 him the echoes of a woman's voice, the voice which day by 
 day had spoken words of comfort to him. He remembered 
 how once before, in despair, those words had come to his 
 aid, "Bid Hope throw her rainbow arch over the future 
 you paint so black." 
 
 It was as if an angel had bid him be of good cheer. He 
 turned from the thoughts of terror and darkness and 
 thought of Joyce. Once more that vision rose before him 
 of Joyce beneath the elm-trees at the gate, waiting to bid 
 some one welcome. He had said in his letter that she 
 welcomed her father ; what if instead it was her lover for 
 whom she waited ! His very rapture made lam calm, for 
 how much how much depended on his self-control, on his 
 wisdom ? Conscious of this, he fell on his knees and 
 prayed in the words of that collect which was most fami- 
 liar to him for the spirit to think and do always such things 
 as be rightful. 
 
 A few minutes later he was sleeping peacefully, and for 
 the last time the moonlight streamed in through the 
 grated window and lit up his quiet face. Just so had it 
 fallen months before upon him on the night of his first 
 admission to Newgate. Then Bampfield had knelt beside 
 him and prayed ; perchance even now he did the same 
 unseen ; perchance he was able to see that there was no 
 need since the proof that his prayers had been answered 
 lay in the wonderful change which in these months had 
 passed over the face of the sleeper. 
 
 " Very well," said Scroop, cheerfully, as he entered the 
 cell next morning. " You are now dead, sir. As good 
 luck will have it, the governor will be out till evening. I 
 shall mention to him just as he leaves that you are dead, 
 and that your friends have begged your body for burial. 
 No one can now enter the cell but me ; you have nothing 
 to fear, but have only to keep quiet. I have brought you 
 what food I was able to bring without being observed, for 
 the daily dole will not be brought to a corpse." 
 
 " All lies now in your Jiands," said Hugo, anxiously. 
 
328 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 " But there, I trust you, Scroop I have good reason to 
 trust you." 
 
 The jailer gave an inscrutable smile, and went away 
 without another word, locking the door behind him. He 
 went straight to the governor's house. That worthy had 
 business at Edmonton, and was just preparing to ride 
 thither. 
 
 " How now, Scroop ? I cannot see to business," he ex- 
 claimed. " Confound you I can't you see I'm starting on a 
 journey." 
 
 " Tis naught, your honor," said Scroop, deferentially. " I 
 will not detain your honor. I did but just bring you word 
 that young Mr. Wharncliffe is dead. He must have died 
 i' the night, sir; for this morning, going into his cell as 
 usual, I found him cold as any stone. 'Tis passing strange 
 for I could have sworn upon oath last night that he'd have 
 been spared to as many a day to come. But 'tis ever the 
 way, sir. Them as is worth plucking dies first, and such 
 as be not worth a penny lasts till kingdom come." 
 The governor swore a deep oath. 
 
 " There goes a good slice of my income," he said, resent- 
 fully. " Sir William Denham is soft as to the heart and 
 heavy as to the purse. I doubt Mr. Wharncliffe will never 
 know how well his friends have lined my pockets. Do they 
 know of his death ?" 
 
 "Ay, sir; and they wish him to be brought away for 
 burial, an you will permit." 
 
 " Why, confound them! they are welcome to the corpse ! 
 An they like to save us the trouble of putting it in the 
 earth, so much the better. Give me living bodies to grow 
 rich on, not dead ones. I'll have a look at the corpse to- 
 morrow; it is too late now. I can not be delayed." 
 
 Scroop went away well satisfied. All promised well; he 
 was not afraid for the result. He went about all day talk- 
 ing to his brother-jailers of the good source of income 
 which he had lost. He jested about the garnish which he 
 had received from Hugo. He paid up a bet which he had 
 made on the previous night of ten to one on Hugo's recov- 
 ery. And thus the day passed a day of suspense to all 
 the parties concerned, and to the prisoner almost unendur- 
 able. At length the daylight faded, and as darkness once 
 more fell upon the gloomy little room he knew that the 
 crisis of his fate drew near. By and by there were steps 
 without, and the key turned in the lock. He lay motion- 
 less on the bed with closed eyes. Supposing it should not 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 329 
 
 be Scroop? He trembled, and knew that he trembled; it 
 was no easy thing to enact death. Some one came and bent 
 over him, then broke into a laugh. 
 
 " Corpses must lie still, young gentleman," exclaimed 
 Scroop, in a low voice. " An you tremble like that, you'll 
 make the very coffin shake." 
 
 Hugo sat up with a gasp of relief. 
 
 " You gave me a terrible fright," he said, breathlessly. 
 " Ah, it is come then !" 
 
 He looked with rapture at the grim, black coffin which 
 was to prove his salvation. Scroop went into silent con- 
 vulsions of laughter. 
 
 " 'Tis not often one of your sort is so welcome !" he ex- 
 claimed, apostrophizing the coffin with a little patronizing 
 caress. " Sounds as if there was plenty of room, doesn't 
 it?" as the hollow lid resounded to his flippant pat. 
 " Well, sir, in with you. The sooner the better, for your 
 friends wait at the gate." 
 
 Hugo grasped the jailer's rough hand, thanking him fer- 
 vently for all he had done for him, but Scroop cut his fare- 
 wells short, and, brushing a tear from his eye, once more 
 bade him make no delay. 
 
 Then, with a slight shiver, Hugo lay down in the narrow 
 coffin; Scroop, at his request, laid the three books beside 
 him, disposed the woolen shroud so that it should not 
 cover his mouth, and then closed the lid. Hugo gasped 
 for breath. There were air-holes purposely pierced for 
 him. He knew that he should not be suffocated, but yet 
 the darkness and closeness were terrible. Then came the 
 screwing down of the lid, a horrible grating sound close 
 to his head; it was ghastly! It came again at his feet, and 
 again on either side of him; the process seemed endless. 
 At length came a pause. Scroop threw down his imple- 
 ments on the floor, and, unlocking the door, went out. 
 Hugo guessed that he had gone to summon the bearers. 
 He began to grow calmer; all seemed going so smoothly. 
 Surely now there was nothing to fear ! 
 
 All at once his heart began to beat wildly, to thump 
 against his breast so violently that he thought it must be 
 ,-mdible all over the cell. For steps had drawn near, foot- 
 steps too light for Scroop's heavy, shuffling tread. 
 
 " The devil ! what have we here ! Why, nailed up al- 
 ready !" 
 
 It was the voice of the governor of Newgate, and through 
 the air-holes Hugo could see that a light was held close to 
 
330 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 his coffin. There was a terrible pause. Would the fellow 
 hear the beating of his heart ? Could he keep rigidly still 
 when he was in such an agony of fright ? There came the 
 tramp of feet in the corridor. All his friends .were coming, 
 Kupert, Jeremiah, Ducasse, and Sir William's old butler 
 What would happen to them, he wondered, should the 
 trick be discovered. The governor stepped to the door. 
 
 " Why, how now, Scroop, nailed the young fellow up 
 already ? I said I should come and look at him on the 
 morrow ?" 
 
 " 'Tis true, your honor," said Scroop, humbly. " But Sir 
 William Denham sent his men, and begged the body to- 
 night, and as they'd brought the coffin I thought they 
 might as well take the body, and free the room, which 
 your honor remembers is a valuable one." 
 
 " Well, well, 'tis no great matter. Where are his irons ? 
 He wore them an I mistake not." 
 
 " But a light pair, your honor, and, truth to tell, in the 
 haste of the moment I forgot to file them off. But 
 the corpse is not laid out, and no doubt Sir William's 
 servant will restore the shackles, since they must open the 
 coffin." 
 
 " A pest on your laziness ! open the coffin now and take 
 them off here. Don't you know the shackles are the prop- 
 erty of the jail ? I've lost enough in Mr. Wharncliffe, and 
 will not lose the fetters with him into the bargain." 
 
 Scroop, in a terrible fright, went to get a file ; he saw 
 that he had made a fearful mistake ; he cursed his folly. 
 Why had he not said that he had taken the irons off? Why 
 had he not thought of this before ? Were all his plans to 
 be baffled ? Was Hugo to be condemned to perpetual 
 imprisonment for the sake of a pair of shackles ? He was 
 so paralyzed by this unforseen occurrence that his wits 
 forsook him, he could think of no fresh plan. In dogged 
 despair he brought a file, and then slowly began to 
 unscrew the lid of the coffin. 
 
 Again that horrible grating sound. Hugo lay still in si- 
 lent agony; his only hope now was in his being able to 
 feign death. The last screw was at length removed, the 
 lid was raised, a rush of fresh air and red light greeted 
 him as he lay there with closed eyes, the voices which be- 
 fore had sounded thick and muffled now beat loud and 
 clear upon his ears. 
 
 Scroop, seizing the light, placed it at the foot of the 
 coffin and began to file away with all his might at the 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 331 
 
 shackles, Hugo letting bis leg lie limply in his hold, and 
 relieved to feel that his face must be in shadow. The gov- 
 ernor glanced at him. 
 
 " He was a pretty fellow enough," he remarked. " I 
 reckon some maid will have a sore heart for him. That 
 fair Mistress Denham loved him, I dare swear. How now, 
 Scroop, burying his books with him ?" 
 
 " I thought mayhap his friends would like to have them, 
 sir," said the jailer. 
 
 " But be like I should care to have them. You are over- 
 partial to this young gentleman and his friends, and would 
 rob me of my dues." 
 
 He stooped and took up the c< Eepublic of Plato," has- 
 tily glancing through the contents. As he did so the oak- 
 leaf which Algernon Sidney had placed in the book on 
 that spring day in Pensiiurst Park fluttered out from be- 
 tween the pages and fell exactly on Hugo's mouth. He 
 knew what it must be, he could feel the leaf gently mov- 
 ing with every breath he drew ; in another instant the 
 governor must notice it. 
 
 That was the last straw ! he had endured much, but this 
 was too much for him. He fainted away. 
 
 " Well, well/ 5 said the governor, " he seems to have but 
 a dry library. I care not for it. His friends are welcome, 
 to such books as those." 
 
 He placed them in the coffin, and bent down for a last 
 look at the corpse, removing the oak-leaf from its face. 
 As he did so his hand came into contact with the cheek ; 
 it was so icy that he drew back with a shudder. 
 
 " He was too hot last night, and i' faith ! now he's too 
 cold by half I" he remarked, with an uneasy laugh. He 
 felt vaguely sorry for the young life cut off ; he wished 
 that Hugo had lived longer and had put more golden 
 guineas into his pockets. 
 
 When Hugo came to himself all was dark once more, 
 dark and close. He gasped for breath, and involuntarily 
 raised his hand, groping in the darkness. His fingers 
 speedily came into contact with the coffin-lid, and this re- 
 called to him all that had passed. Had he indeed be- 
 trayed himself? had the governor seen that he breathed? 
 The oak-leaf was no longer on his mouth that was certain; 
 the lid was screwed down again, that also was certain. 
 But what if the governor bad insisted on his being buried 
 in the prison grave-yard? What if Scroop, to save himself, 
 should really allow him to be buried alive? The cold sweat 
 
332 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 rose on his forehead at the thought ; it was all he could 
 do not to scream aloud, to shout to all the world that he 
 was alive, when he felt his coffin raised, raised staggeringly 
 on men's shoulders, to be borne whither ? 
 
 The horrible, swaying motion, the lurching first to one 
 side, then to the other, as he was lifted up, made him turn 
 faint once more. When he again came to himself he was 
 being borne swiftly along, and he could distinguish that 
 they were in the street, for there were sounds of horses' 
 hoofs, sounds of wheels, sounds of many feet and many 
 voices. A fresh terror seized him. What if the governor 
 had insisted on sending his corpse to his brother instead 
 of to the Denhams ? That would be worst of all, worse 
 even than the prospect of being buried alive. He tried to 
 make out in what direction he was being carried, but in 
 vain, and it was not until he heard Jeremiah's unmistaka- 
 ble cough echoing sepulchrally beneath him that he began 
 to feel reassured. Jerry, he knew, would die rather than 
 take him to Eandolph. 
 
 And then hope rose again for him, an ecstasy of hope, 
 and he laughed to himself with silent delight as he heard 
 the sweet, shrill voice of a girl chanting the familiar street- 
 cry. 
 
 '* Here are fine golden pippins, who'll buy them, who'll buy ? 
 Nobody in London sells better than L Who'll buy them, 
 who'll buy ?" 
 
 It P took him back to Mondisfield, to that first day when 
 little Evelyn had run after him with the king-pippins. 
 That was in reality only eighteen months ago, but it 
 seemed to him more like eighteen years. And then once 
 more the rapture of the thought that this was the first 
 stage of his journey to Joyce overpowered all else ; he 
 could not definitely think, he could only silently enjoy, 
 feeding on that one consciousness. Suddenly a little addi- 
 tional shaking, and a motion of the coffin which made him 
 feel giddy. He knew that his bearers had taken a turn to 
 the left; they must have turned down Norfolk Street. 
 Soon after a pause, more shaking, while one of the bearers 
 knocked at a door, then muffled voices, and again he was 
 borne on into the house, and deposited jarringly on a ta- 
 ble. How soon would they release him ? he wondered. 
 Not just yet, not till such of the household who were not 
 to be admitted to the secret had gone to bed. The wait- 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 333 
 
 ing seemed long. At length he heard anxious voices say- 
 ing that all was safe. 
 
 " Indeed you ought to delay no longer, sir," said old 
 Thomas. " For the young gentleman was in a swoon 
 when we closed the lid, and who knows if he be recover- 
 ed?" 
 
 Hugo raised his hand and beat on the lid to reassure 
 them. 
 
 Denham laughed. 
 
 " Ay, ay, we hear you," he said. " Come Thomas, be 
 quick and unscrew him, he longs for his resurrection." 
 
 For the second time the lid was lifted ; Hugo, dazzled 
 and exhausted, sat up, flung aside the shroud, and looked 
 about him. There stood his deliverers, the four bearers, 
 very weary with their exertions, for they had carried him 
 a long distance, Sir William with tears of happiness in his 
 eyes, Lady Denham with her motherly greeting, and Mary 
 standing in the background, pale and trembling, but yet, 
 as his eyes met hers, coming forward to greet him with 
 outstretched hand and smiling face. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXVII. 
 
 SUSPENSE. 
 
 Oh dear life! when shall it be 
 That mine eyes thine eyes shall sec. 
 
 And in them thy mind discover ? 
 Whether absence have had force 
 Thy remembrance to divorce 
 
 From the image of thy lover. 
 
 SIB PHILIP SYDNEY. 
 
 THEEE were a thousand things to be discussed and ar- 
 ranged, and first, as Ducasse was preparing to leave, Hugo 
 drew him aside and spoke with him about his master; then, 
 when the French valet had gone home all aglow with the 
 thanks and rewards he had received, Sir William set forth 
 his plan for the next stage of their journey. 
 
 " 'Tis too late for you to pass the city gates without 
 being too narrowly observed," he said; "therefore we think 
 it will be best if you stay here till early morning, when you 
 and Eupert shall ride forth together, and reach Bishop- 
 Stortford before dark, lie there that night, and push on to 
 Mondisfield next day. What think you of that?" 
 
334 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 "You think tlie delay is not dangerous?" asked Hugo, 
 who only longed to set off that minute. 
 
 " Nay, I see not what danger can befall you now. Your 
 brother is not like to get news of your death until to-mor- 
 row, and by the time he comes here you will be far away, 
 and the coffin safely buried." 
 
 " Where is he to be buried ?" asked Rupert, laughing. 
 
 " In our family grave/' said Sir William, who had not 
 undertaken to rescue Hugo without carefully planning all 
 the details of the escape. " I have already asked young 
 Mr. Sachevereil to read the service at twelve at noon, and, 
 by the by, Thomas, it might be as well if you now fetched 
 in the earth. Go help him, Rupert; the box stands in my 
 laboratory." 
 
 Hugo was delighted to help in the filling up of his coffin, 
 and when, for the last time, the lid had been screwed 
 down, they removed it into an adjoining room, and Thomas 
 brought in supper, for which they were all quite ready. 
 It was arranged that Jeremiah should hire two post- 
 horses, and meet Rupert and Hugo in a quiet back street 
 hard by. Here they would mount unseen, and ride off in 
 the early morning before the town was astir. Jeremiah 
 would proceed to Harwich later in the day, after attend- 
 ing the funeral, and Sir William would be fully prepared 
 to receive any remonstrances from Randolph, by remind- 
 ing him that, as he had disowned his brother in life, it 
 was not to be supposed that he would care for him in 
 death. 
 
 All seemed to promise well. Surely now they were 
 secure surely now they might rest on their oars might 
 relax the strained anxiety of the last two days. 
 
 And so, when the old serving-man had gone away, and 
 when Thomas had gone to bed, they drew together over 
 the fire, and talked in low voices of all that had happened 
 during Hugo's long imprisonment, and discussed his 
 future, and spoke of Mondisfield, of Colonel Wharncliffe 
 even of Joyce. It was not, however, until Hugo was left 
 for a few minutes alone with Mary that he could speak free- 
 ly of that which was so near his heart ; he felt so secure of 
 her sympathy and surely this alone was sufficient to give 
 the lie to those words the governor of Newgate had let 
 fall about her. Those words had made Hugo vaguely un- 
 comfortable ; he remembered the change that had imper- 
 ceptibly come over their friendship after he had told her 
 of Joyce ; he remembered now little details of that night 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 335 
 
 at Gray's Inn details which had conveyed nothing to him 
 at that time, but which now returned to him, and filled him 
 with eompunction. Mary's voice startled him out of these 
 thoughts. 
 
 " There is one confession I have to make to you," she 
 said, coloring a little. " When you were recovered from 
 your illness in February, I wrote and told fair Mistress 
 Joyce that it was well with you. I meant to tell you be- 
 fore that I had written. Will you forgive me ?" 
 
 " Why did you write ?" asked Hugo, more and more per- 
 .plexed. 
 
 " I could not bear her to be unhappy,and from your letter 
 she must have been prepared to think of you as dead or 
 dying. I could not see why she need be robbed of all 
 hope. Was I too bold to write? Are you angry with 
 me?" 
 
 " God bless you for it I" he said, taking her hand in his. 
 "You may have saved her much. Oh, Mary, you are our 
 hope-bringer; you brought hope to me in my prison, and 
 you sent it to my dear love in her sorrow." 
 
 At that he choked, and could not say another word. 
 Was there naught left for her, he wondered ? Had she 
 brought hope to them, and was she to be left desolate ? For 
 he could not but perceive now that there was truth in the 
 governor's words, though aware that Mary's love was of a 
 type which would have been incomprehensible to the 
 speaker. Even he himself could not realize that her 
 spiritual love gave her real joy in his joy. He felt troubled 
 for her she divined his thoughts. 
 
 " Do not speak as if I were some martyr, giving all and 
 taking nothing," she said lightly : for so only was it possi- 
 ble to touch on such a subject. " Believe me, Hugo, I have 
 had my share of happiness in what you call the hope- 
 bringing. Why, I brought hope to myself into the bar- 
 gain the hope of saving you, of knowing you would be on 
 your way to Joyce ere another sun goes down. 'Twas the 
 happiest notion ever came to me in a theater, that of your 
 rescue. I hope you are properly grateful to Mr. Shakes- 
 peare, Mr. Killigrew, Mr. Betterton, Mrs. Bracegirdle, and 
 all the actors and actresses who may lay claim to having a 
 finger in this pie." 
 
 " I am grateful to none of them, save you. It was your 
 doing." 
 
 " That is enough to content the soul of any woman," 
 she said, laughingly, yet with a deeper meaning beneath 
 
336 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 the words which she intended him to gather. " I shall 
 have to hand down so brave a compliment as that to 
 Rupert's children and grandchildren, that they may prop- 
 erly respect their kinswoman who rescued a prisoner from 
 Newgate. I did but set the ball a-rolling. Others have 
 had the carrying out, which was far harder." 
 
 " I can not yet take it in," said Hugo, looking dreamily 
 round the familiar room, which seemed so large and luxu- 
 rious after his prison quarters. " I have dreamed it so 
 often thatJE half fear to wake now and find it all unreal." 
 
 " Have "you thought of your future ?" asked Mary. 
 " Shall you stay long at Mondisfield ?" 
 
 " No, that would scarce be wise, with such a neighbor as 
 Sir Peregrine Blake. I shall but stay there a day or two, 
 and then rejoin Jeremiah at Harwich, and make all speed 
 to Amsterdam. They say that is the haven of all exiles 
 now, since the town gallantly refuses to give up refu- 
 gees." 
 
 And then they drifted back to talking of Joyce, and after 
 a time Lady Denham returned with provisions for the jour- 
 ney, and so in preparations and many last words the time 
 passed swiftly by, till at last dawn broke, and Sir William 
 went to rouse liupert, who, as the surest way to keep him 
 sober, had been induced to go to bed. 
 
 Hugo longed for the start, and yet dreaded it. He 
 dreaded saying good-bye to the Denhams. How good they 
 had been to him ! How true and loyal in their friendship! 
 How unlike the rest of the world ! They guessed his feel- 
 ing and made the parting as cheerful as possible, Rupert, 
 as usual, jesting and teasing, Sir William and Lady Den- 
 ham full of kind, hospitable cares, Mary saying little, but 
 holding the spaniel in her arms and keeping him quiet, 
 that he might not disturb the household. 
 
 " If I could only think I should see you all again," said 
 Hugo, huskily, when the farewells had been said. 
 
 " Why, don't lose heart now, of all times," said Rupert, 
 cheerfully. " You'll be coming here ere long, and bring 
 your bride with you, I dare swear." 
 
 They were in the entrance-hall ; Hugo involuntarily 
 glanced at Mary. She smiled, a smile of perfect sympathy, 
 and, seeing that, he turned impulsively, again caught her 
 hand in his, and kissed it ; then, without another word, 
 followed Rupert out into the gray morning twilight. 
 
 All was very still, not a creature stirred in the silent 
 streets. The two did not say much ; there was somehow 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 337 
 
 a solemn feeling about that journey which they had begun. 
 Turning a corner, they came in sight of Jeremiah holding 
 the two horses in rediness for them. They mounted iii 
 haste, and rode away with scarcely a word, for all had 
 heen arranged with the old serving-man beforehand. He 
 watched them out of sight, then returned to Denliams' 
 house, ostensibly to watch beside the coffin, but in reality 
 to collect such things as his young master would need to 
 tike into exile with him. Meanwhile Deriham and Hugo 
 passed through Temple Bar, upon which, among the rows 
 of heads, was set a ghastly looking quarter, but newly added 
 to the grim collection. 
 
 "Yonder is part of the last victim to the Plot," said Den- 
 ham, pointing up with his riding-whip. " 'Twas Sir Thomas 
 Armstrong, who made the mistake of flying to Ley den in- 
 tead of to Amsterdam, and being brought back, was hanged 
 and quartered a few days since." 
 
 Hugo shuddered. 
 
 " I heard St. Sepulchre's bell toll," he said. "But they 
 did not tell me whom it was for." 
 
 The news saddened him, and made him apprehensive; he 
 did not breathe freely till they had left the city behind 
 them, passed out through Bishopsgate, and gained the free, 
 Open country. Then the rapture of escape and the con- 
 sciousness of comparative safety overpowered all other 
 thoughts, and his spirits rose to the highest pitch. How 
 beautiful was this country road along which he had last 
 ridden a handcuffed prisoner, how green the grass was, 
 how wide the great blue expanse of sky ! Accustomed to the 
 blank, white walls of a cell, he was almost intoxicated by 
 the mere delight of color, the rich brown earth freshly 
 plowed, the red brick of the cottages, the fresh spring green 
 of the trees, the golden glory of buttercups and celandines. 
 He was like one who, returning from a long sea-voyage, 
 greets the earth anew, comes to it once more as to a fresh 
 paradise. He could have laughed with delight at the mere 
 sight of of the green fields, flat Essex fields though they 
 were; the sun just rising threw its level beams over the 
 wide landscape, the fresh morning air made mere breathing 
 a pleasure; he was free once more, free and on his way to 
 his love what wonder that the dark past fled from him 
 like a dream of the night. 
 
 After a while, hungry with their early ride, they drew 
 rein and paused beside a field-gate to do justice to Lady 
 Denham's provisions, while their horses cropped the grass 
 
338 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 by the roadside. A flock of sheep were feeding in the 
 level, green pasturage. Hugo watched them with a sort 
 of fascination ; the white, woolly creatures had never 
 seemed beautiful to him before, but to-day he could not 
 look long enough at them, even the cracked sheep-bell was 
 musical, the baaing and bleating of the lambs was more 
 delicious to his ears than the finest concert. 
 
 Then on once more through the green lanes and flowery 
 banks, past hamlet and village, waste land and town, until 
 at length in the evening they reached Bishop-Stortford, 
 and, avoiding the inn at which he had slept when brought 
 there as a prisoner, made their way to a smaller hos- 
 telry. 
 
 Then they both began to feel that the escape had tired 
 them. They supped at once and made all speed to bed, 
 nor troubled themselves at all with thoughts of pursuit or 
 discovery, but slept all night with never a dream to disturb 
 their peace. All had gone on smoothly, why should they 
 fear now ? Surely all risk was over ? 
 
 " Fresh as a daisy," was Rupert's greeting, when Hugo 
 came down the next morning. "Your lady-love will scarce 
 believe your dismal tales of Newgate dungeons, an you go 
 to her looking like that." 
 
 " Have you ordered the horses ?" asked Hugo, eagerly, 
 only longing to start without delay. 
 
 " Ay, ay, they will be here anon ; but odds-fish, man, 
 you would not have us go on empty stomachs ! Come, sit 
 down and make a good meal ; here is trout such as I'll 
 warrant you have not tasted in jail." 
 
 They were sitting in the inn parlor, a comfortable, wain- 
 scoted room, with the ceiling supported by oaken beams, 
 and the window gay with spring flowers. They were very 
 merry over their breakfast ; Denham told his latest stories, 
 and they laughed over them as they had never had the 
 heart to laugh when he bad visited his friend in Newgate. 
 For atmosphere makes a great difference, and what atmos- 
 phere could be more exhilarating than that of the cozy 
 parlor at Bishop-Stortford on the morning on which Hugo 
 was to return to Mondisfield. 
 
 "And so," concluded Rupert, "as the king played at 
 Pall Mall in the Park, there came to him at the most ill- 
 convenient of times one who brought him news " he broke 
 off abruptly, for Hugo had turned ashy pale, and had 
 grasped his arm. 
 
 " Hush !" he cried, " for God's sake, listen !" 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 339 
 
 Denham, much alarmed, held his breath. Some one 
 was coming down the stairs, and talking meanwhile to the 
 servant. 
 
 " A pest on your foolish pate did I not bid you have 
 breakfast ready for me long ere this ? Let it be served 
 forthwith, you lazy varlefc. What's that? What do you 
 say ?" 
 
 The voice was not to be mistaken, Rupert knew that 
 without doubt it was the voice of Randolph Wharncliffe. 
 He was confounded. In all his life he had never known 
 such a horrible moment. Not dreaming of pursuit, they 
 had walked into a trap, had by ill-luck actually thrown 
 themselves into Randolph's arms. 
 
 But long training in adversity had taught Hugo wisdom. 
 A year before he would have lost his head, would infalli- 
 bly have been taken as he was at the table. He had not 
 lived through those months of misery for nothing. Quick 
 as lightning he sprung forward; in one glance he had 
 taken in the whole of the room, and, before Denham Lad 
 time to wonder what he was about to do, had sought the 
 sole shelter the place afforded. By the side of the hearth 
 was a cupboard; he flung open the door, glanced in, saw 
 that amid fagots, mops, tallow dips, and rushlights was 
 just room for him to hide, and without a moment's hesita- 
 tion sprung in. Denham, darting forward, locked the 
 door upon him and put the key in his pocket; then, with 
 an agility which would have made any spectator laugh, 
 rushed back to his place at the table, and, when the door 
 of the parlor opened, had his face well buried in a huge 
 tankard of ale. 
 
 As he drunk he thought he was not good at forming 
 schemes on the spur of the moment, but now his despera- 
 tion and determination that, come what might, he must 
 save his friend, stimulated Liin to unwonted exertion. As 
 an actor he was in his element, and, the plan once formed, 
 he might be trusted to carry it through with credit. 
 
 "First-rate home-brewed, that!" he remarked, setting 
 down the tankard, and stooping to wipe his mouth on the 
 table-cloth. 
 
 " What, Denham !" exclaimed Randolph Wharncliffe, who 
 had come into the room, and was looking discontentedly 
 at the table, which showed no preparation for his break- 
 fast. 
 
 Then he remembered that since his conduct to Hugo the 
 Denhams had had nothing to say to him, and he turned 
 
340 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 away with an oath, vexed that he had been startled into a 
 greeting which would not be returned. 
 
 " I did not think to meet you here," said Denham, in a 
 grave voice. The voice was so unlike his own that Ran- 
 dolph turned and looked at him. Rupert was paler than 
 usual, his face was sterner. 
 
 " I am on my way to Newmarket," said Randolph, sur- 
 prised that his first remark should have called for any 
 response. Then, with an uneasy attempt at jovial care- 
 lessness, " And, by the by, now I think of it, I am in your 
 debt. Do you remember the supper we had a year last 
 October in that country inn ?" 
 
 "Ay," said Denham, gravely. " I remember." 
 
 " An I recollect aright, you took twenty to one that 
 Hugo would never succeed at court. Well, I own myself 
 beaten. Hugo hath failed miserably, hath defeated all my 
 hopes." 
 
 " Ay, he hath defeated them in a way you little reck- 
 oned on," said Denham, with an angry flash in his dark 
 eyes. " Sir, I must speak plainly with you. I did not 
 think to meet you here, but I am the bearer of a message 
 which perchance will not be wholly welcome to your ears." 
 
 " Do not trouble yourself to deliver messages from 
 Hugo. Have I not told you that I have disowned him ? 
 He is naught to me. Quit the subject, sir, at once. I 
 will hearken to no message from him." 
 
 " You will never have to hearken to words of his again," 
 said Denham, looking him full in the face. " I am the 
 bearer of a message to you, but not from him. My father 
 thought you ought to be informed that your brother is 
 dead," 
 
 " Dead !" exclaimed Randolph, incredulously. 
 
 " Dead," repeated Denham, in his coldest voice. " But 
 really, sir, it can be a matter of little interest to you, see- 
 ing that you have ceased to regard him as one of your kith 
 and kin." 
 
 Randolph made no reply, but fell back in the nearest 
 chair. His face had become livid. Rupert continued, 
 rather cruelly : 
 
 " I suppose his death disconcerts your plans. 'Dead 
 men tell no tales,' as the proverb hath it. In this case, 
 dead men can unfortunately, not give evidence. An you 
 wished your brother to do that, you should not have left 
 him to pine away his life in Newgate." 
 
 Randolph made no reply, but feeling Denham's reproach- 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 ful gaze intolerable, be bent forward and bid bis face in bis 
 bands. 
 
 Tbere was a knock at the door. Denbain, thinking it 
 came from tbe cupboard, started violently. Tbe servant 
 entered, set down a pile of plates on tbe table, and tben, to 
 Denbam's dismay, crossed tbe room and tried to open tbe 
 cupboard door. 
 
 " Don't loiter about in here," be said, sharply ; " get 
 what you want elsewhere, tbis gentleman does not wisb to 
 be disturbed; he batb private affairs to discuss wit lime/ 
 
 "Your pardon, sir, 'tis but a fagot I want from tbe cup 
 board; but drat tbe door, I do declare it must be be- 
 witched." 
 
 " D n you and tbe fagots too 1" said Kupert, wrathfully. 
 " Get you gone," and fetch your firing from elsewbere. Can 
 you not see tbat tbis gentleman wishes to be alone ?" 
 
 Tbe servant glanced at tbe bowed figure, and witb a 
 sbrug of tbe sboulders left tbe room. Denbam breatbed 
 more freely. But tbe danger was by no means past. Ran- 
 dolpb raised a baggard face wben tbe door bad closed be- 
 hind tbe servant. 
 
 " How did be die ?" he asked, hoarsely. 
 
 " He bad bad one of his ague-fits the day before, and 
 next morning Scroop, tbe jailer, went into bis cell and 
 found him cold as a stone. Tbe only wonder is tbat be 
 batb survived so much." 
 
 "Curse their folly!" said Kandolpb, bitterly. "They 
 told me he was better they told me he got daily stronger. 
 They told me be was well lodged and well fed and tbat 
 you did all that was permitted for bis comfort." 
 
 "That was true enough," said Rupert. "We did what 
 we could and for Newgate be was not ill-lodged. But 
 you know what this winter hath been. Three prisoners 
 died before him in the same room. Was Hugo such a Her- 
 cules that he should live wben all others perished ? You 
 know well enough tbat his strength never was anything to 
 boast of. Why, even old Busby bad to temper his floggings 
 when Hugo was in question. You should have taken a 
 leaf out of bis book." 
 
 To his surprise Randolph's hard face began to work 
 convulsively. Again he bowed his head. There was 
 silence in the room, broken only by tbe strong man's sobs. 
 
 In the meantime, from bis hiding-place, Hugo bad 
 watched tbe whole scene. Tremblingly be had seen Ran- 
 
342 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 dolph's entrance, had listened for Eupert's first words, 
 upon which so much would hang. 
 
 It was long months since he had last seen his brother ; 
 he watched him intently, and instinctively knew that the 
 change in his expression was a change for the worse. But 
 yet the sight of him moved him greatly moved him so 
 much that he forgot his fear, forgot the terrible risk he 
 ran,forgotthat everything depended on the interview which 
 he was watching. It was so strange to be thus an unseen 
 spectator that he really felt as though he were dead as if 
 Ruperts's words were strictly true. He listened with 
 the strangest feeling to the account of his own illness 
 and death ; he watched Randolph's face with interest 
 and sympathy, even with a sort of joy. After all, 
 his brother had not then in reality disowned him. 
 He had uttered the cold words, but in his heart had all the 
 lime cared for him. He grieved for him now grieved for 
 him, not for the defeat of his own plans ; that was cruel of 
 Rupert to suggest such a thing Randolph's face gave the 
 lie to any idea of the kind. When he saw him bow his 
 head to hide his grief from Denh ana's stern gaze, it was all 
 he could do not to make his presence known. How could 
 he let his brother suffer thus? How could he let him live 
 all his life long with this weight upon his conscience ? It 
 was intolerable. He must reveal himself, must put un 
 end to tli is ghastly farce. 
 
 At that moment the entrance of the servant had scattered 
 all his thoughts to the winds. He suddenly realized what 
 discovery would mean. It would mean terrible danger to 
 all who had befriended him, it would mean risk to Colonel 
 Wharncliffe, it would mean an end to all hopes of seeing 
 Joyce. For Randolph would never forgive the deception 
 that had been practiced on him. 
 
 Panic seized Hugo as the servant shook and rattled the 
 cupboard door ; his breath came fast and hard, great drops 
 of perspiration stood on his forehead. The servant left the 
 room, but there was no knowing that he would not return, 
 here was no knowing that Randolph's suspicion might not 
 be awakened by so strange a circumstance as a cupboard 
 door which would not open and a traveler who had left his 
 breakfast half eaten. Through the keyhole he could see 
 all with terrible distinctness ; the chair which he had 
 lately occupied pushed back, the unfinished plate of fish, 
 the fragment of a manchet ; Randolph sitting opposite al 
 this, unobservant as yet, his face hidden by the long cur 1 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 wig which drooped low on the table ; Denham glaring 
 across at him, anxiety, fear, perplexity, all contending for 
 the mastery in his face for, as his enemy's head was 
 bowed for an instant, he had ceased to be an actor, was 
 simply the embarrassed friend, scheming in vain to get 
 this dangerous man off the premises. Hugo watched it all 
 as if he had been watching a scene at the play ; the sun- 
 shine crept in through the lattice window and lit up Ran- 
 dolph's gray doublet and crimsoin baldrick, gleamed too 
 on the hilt of his sword. Every detail was keenly noted 
 by the silent watcher. He even noticed the silver-handled 
 riding-whip with the same heavy leathern throng which 
 he had good reason to remember. How handsome Den- 
 harn looked, too, with his merry face, grave and stern, with 
 anxious thought in the usually careless eyes ! 
 
 Once more a servant entered, this time a comely girl in 
 red petticoat, gray cloth waistcoat, gray linsey-woolsey 
 apron, scarlet neckerchief knotted in front, and snowy cap. 
 She too had a try at the cupboard door. By this time 
 Hugo had grown philosophic, had schooled himself into 
 quiet, almost into indifference. The girl gave it up, and, 
 going to the table, began to clear a place for Randolph. 
 
 "You have finished, sir?" she said, turning to Denhani. 
 
 ".Ay, clear the decks," he said, carelessly. 
 
 " The other young gentleman, sir, hath he done ?" 
 
 " Ay, he has done too." 
 
 Randolph looked up. 
 
 " You are not alone, then ?" he asked, glancing across the 
 table. 
 
 " Yes, I am alone," said Denham, coolly. " But, as ill- 
 luck would have it, I .fell in with an old acquaintance on 
 the road, and he chose to put up at this inn, which, in 
 truth, is not so good a one as the other lower down. He 
 was on his way to Newmarket, but I need accompany him 
 no further on the road, for now that I have found you I 
 shall return to London." 
 
 " I will go with you," said Randolph, raising a tankard 
 of ale to his lips with a hand that visibly trembled. " I 
 must attend my brother's funeral." 
 
 " Then if we mean to do that we must lose no time," 
 said Denham. " I rode off in haste, but there was a ru- 
 mor in the house that the funeral would have to take place 
 speedily. Unless we start off at once I doubt we shall be 
 too late." 
 
 " I am ready to follow you," said Randolph. " I have 
 
344 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 no stomach for breakfast after your ill news. Denham, 
 before God, I swear that I never dreamed imprisonment 
 could harm a hair of his head. I meant him but to stay 
 there till he yielded." 
 
 Denham looked him in the face. 
 
 "Then you might have known that you were dooming 
 him to stay there all his life," he said, sternly. " How 
 should such as Hugo yield to you? How should light be 
 conquered by darkness ? But come, we waste time, let us 
 have the horses round and be off at once. If I speak 
 plainly, you must pardon me; a man does not lightly lose 
 a friend like Hugo." 
 
 Before long the horses were ready, the bills paid, the 
 servants feed. All was quiet in the inn-parlor. Randolph 
 had already mounted. Hugo in his cupboard could hear 
 the horses pawing impatiently. He wondered much what 
 would happen to him how he was to be released. Den- 
 ham's loud voice penetrated to his still retreat. 
 
 " Ay," he said, " I am ready at last. Oh, bide a bit, 
 though. Where the devil is my tobacco-pouch ? I must 
 have left it in the parlor. Bide on, an you will; I will 
 overtake you." 
 
 The horses' hoofs were plainly heard without. Randolph 
 must indeed have started. Then came quick footsteps in 
 the passage, and Denham rushed into the room, unlocked 
 the door in a trice, arid dragged out his friend. 
 
 " Safe !" he gasped. " Make all speed to Mondisfield, 
 and fly the country as soon as may be. Things may leak 
 out; do not linger." 
 
 Then, before Hugo could speak one word of thanks, 
 before he could even bid him farewell, he was oft once more, 
 and the next minute Hugo saw him pass the window on 
 his horse, making all the haste he could to rejoin Ran- 
 dolph. 
 
 Hugo locked the cupboard, dropped the key at a little 
 distance, then called boldy for his bill, ordered his horse to 
 be brought to the door, packed his saddle-bags, and in an- 
 other quarter of an hour had left Bishop-Stortford behind 
 him, and was on his way to Mondisfield. 
 
 At first thoughts of Randolph disturbed his peace, but 
 soon all faded save the consciousness that he was on his 
 way to Joyce, that ere the sun went down her sorrow would 
 be ended, that in a few hours' time he should once more 
 clasp her to his heart, tell her how he had kept his promise, 
 and had come back as she had bidden him. He was tired, 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 345 
 
 desperately tired, for the strain of the last few days had 
 been great, and the long ride was exhausting, spite of the 
 hope which kept him up. Yet how different was the pain 
 and weariness from that which he had endured on the 
 summer day when he had last ridden along that road. His 
 heart danced within him as he galloped on, passed the 
 wayside cottages, through the village where the children 
 had given him the water, over the heathy plain, till at 
 length the cross-roads were reached, and he knew that 
 there was but a mile to Mondisiield. 
 
 The horse began to show symptoms of fatigue, for he had 
 had a hard journey, and but little rest; and as to the rider, 
 he was so worn out that he could hardly keep his seat. He 
 bent low over the horse's neck, too weary to sit upright, 
 and yet, spite of all, his heart was bounding with happi- 
 ness. Had he not been so physically exhausted he would 
 have sung aloud for very gladness. They were going at a 
 foot pace, for the ground sloped a little, when all at once 
 they came to the old black barn by the roadside. Hugo's 
 heart gave a great throb of joy as he caught sight of it. 
 Then slowly they rounded the corner, and came in sight of 
 the three elm-trees at the gate of Mondisfield Park. 
 
 " My God !" he exclaimed. " My God !" 
 
 Griffith might have been shocked, yet the ejaculation was 
 but the natural outburst of a heart filled to overflowing 
 with long-deferred joy. 
 
 For on the grassy mound at the foot of the trees sat 
 Joyce. Joyce with her light curls gently stirred by the 
 wind, with her sweet face gravely bent over a hatful of 
 primroses which she was sorting and tying in bunches. 
 Very sweet, but very wistful, did she look. He had time 
 to note the change in her ere she looked up, indeed. 
 he was close to her before she became aware of the 
 horse's hoofs on the road, and raised her eyes to see 
 whether by chance it might be the post with a letter from 
 her father. 
 
 Ah ! what was this ? She saw him, she recognized him, 
 but yet made no movement toward him, uttered no cry of 
 joy, smiled no smile of relief, but, rising to her feet, stood, 
 with wide-open eyes and blanched face, clutching at one of 
 the trees as though to support herself. She was not glad 
 to see him ; she was terrified, Oh, what had happened ? 
 There surely could be but one thing which would make 
 her fear to meet him. 
 
 He was conscious of a sharp stab of pain at his heart, then 
 
316 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 of a wild, blind impulse which made him throw himself 
 
 from his horse and rush toward her. 
 
 " Joyce !" he cried, "Joyce ! my love ! my love !" 
 
 She shrunk back, trembling, white, terrified. It was 
 
 more than he could endure ; with a low cry he fell forward 
 
 fell on the grass at her feet. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 UNDER THE APPLE-TKEES. 
 
 Wept they had, alas the while ! 
 But now tears themselves did smile. 
 While their eyes, by love directed, 
 Interchangeably reflected. 
 
 SIB PHILIP SYDNEY. 
 
 IN those days, at any rate in those remote country dis- 
 tricts, the belief in ghosts was much more prevalent than 
 in the nineteenth century. Joyce, looking up from her 
 primroses on that spring afternoon, and seeing before her 
 what she took to be a white phantom horse, with the 
 wraith of her lover, shrunk back in unconquerable dread. 
 Her heart beat so fast that it nearly stifled her, she stared 
 in dread fascination at the spectral figure, which was Hugo 
 and yet which was not Hugo, for the face was pale and 
 transparent, the eyes shone strangely he looked alto- 
 gether unearthly. 
 
 It was now five months since the tidings of his death 
 had reached her; the news-letter which contradicted the 
 intelligence had been lost in one of the winter storms; 
 Mary's letter had shared the same fate; it was impossible 
 that she could think this sudden return anything but an 
 apparition from the other world, or an hallucination of the 
 brain. 
 
 The rapture in her lover's face, the radiant joy depicted 
 there, his changed voice, his altered form, all tended to 
 confirm her mistake, strangely enough it was not until she 
 saw that look of joy replaced by one of agony that she be- 
 gan to doubt not until she saw him fall to the ground at 
 her feet, that she was suddenly convinced that this was 
 Hugo in the flesh, no dread visitant from another world, 
 but her own lover, wearied with a long journey, worn with 
 illness and imprisonment. 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 347 
 
 She burst into tears, and hurrying forward managed to 
 turn his face to the light, hoping that the fresh spring 
 wind would revive Lim; she chafed his cold hands, she 
 called to him, broken-hearted to think what pain she must 
 have unwittingly have given him how cruel a welcome 
 had been his. 
 
 And so, presently, amid rushing and booming in his ears 
 as once more he struggled back to life, Hugo became 
 aware of a sweet voice broken with sobs. How piteous 
 and yet how delicious it was ! he could not stir, he 
 dreaded breaking that magic spell. 
 
 " Hugo ! Hugo 1" she cried. " Dear love ! Sweetheart ! 
 How cold, how hateful, I must have seemed to you. Oh, 
 how could I think it your wraith ? Yet they told me you 
 were dead. Hugo. Ah, you stir, you sigh ? Dear love, 
 speak to me speak !" 
 
 Kneeling beside him on the grass, she rained tears and 
 kisses on his face; he opened his eyes; was it only the vis- 
 ion that had so often come to him in Newgate, of Joyce 
 kneeling beside him in the copse by the Suffolk roadside 
 on the day of the duel ? He looked at the sweet, tear- 
 stained face, and knew how different the vision was, for 
 now she was his own all his own ! At the thought new 
 life, new strength took possession of him. He sprung up, 
 wroth with himself for having alarmed her. She had 
 thought him dead, and his sudden return was almost 
 enough to kill her. At the thought he was once again all 
 strength and manly tenderness. 
 
 " My dear one, did they send you false tidings of my 
 death ?" he cried. " Had I but known, I would have 
 written, would not for the world have broken on you thus 
 suddenly." 
 
 She wanted no explanation, it was enough for her to feel 
 his arms round her, enough to know that he was alive, 
 free, and once more at Mondisfield. 
 
 There was a timeless pause, into which no fears or cares 
 obtruded themselves, all but love and joy was crowded out; 
 the two so long parted had each other once more and were 
 unconscious of aught else in the world. It was the white 
 horse which at length started Joyce into some recollection 
 of place. 
 
 They were close to the public road; a vague instinct of 
 danger came to trouble her perfect peace. 
 
 " Dear one," she said, " are you safe from pursuit ?" 
 
 " I can not tell for how long," he said, with a sigh. "But 
 
843 IN HE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 at present I am safe. For the next day or two I remain 
 here, if your father will permit me." 
 
 " My father is abroad, at Amsterdam. You must come 
 and let my mother bid you welcome," said Joyce. " Do 
 not let us linger so near the road, it may be prudent to 
 keep your visit from the village folk." 
 
 " You are right/' he said, anxiety once more returning 
 to him. And yet there was a certain sweetness in feeling 
 that she shared in the anxiety, there was bliss in seeing 
 how already she thought for him, planned for him. He led 
 in the white horse which all the time had been dining 
 comfortably on the long grass by the wayside, and Joyce 
 walked beside him up the drive till they came in sight of 
 the dear old house, with its brown-tiled roof, its salmon- 
 pink front, its familiar windows. He told her some of the 
 details of his escape, and then they conferred together as 
 to the best way of making his presence known to Mrs. 
 Wharncliffe. In the end Joyce persuaded him to let her 
 run on quickly to the house, while he left his horse in the 
 stable-yard. He could hardly bear to let her go out of his 
 sight, but she was afraid the sudden shock might be bad 
 for her mother, and, remembering how her father had bid 
 her on the last night to be in all things her mother's 
 helper, she could not even now let her happiness make 
 her careless. 
 
 They were all of them country girls, could ride, run, and 
 swim to perfection ; but Joyce had never run so fast as on 
 that day ; her cheeks were glowing, her eyes beaming 
 with joy, when she threw open the door of the south par- 
 lor. Mrs. Wharncliffe could only look at her in astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 " Mother dear," said Joyce, kneeling beside her, and try- 
 ing to speak calmly, " there is no fresh news from father, 
 but yet good news has come to-day to Mondisfield." 
 
 " Has the post been here ?" asked Mrs. Wharncliffe. 
 
 " Not the post," said Joyce. " Much better than a mere 
 letter. Oh, mother darling, it was all a mistake; the news- 
 letter did but publish a false rumor about Hugo. He is 
 alive, he is free, he is here !" 
 
 Waiting only for her mother's close embrace, scarcely 
 hearing her words of surprise and delight, Joyce flew 
 away, for her quick ear had detected steps upon the gravel 
 outside. In another minute she returned ; Mrs. Wharn- 
 cliffe had risen to meet them, but paused, thinking perhaps 
 it were well that her welcome of Hugo should be in the south 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 349 
 
 parlor rather than at the front door. Once more the door was 
 opened ; she saw her little girl flushed, eager, radiant with 
 happiness, and beside her, holding her hand, walked Hugo. 
 She gave him a mother's greeting, then drew back a step, 
 looking at him with a long, searching look. It was Hugo, 
 yet not Hugo. Her feeling was, after all, not unlike Joyce's 
 when she had first caught sight of him. The dreamy, 
 philosophic youth, the boy who had yielded to that dread 
 temptation in the gallery, the lad who had afterward so 
 nearly succumbed to his brother's will when Colonel Wharn- 
 cliffe lay in hiding, was no more. Not a year had passed 
 since that dread summer day, but the time had been long 
 enough with Hugo. He looked many years older, he had 
 come back to Mondisfield a man. The broad forehead and 
 the quiet eyes were pure as ever, but shone with a light 
 that was new and strange; the loyalty which had once be- 
 longed solely to Randolph had deepened and widened. He 
 was no longer the blind tool of another, but the devoted 
 love, the noble constancy, had been turned into its true 
 course. 
 
 It is ever those who are willing to lose their life that 
 shall verily find it ; and that which was true and good, 
 even though misdirected in the old life, shall be truer and 
 better in the new. For man's life is like a stream ; pain 
 and trial are but the dams which drive back the water to 
 . its rightful channel and that which was pure and spark- 
 ling on its way to the black morass is pure and bright and 
 a thousandfold stronger when, turned in its course, it 
 joins the river and is borne on seaward. 
 
 " Hugo," said Mrs. Wharncliffe, with a smile, after the 
 first greetings and questions were over, " will you blame 
 me if I treat you now at once as my son ? In truth I was 
 in sore need of one to help-me, for in three days' time we 
 leave this place and rejoin my husband." 
 
 " You are to go to Holland !'' exclaimed Hugo, with de- 
 light. " Then you will let me travel with you, and serve 
 you so far as I am able. I do not think my brother is like- 
 ly to insist on exhuming my body, and in no other way is 
 the truth likely to be betrayed ; therefore I do not think 
 my presence could in any way endanger you." 
 
 " In truth you will be the greatest comfort," said Mrs. 
 Wharncliffe, " for you know the world and the ways of trav- 
 eling, whereas I for many years have never been further 
 than to St. Edmondsbury in my own coach. But, come ! 
 we must not keep you here talking of the future, I will 
 
350 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 show you to the guest-chamber, and you, little Joyce, run 
 and bid them bring in supper speedily. Hugo must be 
 hungry after his long ride." 
 
 Hugo changed his dusty traveling dress for one of the 
 fresh suits which the Denhams had prepared for him. He 
 took great pleasure in donning clothes which had never 
 seen theinside of Newgate, and the mere consciousness that 
 he was once more in a free, open country-house was in itself 
 exquisite. How pure and sweet the old guest-chamber 
 seemed to him, how fresh the wainscoted walls, the chintz 
 curtains, the white bed in its deep recess ! And about all 
 was that indescribable smell of the country which, ever no- 
 ticeable to townbred folk, was doubly delicious to Hugo 
 after his long imprisonment. It made him think of the 
 scene in the " House Beautiful," which he knew almost by 
 heart from constant reading: "The pilgrim they laid in 
 a large, upper chamber, whose window opened toward the 
 sun-rising; the name of the chamber was Peace." 
 
 Presently in the country stillness he caught the sounds 
 of a child's merry voice, and knew that it must be little 
 Evelyn. Going down the broad oak staircase, he made his 
 way to the hall, but, before any painful recollections could 
 return to him, his thoughts were altogether diverted by 
 the eager welcome which he received from every one of 
 his cousins. They could not make enough of him ; the joy 
 of his return from what they had deemed the grave over- 
 powered their natural shyness. Taken up with the anxiety 
 to do honor to the man who had saved their father, they 
 forgot themselves, forgot to wonder whether he would 
 think them rustic and countriried, forgot to be afraid of 
 the courtly London gentleman even when most conscious 
 how different he was from the bluff country squires around. 
 It was worth all that Hugo had been through to sit at that 
 cheerful supper-table in the old hall with those happy 
 faces beaming on him, with Joyce by his side, with the 
 mother at the head of the table, anxious and careworn, but 
 yet with such deep relief on her brow. 
 
 Later on Mrs. Wharncliffe sat with him in the north par- 
 lor, and he gave her a more detailed account of his im- 
 prisonment than he had cared to give before the rest of 
 the family. Then when her questions had all been an- 
 swered, and there came a momentary pause in the conver- 
 sation, he raised his quiet gray eyes to her face with the 
 question which he had been longing to put to her ever 
 since his arrival. 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 351 
 
 "Joyce has told you of our love, inadame," he began, 
 steadying his voice witfe some difficulty. " Your welcome 
 makes me hope that you will not wholly forbid my suit. 
 Will you pardon me for having spoken to her ere asking 
 your consent ? I thought I should never see her again 
 I was carried away I could not keep silence." 
 
 "I will not say that I did not regret it at first," said 
 Mrs. Wharncliffe, smiling. " I deemed Joyce over young. 
 But I do not blame you for speaking that day I well 
 understand that you could not bear to leave the place 
 without telling her." 
 
 " Yes, it was that," said Hugo, eagerly. " The going 
 away forever, as I thought, and never telling her that 
 'twas love of her that made it sweet, that 'twas love of her 
 that gave me strength to resist." 
 
 " And are you still sure of your own mind ?" asked 
 Mrs. Wharncliffe. " You have seen much of the world, 
 you have doubtless met many women more brilliant than 
 my little country maid. Are you quite sure that you do 
 well, in all seriousness, to ask her to be your wife ?" 
 
 " Of that I could never doubt," he said, eagerly " My 
 only doubt is whether I am fit for her. I can never forget 
 how in this house I was once a treacherous guest, how all 
 this misery hath been wrought by me." 
 
 Looking at him, Mrs. Wharncliffe saw that it was not 
 alone the illness and the hardships of Newgate which had 
 made him so many years older. Men do not repent as 
 Hugo had repented, and yet bear no traces of the agony. 
 There was something reverential in her manner as she 
 kissed his forehead. 
 
 " My dear son," she said, " did you deem yourself wholly 
 fit, perhaps I might hesitate. But methinks you have 
 learned in these months that which to my mind makes all 
 the pain and misery worth while. Eight gladly shall I 
 intrust to you my little maid." 
 
 So the next morning, when Joyce went out with her 
 basket of grain to feed the pigeons, Hugo strolled out into 
 the pleasance. The turf felt like velvet beneath his feet, 
 the thick box hedge, with its sweet, indescribable smell, 
 brought back to his remembrance the grassy walks in the 
 garden at Penshurst; but that morning even sorrow was 
 sweet he could think of his friend as at peace, working 
 perhaps in some larger sphere and safe forever from his 
 enemies. Musing thus, he passed the willow arbor and the 
 sun-dial, and made his way along the grassy applc-v.\ilL-. 
 
352 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 Presently a whir of wings made him look through the 
 trees to the red-tiled pigeon-cote. There was a sudden dis- 
 persion, for the pigeons had had their breakfast, and Joyce, 
 with her empty basket, appeared at the end of the walk. 
 She wore a white linen gown with large puffed sleeves, and 
 in her waistband she had fastened a little bunch of prim- 
 roses; her sunny hair was hidden by a blue French hood, 
 all but the curls, which invariably strayed over her rounded 
 forehead. She saw him and smiled, and the beautiful color 
 rose in her cheeks. 
 
 As he watched her framed in that sweet vista of green 
 grass, and overarching trees laden with pink and white 
 blossom, he knew that for him there could be in the whole 
 world no fairer sight. They met without a word, with only 
 one long, silent embrace. Then he put her gently from 
 him, much as he had done on the summer day in the north 
 parlor when recollections of Randolph had broken in upon 
 that momentary bliss. 
 
 " Will you spare me a little time," he asked, " now that 
 the pigeons are fed? There is much that I would fain say 
 to you." 
 
 " Then say it here," she said, smiling, " for this is the 
 place of all others I love best." 
 
 They sat down on the grassy bank by the side of the 
 moat, but Hugo's words did not come readily. For the first 
 time Joyce felt a little afraid of him. Half shyly she took 
 the primroses from her band and fastened them in his 
 doublet, then made as though she would have taken them 
 away again. 
 
 " Do you take back your gifts ?" he asked, smiling. 
 
 "No; but you shall have other flowers violets, ane- 
 mones; but not primroses. They make me think of the 
 time beneath the elms when I did not know you. Dear 
 love! I shall never forgive myself that cold greeting. I 
 ohall ever hate the sight of primroses." 
 
 " Nay, hate them not," he said, quietly. " And, in truth, 
 they meet my case right well. Do you know, my heart, 
 the lines which the poet Carew wrote on the primrose ?" 
 
 Joyce did not know them ; the only poets she knew were 
 Milton and Shakespeare. She listened intently while her 
 lover repeated the sweet old poem : 
 
 ,. "Ask me why I send you here 
 This firstling of the infant year ; 
 Ask me why I send to you 
 This primrose all bepearled with dew ; 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 353 
 
 I straight will whisper in your ears, 
 
 The sweets of love are washed with tears. 
 
 Ask me why this flower doth show 
 
 So yellow green, and sickly too ; 
 
 Ask me why the stalk is weak 
 
 And bending, yet it doth not break ; 
 
 I must tell you these discover 
 
 What doubts and fears are in a lover." 
 
 " Tis beautiful ; but what have you to do with doubts 
 and fears ?" said Joyce. " You may lay aside all fear of 
 pursuit for to-day, at least. And the doubts and fears of 
 a lover ! Why, Hugo, you can never have those. Have I 
 ever given you cause to be troubled with those ?" 
 
 There was such a heavenly light in her eyes raised to his, 
 such exquisite tenderness in the dimpled face, with its 
 tiny mouth and rounded cheeks, that it was all Hugo could 
 do not to fold her once more in that close embrace. 
 
 " Dear love," he said, after a silence, "there is no need 
 to tell you that you have all my heart, that I have loved 
 you ever since our first meeting. But it is but fitting that 
 you should once more gravely consider whether you do 
 well to give yourself to me. Kemember that you are now 
 free free as ever for my letter writ in Newgate unloosed 
 you from any promise you made before. Your mother 
 gives me leave to speak to you thus openly; will you 
 listen?" 
 
 " Why would you wish me to ?" asked Joyce, looking 
 frightened. 
 
 " For your own sake, my heart. Because I can not bear 
 to think that in a hasty moment, or from a generous im- 
 pulse, or perchance from some false notion that I had done 
 aught for your father, you should give me the rich treasure 
 of your love, and hereafter live to repent it." 
 
 She put her hand before his lips. 
 
 " I will not let you say such things ! " she exclaimed, 
 with mingled indignation and tenderness. 
 
 " Nay, hear me out," he said, kissing her fingers as he 
 drew them down. " You must dismiss from your mind 
 all the sweet charity, all the tender excuses you have 
 hitherto made for me ; you must consider whether you are 
 in very truth willing to be the wife of a man who was once 
 guilty of a grave crime whether you are willing to share 
 with him exile, and perchance disgrace. My dear one, 
 my dear one, how can I bear the thought of this for you ? 
 You who ought to have the bravest, the most unsullied, 
 
354 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS.' 
 
 heart in exchange ! Oh ! Joyce, love is not all joy, it is 
 pain bitter pain ! " 
 
 " Yes/' she said, in a choked voice, " that is true ; but 
 the pain is not all on your side, Hugo." 
 
 " Then think it calmly over, as I would have you do," 
 he cried. " Tell me, an you will, that I had better go 
 hence. You shall never be sacrificed to some impulse of 
 pity, some wish to spare me suffering." 
 
 " Do you think that to send you hence would make me 
 happier ?" she asked. " When ' I am myself my own 
 fever and pain,' as you sung last night. Oh, Hugo, when 
 will you understand that I love you ! Methinks the pain 
 of love is the pain of one's own un worthiness." 
 
 " Make me pure as your own sweet self!" he cried. 
 
 But she silenced him with a kiss. And thus, by the 
 side of the moat, and under the apple-blossoms, they 
 sealed their betrothal. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 AN UNEXPECTED AEKIVAL. 
 
 What ? Ill love ! I sue ! I seek a wife ! 
 
 Love's Labor's Lost. 
 
 LATE that afternoon Damaris and Robina, returning from 
 a farewell visit to one of the neighbors, and emerging from 
 the ash-walk, were surprised and alarmed to see a stranger 
 riding through the park. He reined in his horse at sight 
 of them, pausing by the second gate which opened on to 
 the bridge. Damaris was a brave girl, but she was very 
 much frightened, for she thought the stranger might have 
 come in search of Hugo. She even feared it might be 
 Randolph himself. On nearer view, however, she was re- 
 assured as to this last terror ; but her manner was cold and 
 distant as she offered to open the gate for the new-comer. 
 Rather to her dismay, he hastily dismounted. 
 
 "Do not dream of troubling yourself," he said with more 
 show of gallantry than she liked. " In truth, I did but 
 pause to ask you whether this is indeed Mondisfield Hall." 
 
 " Ay, sir," she replied, coldly, " this is Mondisfield. But 
 my father is absent." 
 
 " So I am informed, but my errand is not with him, but 
 with Mr. Hugo Wharncliffe." The stranger smiled. 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 355 
 
 Damaris trembled. Her worst fears were confirmed. 
 Hugo's escape had then been discovered, and this gentle- 
 man in all probability a constable in disguise had come 
 to bear him back to jail. 
 
 " Mr. Hugo Wharncliffe ?" she asked, doubtfully, gaining 
 time for thought, and also deferring the evil day. 
 
 " Ay, Hugo Wharncliffe. He is here, is he not" ?" 
 
 " Who can have told you that he is here ?" exclaimed 
 Damaris. " Mr. Hugo Wharncliffe hath been in jail these 
 many months, and we are but lately informed that his re- 
 mains were to be buried by Sir William Denham in one 
 of the city churches. Which church was it to be, Eobina ?" 
 
 ' St. Mary's," said Kobina, briskly. " No, it was not 
 though ; an I mistake not, the messenger said 'twas to be 
 in St. Clement Banes." 
 
 The stranger laughed uncontrollably. 
 
 " Ay, ay, his London remains were interred with pomp 
 and solemnity at noon yesterday. But the best part of 
 him escaped, and should ere now have arrived here. Fair 
 maiden, you are very slow to trust me ! And in good time 
 here comes my friend to vindicate my character." 
 
 At that moment Hugo and Joyce came through the door- 
 way in the red brick-wall leading from the kitchen-garden 
 to the bowling-green. Damaris turned pale, and in her 
 anxiety looked so lovely that Denham hastened to reassure 
 her. 
 
 " Do not be afraid !" he cried. " I am his friend." 
 Then, as she still looked troubled and perplexed, he hur- 
 ried forward, cursing his folly. 
 
 "Come, Hugo," he cried. "Vindicate my honor, and 
 tell your fair kinswoman that I was one of those who bore 
 you from Newgate. I' faith ! she takes me for a constable 
 in disguise for a wolf in sheep's clothing for a foe to be 
 baffled and silenced and scouted." 
 
 The two young men greeted each other warmly, and then 
 followed the series of introductions, to each of which Den- 
 ham replied by a sweeping bow which amused the country 
 girls and made them slightly apprehensive about their 
 courtesies. 
 
 " And will you pardon me for having affrighted you ?" he 
 asked, turning with one of his humorous looks to Damaris. 
 
 " You should have spoken out plainly at once, sir," said 
 Damaris, with severity. 
 
 Denham made a gesture of mock despair and turned 
 from her to his friend. 
 
356 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 " Tell Mistress Damaris tliat I henceforth forswear the 
 sin of frivolity and idle jesting," he exclaimed. " But, 
 odds-fish ! my dear boy, how could I help but continue in 
 a strain which served so excellently to draw forth her wit 
 and her beauty." Then, as they were out of earshot, 
 " Egad, Hugo, you have surely made a mistake betwixt 
 those sisters !" 
 
 Hugo laughed. 
 
 " I am glad you think so !" he replied, merrily. " Go in 
 and win." 
 
 " ' I love my love with a D,' " quoted Denham, " ' be- 
 cause she's delightsome. I hate her with a D, because 
 she's disdainful.' " Then leaving Hugo and rejoining the 
 group on the bridge, " Fair Mistress Damaris, I beg a 
 thousand pardons for having caused you any uneasiness. 
 An I crave your pardon on my bended knees, will you let 
 bygones be bygones ?" 
 
 "Come," said Hugo, laughing, "we will take your 
 horse to the stable, and Bobina will apprise Mrs. Wharn- 
 cliffe of your arrival." 
 
 So he and Joyce went away with the steed, and Eupert 
 and Damaris were left alone on the bridge to make peace 
 as best they could. Denham was enraptured with her 
 fresh, healthful beauty, and charmed with her downright 
 honesty and quiet self-possession. She was unlike any 
 girl he had seen before. The Puritan household, too, 
 impressed him not a little it was all so novel; and, though 
 he had to walk warily, Damaris made up for the sense of 
 restraint. 
 
 " I'm dog-tired, Hugo," he exclaimed, when, at night, he 
 and his friend found themselves alone together; "I have 
 walked delicately like Agag, I have been soft and pliable 
 as a sucking pig, a turtle-dove, a Puritan of Puritans. 
 Never an oath this whole blessed day, and yet " here he 
 relieved himself by a few strong expletives "yet the fair 
 Damaris frowns on me treats me as a reprobate. 'Tis 
 hard ! 'tis cruel hard !" 
 
 " Come out to Holland, and woo her," said Hugo. " She 
 would make you a right good wife." 
 
 Denham made a comical grimace. 
 
 " Nay, matrimony is too solemn for me. 'Twould de- 
 press me ; 'tis too grave a risk for one of my tempera- 
 ment." 
 
 "Very well, then, leave Mondisfield at once. An you 
 trine with one of my kinswomen I'll never forgive you, 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 357 
 
 Denham, not though I owe you my freedom and my happi- 
 ness. For, look you, these are country girls, and thank 
 Heaven ! they are unused to gallantry and couct manners. 
 An you go on making love to Mistress Damar.is, she will 
 take you at your word, and perchance you'll break her 
 heart for her." 
 
 " Heaven forbid !" said Denham, devoutly. " But yet 
 the holy state of matrimony, Hugo, is a thought which 
 terrifies me. Where would be the freedom I had of yore, 
 the days with the scourers, the " 
 
 " Tiiey would be in the past, and a good thing too," said 
 Hugo, promptly. 
 
 " But," hesitated Denham, with a comical dismay in his 
 face " but, d n it all, Hugo, I fear she's a tongue !" 
 
 " Ay, and one that'll keep yours in order, I warrant," said 
 Hugo, laughing. " I'll dance at your wedding, Denham ; 
 it's no use your kicking against fate. Mark my words, 
 you'll be a Benedick ere many moons have waned. But 
 come, a truce to this nonsense. Tell me more of Randolph. 
 Did he suspect naught ?" 
 
 " Naught. We rode from Bishop-Stortf ord to London 
 grave as mutes at a funeral, though, luckily for me, at a 
 rattling pace. Then, solemnly alighting at my father's 
 house, we made all speed to see your remains, which of 
 course had been buried that morning." 
 
 " What said Randolph ?" 
 
 " He was closeted with my father for some time, but I 
 heard not precisely what passed betwixt them. Only my 
 father told me afterward that he seemed like one crushed 
 beneath a heavy load ; that he assured him again arid again 
 that he had never ceased to care for you, and had fully 
 meant, after a time, to procure your release." 
 
 Hugo sighed. It pained him terribly to be obliged to 
 allow his brother to believe in his death. 
 
 " Do you think it will never be safe to tell him ?" he 
 asked, wistfully. 
 
 " Why, Mian alive ! no !" cried Denham, aghast at the no- 
 tion. " 'Twould bring half a score of people into trouble, 
 and would undo us all. He would be so mad with rage 
 at being duped, that he would kill you, would challenge 
 the rest of us, would ruin Scroop, and stir up the very 
 devil." 
 
 Hugo was fain to acquiesce in the truth of this speech. 
 But the thought of his brother cast a dark shadow over his 
 sunny future. 
 
358 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 JOYCE'S JOURNAL. 
 
 If we be two, we two are so, 
 
 As stiff twin-compasses are two ; 
 Thy soul, the first foot, makes no show 
 
 To move, but does if the other do. 
 
 And though thine in the center sit, 
 Yet when my other far doth roam, 
 
 Thine leans and hearkens after it, 
 And grows erect as mine comes home. 
 
 Such thou must be to me, who must 
 Like the other foot obliquely run ; 
 
 Thy firmness makes my circle just, 
 And me to end where I begun. 
 
 DOCTOR DONNE. 
 
 So, after all, my journal ends not in grief, but in re- 
 joicing; not in thoughts of Hugo's death, but in the glad 
 news of his return. For right skillfully his friends res- 
 cued him from jail, making as though he were dead, and 
 then, free and safe once more, he made his way from 
 London to Mondisfield, reaching us one glad spring day 
 toward sundown. 
 
 My dear love is changed. He is much more beautiful; 
 he hath suffered so much that all say he looks more like a 
 man of thirty than one^not yet of age. He has grown ter- 
 ribly thin, and his brow seems broader, and his cheeks 
 more hollow, and his lips straighter and more spare. When 
 I first saw him he seemed all eyes, so worn and wasted was 
 he with pain and fatigue. But there is mnch more change 
 in him than this change that I chronicle in his features. 
 Only it is more hard to put into words. I suppose there is 
 nothing like solitude for teaching us that we are not soli- 
 tary, nothing like weakness for making us realize what 
 strength may be ours. It seems to me that Newgate hath 
 done this for Hugo. He went away a brave youth, showing 
 his repentance in deeds rather than in words. He hath 
 come back a God-like man. What hath passed in the in- 
 terval no one will ever know. And that methinks is as it 
 should be, since our Lord said men were to be known by 
 their fruits, not by chattering to all the world about the 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 359 
 
 precise time and manner in which the sap came to tlieir 
 branch. And the using this simile reminds me of some 
 words which Hugo let fall to-day. I was saying to him, as 
 we walked among the woods, how, even in my sorrow, it 
 had made me happy to see the trees coming to life again 
 and growing green after the long, cold winter. 
 
 " Ay," he said, " yet they were coming to life long before 
 you saw any signs of it. 'Tis in mid-winter that the sap 
 begins to rise, when the plants and trees have had a rest, 
 and when, having been forced for a time to be inactive, 
 they are ready and longing for more work." 
 
 " I never thought the things grew in the winter," I said. 
 
 "Trees and men," he replied, smiling. "'Tis no bad 
 thing to be for a time bereft of all outward things. As 
 good Mr. Herbert saith, 
 
 " ' O foolish man, where are thine eyes ? 
 
 How hast thou lost them in a crowd of cares ?' " 
 
 And then he told me a little about his former life in 
 London, of how he had rughed from one study to another, 
 or from one pleasure to another ; of how happy his full, 
 free life had been, until all at once he found himself 
 plunged into Newgate with neither books nor friends, and 
 knew that his happiness had all depended on such outward 
 things. And then, he said, when that worst time of all 
 came, and he was cast into a horrible dungeon, the thought 
 of Mr. Francis Bampfield, with whom he had lived the pre- 
 vious month, kept returning to him. 
 
 " I had not hearkened much to his sermons and discus- 
 sions," he said, "for such things never had much attraction 
 for me ; but I thought of his face, \\hicb, spite of all his 
 sufferings, was the cheerfullest you ever saw." 
 
 And so one thing and another helped him, till he learned 
 not to chafe at the misery and loneliness and I fancy it 
 must have been in that dungeon that he became what he 
 now is. Not that he said anything about it in direct words, 
 but when I asked him many questions as to what the dun- 
 geon was like and so forth, and then shuddered at his de- 
 scription of the cold and damp and filth though I know 
 he kept back the worst details from me then he said that 
 he would not have me sickened by the thought of his 
 hardships, which might be put into words, while the com- 
 fort he had had never could be told. And a most beauti- 
 ful look came into his eyes as he said that, spite of the 
 wretchedness, which he allowed had been very great, 
 
360 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 some of the happiest moments of his life had been spent 
 there. 
 
 I hope I shall not " lose my eyes in a crowd of cares," 
 but indeed there is so much on hand just now, such a rare 
 stir and bustle and excitement in our usually quiet life, 
 that it is a little hard to make time to think. However, I 
 shall try, else I can never be fit to be Hugo's wife. 
 
 What with packing and tidying, putting the house in 
 order, laying by the china, and making preparations for 
 the journey, the days seem very full, and then there is 
 Rupert Denham in the house, who contriveth to waste 
 much of our time, which, however, we can not grudge him, 
 when we remember all that he hath done for us. I like 
 him, he is so merry and full of fun, and so devoted to 
 Hugo. I said to him to-day that they seemed more like 
 brothers than friends; and at that he grew quite grave all 
 in a minute, and said, in a low voice, 
 
 "Fair Mistress Joyce, do you think there is indeed any 
 chance that we may one day be brothers indeed ?" 
 
 Which speech put me to the blush ; for I saw at once 
 what he meant, since no one can help but know that he 
 greatly admires our Damans. And, since the descendants 
 will perhaps wish to know the outcome of this love-tale as 
 as well as of mine, I shall take the journal with me and 
 finish it in Holland. 
 
 Amsterdam, September, 1684. 
 
 At last I can find time to write, and must indeed make 
 all speed to do so before the freshness of things passes 
 from my mind. And yet I do not think anything that has 
 passed this happy time will fade away from my memory. 
 The leaving Mondisfield was sad, but yet I could not 
 but feel that we should return some day, and that 
 helped to lessen the pain of leaving. We all set out 
 at dawn one cold April morning, wishing to. make as 
 much progress that day as possible, my mother and we five 
 elder ones inside the coach, and little Evelyn behind with 
 nurse and Tabitha, while Hugo and Rupert rode on in 
 front, coming now and again to the windows to ask how 
 we fared. How slowly the old family coach rumbled 
 along ? And as we got further from home, and specially 
 when the twilight began to gather, my -mother looked so 
 anxious and nervous that even the girls began to remem- 
 ber all the horrible tales we had heard of highwaymen. 
 
 Just in the darkest part of the road, when great beech- 
 trees over-shadowed us on every side, and my heart began 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS, 361 
 
 to quake, my dear love rode up to the coach-side, and, 
 though it was awkward for him to guide his horse in so 
 narrow a way, rode alongside of us till we were out of the 
 wood, talking so briskly all the time of other matters that we 
 forgot our fear, and indeed were quite merry by the time 
 we reached the town of Hadleigh, where we lay that night. 
 
 It made me very happy to see how my mother leaned 
 upon Hugo, how she left the management of all to him. 
 There was something about him that always won respect 
 and liking from strangers, though his manner was so quiet 
 that one would have thought he would have attracted no 
 notice. But, however it was, it always came about that 
 where Rupert's orders were often saucily received or per- 
 haps neglected, hostlers, servants, landlord, and all waited 
 on Hugo's slightest word. 
 
 And what care he took of us all the journey ! I shall 
 always love to think of it. The second day was bright and 
 sunshiny as the first. "VVe set off again early in the morning. 
 Rupert still continuing with us, since he said he must see us 
 safely on board the vessel at Harwich. He looked very dole- 
 ful at the prospect of the parting, and all that 'day kept 
 gathering posies for Damaris and handing them in at 
 the window with so tragic an air that I could have found 
 it in my heart to laugh had I not felt rather sorry for him, 
 since Damaris received all his offerings with an uncon- 
 cerned air that would have tried the patience of Job at 
 least, if he had been in love it would. 
 
 Hugo brought flowers for the rest of us, having no coy 
 lady-love to propitiate with offerings. To my mother he 
 brought violets, to Betty cowslips, to Frances primroses, to 
 Robina who scorned anything so feminine as flowers an 
 enormous dandelion which made every one laugh, and to 
 me a lovely handful of blue-bells and delicate white star- 
 wort, fringed round with fern-leaves. 
 
 At noon we paused to bait the horses and to dine. I noticed 
 then that Hugo looked very weary, but he made light of 
 it, and, leaving Rupert to wait upon Damaris, hastened into 
 the inn to give the orders, and to see that everything was 
 made comfortable for us. But when we sat down to dine 
 he excused himself, and lay back on the wooden settle in 
 the corner, looking so ill that I was terrified, and ere long 
 he fell into one of his shivering fits, and we knew that he 
 was attacked once more by the ague. 
 
 What a talking and confusion arose when it was dis- 
 covered ! Every one suggested some different remedy or 
 
362 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 plan. Rupert declared it was impossible to proceed, and 
 that we must pass the night at the inn, which me thinks 
 was as much with a view to himself as his friend ; nurse 
 talked of herb tea and hot blankets, while the landlady 
 declared that a perfect cure for the ague was to sit with 
 the legs in a deep churn full of hot milk, and to sip car- 
 duns posset. 
 
 I shall never forget Hugo's face when he heard this 
 remedy proposed. He got up, wrapped his cloak round 
 him, took up his hat, and ordered the horses to be brought 
 round. Then, when the landlady was out of earshot, he 
 said to my mother, 
 
 " You do not remember that I am wholly unused to lux- 
 uries of this sort. I can not hear of hindering you on 
 your journey." 
 
 My mother was much perplexed, but, knowing that there 
 might be some risk to Hugo himself if we lingered any 
 longer in England, she allowed him to have his way, only 
 insisting that he must come inside the coach, and let one of 
 us girls ride. He was loath to do this, but in the end was 
 forced to consent ; and so it fell about, to Rupert's great 
 content, that a pillion was put upon his horse, and that 
 Damaris had to ride to Harwich behind him, while Hugo's 
 horse, laden with such gear as we could fasten to the empty 
 saddle, trotted behind the coach. I think no one regretted 
 the change; I know I was glad enough of it, while Rupert 
 became as merry as a grig, and even Damaris relented a 
 little, and showed him more kindness than she had hitherto 
 done. 
 
 And so all that afternoon we lumbered along slowly 
 enough through the country lanes and roads, Hugo very 
 silent, and, I fear, suffering much, though he never com- 
 plained. Once, when my mother lamented that we had not 
 more warm wraps with us, he said, with a smile, that the 
 cushioned seat of a coach was Paradise when compared 
 with the damp stones of a dungeon, and, pressing my hand 
 closely, that he wanted for nothing. Still, though he made 
 light of all the discomforts, I did feel very glad when the 
 lights of Harwich shone out in the distance, and when at 
 length we drove up the street and halted at the door of an 
 inn. 
 
 As Rupert passed us I saw that an old man walked beside 
 his horse and talked with him; then, as the coach stopped, 
 he hurried forward, and even in the dim light I recognized 
 at once, from Hugo's description of him, that this must be 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 363 
 
 his dear old servant Jeremiah. He was evidently much 
 distressed to see his master's plight, but he said scarce 
 anything about it, from which I gathered that, knowing my 
 dear love well, he has learned his ways, and knows that 
 Hugo dislikes, of all things, any stir, bustle, or fuss. 
 
 " When doth the next ship sail for Amsterdam ?" asked 
 Hugo, leaning forward with flushed face and glittering 
 eyes. 
 
 " To-morrow morning, master," said the old servant. 
 
 Hugo looked much relieved on hearing this, and allowed 
 himself to be taken into the inn without more delay, lean- 
 ing hard on Jeremiah's arm, and leaving Rupert to see to 
 our comfort, which I must say, he did with the utmost zeal. 
 
 I was so glad to have the right to nurse Hugo. The 
 landlady at the inn, a very kindly body, made me a cup of 
 hot posset for him, and I carried it up to his chamber, 
 where Jeremiah received me somewhat doubtfully, till 
 Hugo, catching sight of his face, introduced me to him as 
 his future mistress, whereupon the old man nearly made 
 me cry with his pretty speeches. He is a dear old Puritan 
 fellow, and was enchanted that his master meant to take 
 to wife one of the right sort, as he expressed it. I only 
 wish I were as good as he seems to think me. He left us, 
 at length, with the remark that I bid fair to be as handy a 
 nurse as Mistress Mary Denham, and a Puritan to boot, 
 which he made bold to say was a great advantage. 
 
 " Why doth he not approve of Mistress Denham ? " I 
 asked. " She did more for you than I have done, or can 
 hope to do." 
 
 " Jeremiah likes her well," replied Hugo, " but disap- 
 proves of her gay dresses, of her dancing, theatre-going, 
 and so forth." 
 
 " Yet she is very good ?" I asked. 
 
 "Yes," he replied; "I have good reason to know that." 
 
 And then he told me sundry things about Mary Den- 
 ham which I shall not set down here, only they made me 
 feel toward her as to no other woman on earth; and that 
 evening I wrote her a letter, which Eupert promised to 
 deliver safely into her keeping. I am grieved that the 
 letter she wrote me should have been lost, but yet the 
 writing hath served to prove to us her generous love, and 
 some day, when we return to England, I hope to become 
 acquainted with her. 
 
 My dear love was better the next morning, and able to 
 bid a cheerful farewell to his friend and to dear old Eng- 
 
364 IN THE GOLDEN DAY8. 
 
 :. 
 
 land. Poor Rupert looked blank enough; indeed, I thought 
 we should never have got him off the ship in time. He 
 was the very last to leave, and returned twice to kiss 
 Damaris's hand before all the people, which made her 
 blush crimson, yet I noticed that she forbore to scold 
 him, for which I was glad, since he looked so miserable. 
 I even began to thiiik that perhaps Damaris cared for him 
 a little bit in return ; at least, she looked very grave and 
 dismal the rest of the day, but, after all, that may have 
 had nought to do with it, for most of the passengers be- 
 gan to look grave ere long, and soon the deck of the ship 
 was deserted, and Hugo and I had it all to ourselves, for 
 which, I fear, we were selfishly glad. How he enjoyed 
 the sailing ! I think I never knew before how some peo- 
 ple can enjoy till I was with him ; and certainly I had 
 never before realized what imprisonment must be. The 
 great expanse of rolling sea, the great, overarching dome 
 of blue, the salt sea-wind, the rapid motion, were all bliss 
 to him. The next day we were becalmed for eight or 
 nine hours, much to the annoyance of the passengers ; but 
 Hugo and I were too happy to care ; and, indeed, storm 
 or calm was all one to us, so long as we had each other. 
 At length, one sunny spring afternoon, we really reached 
 Amsterdam. I suppose the others had found the journey 
 tedious ; it had not been tedious to me, but, of course, I, 
 like all the rest, was overjoyed at the thought of seeing my 
 father again. 
 
 It had been impossible to apprise him of the exact day 
 of our arrival, since all was so uncertain; so that, in the 
 end, we took him by surprise, arriving at his lodging in 
 the Reiser's Graft, and walking in upon him at his after- 
 noon meal. How his face lit up at sight of us ! And what a 
 welcome we had, to be sure ! The good housewife and her 
 daughter and the maids all bustling about and making 
 much of us, and chattering in their outlandish Dutch 
 tongue till we were well nigh deafened. As to our trunks 
 and other effects, they might have been left to the thieves 
 or lost on the quay had not Hugo looked after them all, 
 making himself understood and obeyed somehow, and doing 
 a large share of the fetching and carrying himself, which 
 is a way he has, I see. 
 
 Then, when the first greetings were over, my mother told 
 my father the good news of Hugo's safety, and with that 
 he hastened out to find him, and I, slipping my hand into 
 his, went too. Hurrying down the broad, shallow stairs, 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 365 
 
 which were washed so white one almost feared to tread on 
 them, we came upon one who bore a large box on his 
 shoulders. My father was passing him, taking for granted 
 that it must be some porter, but I checked him. 
 
 "You look for Hugo, father," I said, laughing. "He is 
 under this box 1" 
 
 My father turned with a quick exclamation. Hugo set down 
 his burden, and, tossing back his long hair, raised a slight- 
 ly flushed face to my father's. I can never forget the look 
 on their faces as they greeted each other. My father is, 
 as a rule, a reserved and quiet man, but he was so much 
 moved at sight of Hugo, that his customary manner wholly 
 deserted him. 
 
 However, I know not that I can set down all that passed 
 betwixt them, neither can I enter into details of all that 
 happy time. True, we were in exile, but then we were to- 
 gether. My father was safe, my dear love alive and well, 
 my mother happy and content. Those were sunny days for 
 us all, and I shall ever love the dear old city, with its noble 
 buildings, its sweet, clean houses, which so well repay the 
 daily washings of the housewives, its streets planted on 
 either side with stately lime-trees, and its intersecting 
 canals with their wealth of shipping. But, truth to tell, 
 I have no longer time for writing of journals, for there is 
 much needlework on hand. 
 
 As soon as Hugo had grown strong again he was eager to 
 find some work by which he could support himself, and this 
 was readily found for him, seeing that my father hath made 
 many acquaintances in the place. Hugo hath accepted a 
 post as the secretary to the learned Professor Kuysch, who 
 is a professor of anatomy and botany here, and hath taken 
 a great fancy to my love, who is precisely fitted to help him 
 in his labors, having long been accustomed to men of sci- 
 ence and their ways. Professor Euysch hath been very 
 kind to us, and hath given Hugo a most liberal salary. He 
 is a fine-looking man of five-and-forty, and has the most 
 charming daughter, named Each el, who, though she is but 
 twenty, can paint flowers and fruit as no one else can paint 
 them. She is already one of our greatest friends; but, in- 
 deed, did I once begin to describe all the people of Amster- 
 dam who have been kind to us, I should never have done, and 
 since we are already prepared for two weddings, with suspi- 
 cions of a third looming in the distance, I must lay down my 
 pen and take up my needle, else Hugo will have an ill-clad 
 wife, and Damaris set up house with unhemmed table-linen. 
 
366 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 CHAPTEK XLI. 
 
 THE "BRILOFT." 
 
 And thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges. 
 
 Twelfth Night. 
 
 A GREATER change than from the quiet Suffolk hall to the 
 busy foreign city can hardly be imagined. It speedily 
 wrought a difference in the quiet country girls; they be- 
 came less shy and retiring, though maintaining to the last 
 a certain freshness and simplicity which had a great charm. 
 In spite of Robina's protestations that they were very 
 happy as they were, and wanted no tiresome men folk to 
 unsettle them, changes speedily came to the house in the 
 Keiser's Graft. Rupert Denharn lost no time in sending to 
 Colonel Wharncliffe a formal request for the hand of his 
 second daughter, and, after some hesitation and a lengthy 
 correspondence, the father at length consented to a be- 
 trothal, his scruples being finally overcome by Hugo's ar- 
 gument that Rupert only wanted a good wife to make him 
 all that could be wished. 
 
 The city was crowded with English refugees, and 
 although Colonel Wharncliffe held aloof from the more 
 revolutionary paity among them, and would give no coun- 
 tenance to the scheme already beginning to be discussed 
 of a rising in favor of the Duke of Monmouth, he was too 
 able a man not to be much sought after. His house was 
 the rendezvous of the cleverest men in Amsterdam, and 
 the marriage which Joyce had seen looming in the dis- 
 tance was between Betty and one of the most frequent 
 visitors, the son of a certain Herr Oylbrook, a wealthy 
 Dutch merchant. 
 
 Robina groaned, and voted the future brothers-in-law 
 an intolerable nuisance ; but she helped, nevertheless, in 
 the busy preparations of that autumn, and behaved dis- 
 creetly at the double wedding which took place in De- 
 cember, Betty's marriage being delayed until the new 
 year. 
 
 The festivities were over, and Hugo and Denham, hav- 
 ing been well content to waive any ceremonies not in ac- 
 cord with Puritan decorum, were going home the next day 
 from a long afternoon's skating, impatient to return to their 
 brides, when, at the door of the house in the Keiser's 
 Graft, Hugo paused. 
 
IN THE GOLDEN AYS. 367 
 
 " I ought to see Professor Buysch," lie said. " He may 
 perchance need me to-morrow. I will speak with him, and 
 be with you anon." 
 
 " Where doth he live ? Is it not near the < Briloft ?' " 
 
 " Yes, will you walk on with me ?" 
 
 " Not I," said Buperfc, with a laugh. "There is Damaris 
 standing at the window, and have I not been two hours 
 absent already ? But look you, if you pass the ' Briloft,' as 
 I think you do, just call for my bill. I was there two 
 nights, and would fain bear a good character in this place 
 as one who is never in debt." 
 
 Hugo smiled, knowing full well that the only opinion in 
 the city for which Denham cared two straws was the 
 opinion of his wife. The two friends parted unconcernedly, 
 Hugo making his way to the professor's house, and en- 
 countering the great man on his door-step, elaborately 
 scraping his boots, that the cleanly housewife might not 
 scold him. 
 
 Spite of the care of his daughter, Professor Buysch 
 looked as if his clothes did not belong to him. His long 
 wig was pushed awry, the feather in his hat was old and 
 draggled, one end of his lace cravat was longer than the 
 other, and there was about him an air of shabby, careless 
 untidiness. But his face was fine; the features large and 
 strongly marked, the mouth firm, the chin very promi- 
 nent, and the broad forehead furrowed with hard thought. 
 He greeted Hugo merrily, and would not hear of his 
 returning to work on the following day, but bade him, 
 with a kindly smile, go home to his pretty bride, and leave 
 the botany to take care of itself. Pleased and relieved by 
 this interview, Hugo made his way home again, not, how- 
 ever, forgetting Bupert's commission. 
 
 As he walked along the busy streets, which were 
 already growing dusk, with lights beginning to shine out 
 in the windows, he wondered to himself whether any one 
 in that great city was as happy that day as he was. He 
 thought of his little bride, of the happy future which lay 
 before them, of his recovered liberty, of his congenial work 
 with Professor Buysch, of his restored health. The asso- 
 ciations of Amsterdam were so sweet to him that he forgot 
 as he walked beside the canals under the giant lime-trees, 
 that he was, after all, an exile, that the people who passed 
 by him were not his countrymen, and that for the present 
 he was quite cut off from fulfilling Sidney's dream and 
 serving his country. 
 
368 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 Such thoughts were not likely to occur to him on the day 
 after his marriage; his face was all aglow with the afternoon's 
 skating, his heart aglow with happiness, when he crossed 
 the street and entered the " Briloft," a little impatient of 
 anything which hindered his return to Joyce. 
 
 The " Briloft " was a kind of tavern, the property of a 
 very wealthy Anabaptist. He was shown upstairs by one 
 of the attendants, and left in a sort of hall or ante-cham- 
 ber, while the servant went to procure the bill. The 
 place was noted for its quaint devices, but Hugo had seen 
 them before, had with Joyce admired the fountains in this 
 upper room, and listened to the wonderful chime of " pur- 
 selan dishes," which rung changes and tunes by clockwork. 
 Hanging lamps here and there made the place a perfect 
 fairy land ; but he soon wearied of the glistening white 
 foam of the fountains, and the sweetDess of the chimes, 
 and growing impatient of the delay, which in truth had 
 been considerable, he determined to seek the attendant, and 
 remonstrate with him on his slowness. The man had dis- 
 appeared into a lighted chamber at the end of the hall and 
 Hugo made his way to the open doorway and walked into 
 what was apparently a public sitting-room. The servant, 
 however, was not there, and he was just going to retrace his 
 steps, imagining the room to be empty, when a sound came 
 from the further end as of a goosequill on paper, and, 
 glancing once more in the direction, he made out in the 
 dim candlelight the figure of a gentleman seated at a table, 
 writing. He drew a little nearer ; perchance it might be 
 the manager making out Denham's bill, perchance it might 
 be a guest who knew the ways of the place and could di- 
 rect him ; he advanced some half dozen paces, then sud- 
 denly halted, unable to go on or to retreat ; unable to move 
 a muscle, paralyzed for the time being by the horror of the 
 discovery he had made. For at that table, directing a 
 folded letter, sat his brother. 
 
 " What time does the post go forth ?" asked Kandolph, 
 having heard steps in the room, and taking it for granted 
 it was but one of the attendants. 
 
 There was no answer. He looked up haughtily, wroth 
 at receiving no attention. 
 
 Hugo had turned deathly pale, for in one horrible flash 
 of perception he had realized what this meeting involved. 
 It meant the end of his freedom, it meant separation fr< m 
 his wife, it meant danger to Colonel Wharncliffe, and per- 
 haps ruin to all who had aided in his escape. But move 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 369 
 
 he could not. He stood rooted to tire spot, liis pale fea- 
 tures fixed, and revealing only by their haggard look the 
 mental anguish which he endured. 
 
 Eandolph looked up, then with a cry sprung to his feet. 
 In the dusky room, only a few paces from him, there stood 
 the last apparition which he would have chosen to see. He, 
 as a disciple of Hobbes, had been wont to mock at ghost- 
 stories; but he mocked no longer, his heart beat so fast 
 that it half choked him, he gasped for breath, clutched at 
 the table for support. Had he not mourned over the 
 brother whom he had practically murdered, these eight 
 months ? Had he not on that spring day hastened to view 
 his coffin in the vault of the city church ? Had he not 
 caused a tablet to be engraved to his memory, and piled 
 adjective upon adjective in the description of his virtues ? 
 And now suddenly in this Dutch tavern his spirit appeared 
 to molest him. He was the more startled and horrified 
 because he knew that there was a reason why Hugo's 
 ghost should seek him at this particular time ; he was on 
 the eve of a duel, and he made no doubt that his brother 
 had appeared to warn him of his coming fate. 
 
 In an agony of fear and remorse he was seized with a 
 yet greater fear that the spirit would go away without 
 speaking to him. 
 
 "Hugo 1" he gasped, "Hugo, for God's sake speak to 
 me." 
 
 Still there was silence, but the face seemed to grow less 
 cold and fixed ; for in truth Hugo perceived from Ran- 
 clolph's terror that he, like Joyce on first catching sight of 
 him, took him for a disembodied spirit. He saw one last 
 hope of escape. Still keeping his eyes fixed on his brother 
 he moved back a few steps. 
 
 " Stay !" cried Randolph. " If you have any pity on me, 
 stay ! Say at least that you pardon me. I have repented, 
 Hugo ; repented of all." 
 
 " Repentance should be in deed rather than word," said 
 Hugo. To Randolph's excited fancy his voice sounded 
 strange and hollow. 
 
 " Only tell me how I can show it in deeds, and I will 
 bless you forever," he cried. 
 
 " Swear on the rood," said Hugo, " that you will pro- 
 cure Colonel Wharncliffe a safe return to his estate." 
 
 With a gesture of authority he pointed to his brother's 
 sword, and with trembling hands Randolph drew it from 
 its scabbard. 
 
370 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 "I swear upon the holy rood that I will procure Francis 
 Wharncliffe a safe return to his possessions, and never 
 more molest him or his; so help me God." 
 
 The strong man's voice was weak and tremulous, his 
 face was ashy. Even in the midst of his frightful anxiety 
 Hugo could not help marveling at the curious reversal in 
 their mutual positions. That he should command Ran- 
 dolph, that he should assume that tone of authority, while his 
 brother bowed submissively to his will, and even trembled 
 before him, this was passing strange! The old spell 
 was so entirely broken, however, that although he knew the 
 terrible risk he ran { although aware that the instant Ran- 
 dolph ceased to believe him to be merely a spirit he would 
 assume his former bearing, he felt no dread, no self-dis- 
 trust, no fear now that his brother's will would overpower 
 his and force him into treachery against Colonel Wharn- 
 cliffe. All that was in the far past; he stood now calm and 
 intrepid, chained to the spot, not by the sudden shock of 
 surprise and horror, but by the love for his brother, which 
 had outlasted all else. 
 
 " Tell me at least that you forgive me !" repeated Ran- 
 dolph. " Do not go without one word of comfort." 
 
 " I forgave you long ago," he replied quietly, while there 
 came over his face a look which made Randolph bow his 
 head and press his hands hard over his eyes. 
 
 " Tell me," he said, after a pause, looking up once more 
 " tell me what fate awaits me on the morrow. I have 
 called out John Southland. Is that the reason you are 
 come ? Do you warn me of death ?" 
 
 Grief unspeakable expressed itself in Hugo's face; he 
 forgot everything save that Randolph stood in mortal 
 peril and had called out a man who had never been known 
 to miss his aim. He could no longer endure this hampered 
 intercourse; he must break through the dreary farce and 
 declare himself. 
 
 Breathlessly Randolph watched the sudden change which 
 came over the face of his brother; in the look of grief and 
 distress he read his approaching fate, there was no mistak- 
 ing the strong emotion which betrayed itself in the pale 
 face, and it was with a suppressed sob that the spectral 
 figure came hurriedly forward with outstretched hands. 
 Randolph recoiled; but the figure still advanced, its sad 
 eyes fixed on him, haunting him in that terrible way in 
 which they had haunted him these many months. But 
 this was no dream; in another moment those chill hands 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 371 
 
 must touch his, this death- wraith was not to be repulsed. 
 He drew nearer and yet nearer, speaking never a word; 
 to Randolph the moments seemed like hours, the silence 
 of the room weighed him down with a horrible oppression, 
 the eyes which reproached him, just because they were not 
 in themselves reproachful, seemed to strike a blow at his 
 heart. 
 
 This silence was intolerable maddening ! Human 
 nature could endure it no longer. With a cry he fell 
 would have fallen to the ground had not those spectral hands 
 laid hold of him. He was just conscious enough to be 
 aware of this ; he felt himself guided down, and laid gently 
 on the floor ; an interval of dimness, then the cold hands 
 were at his throat untying his cravat. The horror of that 
 was too much for him he fainted away. 
 
 And now there arose for Hugo one last struggle. Should 
 he avail himself of this momentary unconsciousness and 
 rush from the "Briloft?" Should he save himself and 
 leave his brother ? Should he go back to his little wife 
 and treat this strange scene as though it were but some 
 nightmare ? Vividly there came back to him the recollec- 
 tion of a very different interview in a London inn ; he re- 
 membered the unspeakable misery of his return to life, 
 the awful loneliness, the helpless looking for one from 
 whom he had been separated forever, the desolation that 
 had overwhelmed him. 
 
 No, he could not go and leave Randolph to this; the risk 
 was great, but it was a risk which must be run. Already 
 he was struggling back to life; at all costs he must be re- 
 assured and undeceived. 
 
 " Do not be afraid," said Hugo, as once more the dis- 
 tressed look dawned in Randolph's eyes. "I am no death 
 wraith. You were mistaken; I never died at all. I sur- 
 render myself to you now as your prisoner, an you think 
 fit you can bear me back to Newgate, only you must first 
 suffer me to say farewell to my wife." 
 
 The sentence had been quietly begun, but as he spoke 
 those last words his voice shook. He folded his arms, and 
 stood silently waiting to hear his fate. It was not the first 
 time in his life, by any means, that he had been obliged to 
 make in a minute a terribly important decision, and in this 
 instance he had, at any rate, the satisfaction of feeling quite 
 sure that whatever came of it he had chosen right. No 
 doubts troubled him now, but the agony of the suspense 
 was great. How would Randolph take this revelation? 
 
372 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 Would pride and anger triumph ? Or did he indeed still 
 care for him? 
 
 Bandolph stared at him for some moments without 
 speaking ; then he seized his hand, as though to assure 
 himself finally that his eyes and ears were not deceiving 
 him. 
 
 " Flesh and blood, you see," said Hugo, with a faint 
 smile. 
 
 " I do not understand ! " cried Kandolph. " You arq 
 here in Amsterdam, you did not die you have a wife 1 
 How in Heaven's name did you manage it all?" 
 
 Hugo drew forward a chair, and sitting down, gave Ran- 
 dolph a detailed account of his escape from Newgate, oi 
 his illness on the previous night, of the scene with the 
 governor, of how they had contrived to carry him to Sir 
 William Denhams in a coffin, of his ride to Bishop-Stort- 
 ford, and of how he had only just had time to get into 
 hiding before Bandolph came down to breakfast in the 
 morning. 
 
 " You did but save yourself by the skin of your teeth," 
 said the listener, who had followed the story with breath- 
 less interest. " Had I come upon you at table, I should 
 assuredly have been in such a heat that you would have 
 been carried back to Newgate." 
 
 " Yes," said Hugo, " I knew there was no chance for me, 
 otherwise I could not have borne to stay there witnessing 
 your remorse." 
 
 " Then how, in Heaven's name, is it that you do not 
 dread revealing the truth to me now ?" exclaimed Bandolph. 
 
 " I do not know, for I have much more to lose." 
 
 " Why did you not effect an escape while I lay there in 
 the swoon ?" 
 
 " I could not leave you thus, and I knew that you could 
 only harm me, since your oath bound you to serve Colonel 
 Wharncliffe." 
 
 " And yonr wife ?" 
 
 " You could not harm her ; she is Colonel Wharncliffe's 
 daughter we were but married yesterday." 
 
 Again his voice trembled slightly. Bandolph continued 
 quickly. 
 
 " Would it not harm her if I carried you off to jail 
 again ?" 
 
 Hugo's lips turned white. 
 
 " I trusted you," he replied. 
 
 There was a pathos in those three words which could not 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 373 
 
 fail to touch even such a man as Randolph. He said noth- 
 ing, but held out his hand. Hugo grasped it, and the two 
 were reconciled. 
 
 After that Randolph breathed more freely, relapsing, 
 indeed, into his usual manner, and refusing somewhat 
 haughtily to go to the house in the Keiser's Graft. 
 
 "I will abide by my oath," he said, "I will never again 
 molest Francis Wharncliffe, though I came hither to see if 
 I could not get hold of him by hook or by crook. But he 
 is my enemy still, and will ever be. How I have cursed him 
 since I heard the news of your death ! My one consolation 
 lay in this, that it was, in truth, he who had murdered you, 
 not I." 
 
 Hugo thought this a curious repentance, but he said 
 nothing. There was a pause, which he broke by asking 
 the time of the duel. 
 
 "To-morrow at sunrise," said Randolph. "John South- 
 land and I fell out at play last night." 
 
 " Can not you patch up your quarrel honorably, without 
 fighting?" 
 
 "No, that is out of the question." 
 
 "Very well, then I must go out with you." 
 
 This spontaneous offer broke down Randolph's pride. 
 With a keen pang he remembered bow he had last looked 
 on Hugo at Whitehall, knowing that he was leaving him 
 to go forth alone to the most horrible punishments ; he 
 remembered, too, another duel when he had acted as Sir 
 Peregrine Blake's second, and had spoken words which must 
 have wounded Hugo to the quick. 
 
 " You forgive me," he said, huskily. " I own that I need 
 forgiveness. If only this affair does not cost me my life, 
 you shall see how I will make good the past to you." 
 
 And thus, after arranging for the morrow, they parted, 
 Hugo in the end forgetting Denham's bill which had been 
 the cause of his coming to the tavern. He was greatly 
 shaken by all that he had been through ; he walked the 
 streets of Amsterdam like one in a dream, hardly knowing 
 whether he were relieved or burdened by this strange 
 interview. Joyce had been watching for him and flew 
 down stairs to open the great door and welcome him, but 
 something in his face frightened her. He caught her in 
 his arms and kissed her passionately. 
 
 "What is it, dear heart?" she asked. "What makes you 
 so pale and worn ? Hath Professor Ruysch quarreled with 
 you ? What has happened ?" 
 
374 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 He did not reply till they had reached their room, then 
 his calm gave way. The danger past he realized how great 
 had been the peril, how awful the anxiety, how priceless 
 were the treasures of love and life and freedom. Gradually 
 Joyce drew from him all that had happened. Long ago 
 she had ceased to feel harshly toward Randolph, the others 
 might occasionally drop some word of strong dislike, or 
 severely censure the family foe, but Joyce, never. For 
 Christ's commands are never impossible, and an enemy 
 really prayed for becomes in time beloved. 
 
 " If he is wounded on the morrow," she said, gently, 
 " if, as you fear, it should go against him, then bring him 
 here, Hugo." 
 And Hugo promised that he would., 
 
 CHAPTER XLIL 
 
 KECONCILED. 
 
 But justice, though her dome she doe prolong, 
 Yet at the last she will her owne cause right. 
 
 SPENSER. 
 
 NATUKALLY enough, the news caused not a little pertur- 
 bation in the family; Joyce who was more nearly concerned 
 than the others, took it all far more quietly; but then she 
 was much under her husband's influence, and saw things 
 from his point of view. Her chief anxiety was now for 
 Randolph's safety. Hugo had gone forth at dawn looking 
 terribly anxious, and since then Joyce had become so 
 firmly convinced that Randolph would be brought back 
 wounded that she had made ready a room for him, put 
 new sheets of her own spinning upon the bed, and placed 
 ready to hand all that she thought might be needed by the 
 leech. 
 
 Then she stationed herself at the window to watch. It 
 was a cold, gray winter's morning ; the church bells 
 sounded loud and clear, but they had to-day a melancholy 
 cadence ; at least she fancied so, although but yesterday 
 they had seemed like the faint echoes of her great joy. 
 Two half -frozen-looking robins were flying from twig to 
 twig of the trees opposite ; venders of fish and fruit went 
 by with heavy baskets hanging from the wooden yoke 
 round their shoulders ; bustling housewives hurried to the 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 375 
 
 market, wearing great flapping hats, little round capes, 
 and hoops in their skirts. Joyce saw this in a kind of 
 dream, while all the time her thoughts were far away. She 
 thought much of her husband, she recalled vividly her 
 first sight of him, when he had tripped up Sir Peregrine 
 Blake and freed her from his unwelcome attentions. She 
 thought of that duel two years before, and of the great 
 changes wrought by it. She wondered much whether this 
 duel would be as fruitful of results. 
 
 All at once she sprung to her feet ; for, looking down 
 the street, she caught sight of a litter being borne by 
 four men. Her husband was nowhere to be seen ; she 
 hurried down terribly frightened, and was glad enough to 
 encounter her old nurse on the stairs. 
 
 "Whither away, honey?" said the nurse, caressingly. 
 " Why, what is the matter ?" 
 
 " Gome !" she cried, breathlessly. " Come and help, here 
 is my husband's brother wounded." 
 
 She threw open the door ; the bearers seemed in some 
 doubt, but had come to a standstill. 
 
 " Yes, yes," she explained quickly, in Dutch. " It is all 
 right, it is my brother-in-law bring him in." 
 
 As she spoke her eyes met those of the wounded man ; 
 he was past speaking, bat she read in his expression that 
 he longed to protest against being carried into this house. 
 
 " You will not mind, you will come here for Hugo's 
 sake," she said, bending over him. The troubled, agonized 
 look deepened, but he seemed reluctantly to assent, and 
 the bearers took him to the chamber which Joyce had made 
 ready. 
 
 The nurse fetched strong restoratives, and in a little time 
 he recovered himself enough to speak. 
 
 " Who are you ?" he asked, fixing his eyes on Joyce, and 
 apparently forgetting that she had spoken to him as he 
 was borne into the house. 
 
 " I am your sister, Joyce," she said, quietly. 
 
 And then, because he looked so ill and miserable, and 
 because he belonged to Hugo, she stooped down and 
 kissed him shyly on the cheek. 
 He turned away with a groan. 
 
 Joyce knew his face well, it had stamped itself upon 
 her brain on that terrible summer day in the hall at Mon- 
 disfield. But she saw now, \vhat she had been unable to 
 see then, that certain outlines of his face bore no little re- 
 semblance to Hugo. The expression had been so different 
 
376 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 that she had never till now noticed it it deepened her 
 grief for him, and intensified her pity. She felt, as she 
 had never deemed it possible she should feel, that he 
 really was her brother. 
 
 A gleam of pleasure came over Hugo's troubled face as 
 he entered with the leech whom he had been to summon, 
 and caught sight of his wife in her new character of sick- 
 nurse. But he made some excuse to draw her away from 
 the alcove. 
 
 " You must not stay while the leech is at his work," he 
 said. " Already you are looking pale and tired, as though 
 you had not breakfasted." 
 
 " Not more so than you," she said, tenderly. " The duel 
 went against him, then ?" 
 
 " Yes, it was all over in less time than I can tell you of 
 it. John Southland never yet missed his man. I knew 
 Randolph had not a chance." 
 
 " But the leech may cure him," said Joyce. 
 
 " I think not," said Hugo, sadly. 
 
 His foreboding proved to be true. The leech tortured 
 the wounded man for an hour or so, then gave him up, 
 and told him bluntly that there was no hope for his life. 
 Both surgery and manners were rough in those days. 
 
 Randolph was too strong a man not to take the news 
 calmly, he had far too much of the Wharncliffe reserve 
 to say one word of regret to his brother, or to utter one 
 complaint ; whatever the state of his mind he was not 
 likely to betray it to any living being, but Hugo took 
 some comfort by his quick recollection, spite of his weak- 
 ness and suffering, of the oath he had made on the pre- 
 vious night. 
 
 "Fetch hither your inkhorn," he said, when Hugo re- 
 turned from bidding the leech farewell. " I must write at 
 once to the king, else will you still have to remain in exile. 
 Also I will ask him to grant a safe return to Francis 
 Wharncliffe." 
 
 Hugo drew a chair to the bedside and wrote, at his 
 brother's dictation, such a letter as could hardly fail to 
 procure pardon for both of them, unless it chanced to find 
 the king in an ill-humor. Should this happen he feared 
 that Scroop and the Denhams might get into trouble, and 
 this made him suggest a new idea to Randolph. 
 
 " You see," he began, " it will at once be known that 
 Sir William Denham is compromised by my escape. How 
 would it be, think you, to send this letter to London by 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 377 
 
 Rupert Denliam, and let Sir William himself, if lie thinks 
 well, bear it to the king, seeking a fit opportunity ?" 
 
 " 'Tis not an ill thought," said Randolph. " The king is 
 fond of him and respects him as a man of science. How 
 comes Rupert Denham here ?" 
 
 " He is but lately married to Damaris, Colonel Wharn- 
 cliffe's second daughter." 
 
 " Denham married ! and to a Puritan maid ! Good 
 God ! is the world coming to an end ?" said Randolph, 
 astonished and amused. 
 
 " There are Puritans and Puritans," said Hugo, smiling. 
 " Also Denham is not what he once was. It would be ask- 
 ing a great deal of him to Jeave his bride and hasten to 
 England, and yet I think he would do it." 
 
 " He would do it for you," said Randolph, with a touch 
 of bitterness in his tone ; " any one would do any thing 
 for ycfl. Am not I sacrificing the wish of a lifetime, and 
 helping my bitterest foe for your sake? Here have I 
 plotted and planned for years, yet in the end all my hopes 
 are defeated by you I am conquered by you !" There 
 was an extraordinary mixture of contempt and admiration 
 in the last word ; it was as though the two sides of Ran- 
 dolph's character were struggling together and neither 
 could obtain the mastery. 
 
 " You are not conquered by me, but by God," said Hugo, 
 speaking with a great effort. 
 
 " God is out of fashion, Hobbes is all the rage," said 
 Randolph, with a sarcastic smile. And after that he re- 
 lapsed into silence. Hugo mused sadly over his words. 
 He mused over Hugo's. 
 
 The shaking signature of the wounded man was duly af- 
 fixed to the letter, and that very day Denham set sail for 
 England. He fully realized the gravity of the situation, and 
 willingly undertook the work for his friend, knowing that 
 there was no one else who could manage it so well. Damaris 
 cried her heart out, but would not for the world have kept 
 her husband back. And in fact she was not much worse of 
 than Joyce, since Hugo scarcely left his brother night or day ; 
 and when for brief moments she did see him alone he was 
 sad and harassed and preoccupied. Had she not been able to 
 help him in nursing Randolph she would have been misera- 
 ble; but luckily the sick man had no objection to her pres- 
 ence, and, although she did not in the least know it, she 
 had great influence with him. He would lie for hours 
 watching her, as she sat just outside the alcove with her 
 
378 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 needle-work; lie saw how slie followed Hugo about \yith 
 her eyes, how sweet was her face and how tender her voice 
 when she spoke to him, how quietly and unobtrusively she 
 made arrangements for him, laid cunning little plots to 
 tempt him to rest or to eat, and allowed him to take the 
 lion's share of the nursing, though, woman-like, she longed 
 to have it all her own way. 
 
 He became very careful of the language he used in her 
 presence. He admitted to himself that Hugo was right, 
 and that there were Puritans and Puritans. He remem- 
 bered with keen remorse how terribly he had made Joyce 
 suffer. He wondered much whether she had forgiven him. 
 One day Hugo, after a long night's watching, fell asleep 
 in his chair by the bedside, and Joyce, stealing noiselessly 
 into the alcove, spread a fur rug over him. 
 
 " You are not ashamed to be fond of your husband," 
 remarked Randolph, with a touch of sarcasm in his voice. 
 " An you go to court on your return, you had better not 
 show it so plainly, else you and he will be the laughing- 
 stock of the place." 
 
 For a minute Joyce m ade no reply, and, chafed by her 
 silence, he said bitterly. 
 
 " Ah, it is all very well now, but by and by you will find 
 that he's not the only fine young spark; then you'll look 
 on marriage with other eyes." 
 
 She turned upon him with a sweet scorn not to be de- 
 scribed in words; but perhaps realizing that he was ill, 
 and remembering how sad was the description her mother 
 had given her of his past life, her eyes grew pitiful, and 
 she said, with quiet dignity, as if making excuse for him, 
 
 " I see you know just nothing at all about it." 
 
 Randolph was silent. In all his life no one had spoken 
 to him in such a way. He flushed deeply, but not with 
 anger or resentment. Joyce, finding the silence uncom- 
 fortable, added, 
 
 " And though I do not think I would mind being made 
 a laughing-stock of for that reason, yet I do not believe 
 we shall be at the court more than can be helped." 
 
 " Has Hugo spoken of your return to England ?" 
 
 " Yes ; once he said a few words about it, just after Ru- 
 pert had sailed." 
 
 " What did he say ? What sort of a life would he lead ? 
 When I am dead, you know, he will be next heir to Mon- 
 disfield." 
 
 " Yes, I know it ; but he would not, I think, live at 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 379 
 
 Mondisfield in my father's lifetime. He said something of 
 being called to the bar, and living quietly in London; 
 then Damaris and I shall be near each other, and I shall 
 learn to know Mistress Mary Denham and the little Duchess 
 of Grafton, and Mr. Evelyn and his daughter. I should 
 like to live in London." 
 
 " Hateful place !" said Randolph, bitterly. 
 
 " Is it hateful ?" she asked, in surprise. 
 
 Something in her innocence and childlikeness softened 
 him ; he smiled a little as he looked into her clear blue 
 eyes. 
 
 " It will not be hateful to you, my little sister," he said, 
 kindly ; " a place is what you yourself make it." 
 
 Hugo stirred^ki his sleep, she glanced round. 
 
 " We must talk more softly. I want him to sleep, for he 
 looks weary." 
 
 " Yet he tells me he is stronger again, and hath had no 
 return of the ague of late." 
 
 " No," she replied ; " it is true, he is better, but they say 
 that he will always feel the effects of what he has been 
 through. He never can be quite what he was before New- 
 gate." 
 
 She had so fully and freely forgiven Randolph that she 
 forgot at the moment that her words would convey to him 
 any reproach. 
 
 " Joyce," he said, taking her-Land " Joyce, can you ever 
 forgive me the suffering I wrought for you both ?" 
 
 Then Joyce, in her sweet, unconscious way, told him how 
 she had begun by hating him, and how her mother had 
 first made her sorry for him, and then that, somehow but 
 she could not tell the manner of it love and forgiveness 
 had sprung up in her heart for him. 
 
 "Tell me, little sister," he said, when she paused, "tell 
 me, is there aught that I can do now to pleasure you or 
 him ? Is there aught that can make up in the slightest for 
 the past?" 
 
 "There is one thing I should like you to do," said Joyce, 
 promptly. " The leech says you might be borne into the 
 next room. I should like you to see my father and the rest 
 of us; I should like you to learn at last what my father is." 
 
 Randolph frowned. She could not have suggested any- 
 thing more distasteful to him; however, he would not go 
 back from what he had said, and consented the next day to 
 be carried into the parlor. 
 
 And thus, strangely enough, his last ho*irs were spent in 
 
380 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 the household of his lifelong foe, and for the first time he 
 learned, as Hugo had learned in the gallery at Mondisfield, 
 the charm of that family life. After the first plunge he 
 made no more objections, and was carried daily into the 
 family sitting-room. He did not suffer much, but just died 
 by inches, as is sometimes the way with strong men. 
 Every day the leech said, " This will certainly prove the 
 last, the patient loses strength rapidly." 
 
 But still he lingered on, clinging to life in a way which 
 astonished every one. 
 
 One afternoon his strong reserve melted a little, and, 
 turning to Hugo, he said, 
 
 " I had great power over you once, Hugo. I could make 
 you do almost anything ; it was just by the force of my 
 will I could do it. You marvel, all of you, why I linger so 
 long in this wretched plight. I will tell you it is because 
 I will not die. I mean to live till Denham comes back with 
 the king's message." 
 
 " You must not disturb yourself, even if his majesty will 
 not grant your request," said Hugo ; " for, see here, we 
 are no worse off than we were before you came to Amster- 
 dam. The city will not give us up ; we are quite safe 
 here." 
 
 " I know it, but I would fain have you return," said 
 [Randolph, sighing. " You were meant to be something 
 other than clerk to a Dutch professor." 
 
 " If we do return," said Hugo, musingly, " I shall live in 
 retirement. All public life is closed to me until the tide 
 turns. But I think it will turn ere long. Things can not 
 go on as they are." 
 
 "Which means that when his majesty and the Duke of 
 York had passed off the scenes, you would " 
 
 " I should endeavor to follow in the steps of him who 
 was martyred last year. Should try to get into Parlia- 
 ment, should spend my life, so far as might be, in working 
 for the good of the people." 
 
 " Gallant sentiments," said a merry voice in the door- 
 way, " brave words, mine Hugo, and just like yourself." 
 
 " What, Denham !" exclaimed both the brothers, in a 
 breath. Hugo sprung forward to meet him, the dying 
 man half raised himself with a momentary return of 
 strength, while the old peremptory tone came back to his 
 voice. % 
 
 " What news do you bring ?" he asked, impatiently. 
 
 But he had to wait for an answer, for Damafis had 
 
IN THE GOLDEN PAYS. 381 
 
 heard her husband's voice, and came running in from the 
 next room to greet him, while little Evelyn proclaimed his 
 advent to the whole household, so that by the time 
 Rupert and Daruaris had a word to spare for outsiders, the 
 family were all gathered together. Joyce came bringing in 
 the lamp; every one crowded round Denham, with eager 
 greetings and questions; they all talked at once, there was 
 quite a babel in the usually quiet room, while Randolph, in 
 nis distant corner, lay chafing at the delay, and marveling 
 how Hugo could wait so patiently beside him while uncer- 
 tain what his fate was to be. 
 
 It was Joyce who remembered the invalid, and drew 
 Denham toward the couch. 
 
 " Come," she said, " Randolph can not hear your tidings 
 while we press around you thus ; but it must be good 
 news, else he would not look so merry ; would he, Hugo ?" 
 And she slipped her arm into her husband's. 
 
 "You saw his majesty?" asked Randolph, quickly. 
 
 " Ay, ay, we saw him," said Denham, sobered by the great 
 chamge which he, as a fresh comer, instantly noticed in the 
 sick man. " My father obtained an audience, and I went 
 in with him to tell how you all pined away in exile and 
 longed to return. As good luck would have it, we found 
 the king in excellent humor, and I delivered your letter 
 into his own hands, after he had duly swallowed my 
 father's confession." 
 
 " What did he say to Sir William ? Did he blame him 
 much for having helped in my escape ?" asked Hugo. 
 
 " No, luckily for us, the story amused him, and you know 
 you were always a favorite with him. ' Confound the young 
 rascal !' he exclaimed, when we told him how that you were 
 alive and well, and married to boot. 'Here have I been 
 wasting prayers for his soul, deeming him in purgatory, 
 when he was all the time enjoying himself over the 
 water. "' 
 
 " And then he asked whether you had married the lady 
 of the handkerchief, and said he should expect to see you 
 both at Whitehall. So after all, sir, " turning with a smile 
 to Randolph, " there is some chance that he may make his 
 way at court, and that in a second wager I might be the 
 loser." 
 
 But Hugo shook his head. Randolph did not reply, only 
 with an air of content examined the written pardon which 
 Denham had brought back with him. At length he looked 
 up and said, with an effort, 
 
382 IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 
 
 . " And what did his majesty say to my petition for Colonel 
 Wbarncliffe?" 
 
 Denham produced another parchment. 
 
 " This will render Colonel \Yharncliffe perfectly safe in 
 returning to Mondisfield. No one will molest him tkeru 
 so long as he does not mix himself up. in public matters." 
 
 Bandolph glanced at the document, then handed it to 
 his kinsman. 
 
 " You run no risk in returning, sir," he said. " No one 
 bore any ill-will to you except myself ; you might have 
 been at Mondisfield now had it not been for me." 
 
 " All that is past and over," said the colonel, with grave 
 kindness. "Do not let us unearth an evil which is 
 both repented of and forgiven. And, children, let us, be- 
 fore separating, thank Him who has been pleased to end 
 our exile and permit us to go home." 
 
 Eandolph looked on in much surprise ; a great hush 
 fell upon the room which just before had been so noisy ; 
 even Denham, merry, mischief -making Denham, knelt 
 gravely with the rest of the family. An uneasy sense of 
 loss stole over the dying man ; he glanced round the 
 wainscoted walls, the cheerful room with its blazing fire 
 and mellow lamplight ; he looked at little Evelyn, nestled 
 up close to her mother , his eyes wandered from one to 
 another, resting long upon Hugo and Joyce as they knelt 
 hand in hand. What was it that he had somehow missed 
 in life? What unknown gift did these kinsfolk of his pos- 
 sess which failed them neither in prosperity nor adversity ? 
 
 His life was over, and he had miserably failed ; he knew 
 that he was passing into an unknown country, and he felt 
 much as an emigrant might feel who is about to be landed 
 on a foreign shore with no capital, with no outfit, with no 
 friends to greet him, and with no knowledge of the lan- 
 guage. 
 
 And yet had he absolutely no knowledge ? did not the 
 words which Colonel Wharncliffe was speaking bring back 
 to him a faraway vision of his mother ? The room grew 
 hazy and indistinct; he though he was home, in the old 
 home which had been desolated in the great plague year. 
 Was it a dream that he was young and innocent once 
 more? 
 
 Yes, for the mist rolled away, and he was back again in 
 the present; for years past he had mocked at "innocency," 
 and had not taken heed to the things that were right ; how 
 was it likely that he should have " peace at the last ? " 
 
IN THE GOLDEN DAYS. 383 
 
 A less reserved man would have groaned aloud, but 
 Randolph was silent; no sign escaped him of that most 
 terrible pain the torture of realizing that a life wasted 
 ay, and worse than wasted is over. In his anguish he 
 looked at his brother. Hugo would live on and leave 
 behind him a name beloved and honored Hugo would 
 leave the world better than he found it ! How hideous did 
 his own past look as it rose before him rose in contrast 
 with the other's happy future ! Then, and not till then, 
 did he realize in all its fullness the bitterness of death. 
 
 God himself can not give us back our lost opportunities. 
 
 So, in the " Golden Days," as now, were men led by 
 suffering, by failure, by love, by life, and by death to the 
 perception of their human weakness, their divine strength. 
 
 Very still was the room where that final struggle raged. 
 Very calm was the colonel's voice as he spoke the closing 
 words of their thanksgiving. 
 
 " The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of 
 God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit be with us all. 
 Amen." 
 
 A second voice joined faintly in the last word. They all 
 of them noticed it, for in thfit Puritan household it was 
 not the custom ; they noticed it, and remembered it after- 
 ward with comfort. 
 
 " You will be weary after this excitement," said Hugo, 
 drawing near to the couch, while Joyce went to kiss and 
 congratulate her father and mother, and Rupert and 
 Damaris wandered off to the oriel window. " You mutt 
 rest we will take you back to " 
 
 But there he broke off with a stifled exclamation of grief 
 and awe. 
 
 His brother was dead. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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