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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DUE AS STAMPED BELOW
DEC111988
i
-'
FORM NO. DD6,
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, BERKELEY
BERKELEY, CA 94720
s
<fp8
'
m
U.C. BERKELEY LIBRARIES
mm