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 Copyright, igo8, by 
 FLEMING H. KEVELL COMPANY 
 
 New York: 158 Fifth Avenue 
 Chicago : 80 Wabash Avenue 
 Toronto : 25 Richmond St., W. 
 London : 2 1 Paternoster Square 
 Edinburgh : 100 Princes Street
 
 JDcbtcation 
 
 TO J. H. M. 
 
 FROM CHILDHOOD MY LIFE S BEST COMRADE, 
 CRITIC, LOVER, FRIEND
 
 CONTENTS 
 BOOK I 
 
 THE PEERLESS PURITAN 
 
 Chapter Page 
 
 I. A Garden House in Aldersgate 
 
 Street // 
 
 //. The Undercroft 27 
 
 III. In Mercery Lane .... 40 
 
 BOOK II 
 "BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 IV. Shotover 53 
 
 V. Gentlewomen in Distress . . 70 
 
 VI. A Debt for a Dowry . > . 87 
 
 VII. A Letter 102 
 
 VIII. "An Image of Earth "... 105 
 
 IX. A Bride Delinquent . . . 124 
 
 BOOK HI 
 
 THE POET, THE LAW, AND THE LADY 
 
 X. An Ultimatum 139 
 
 XL The Visitor in the Sedan Chair 153 
 7
 
 8 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Chapter 
 
 XII. 
 XIII. 
 XIV. 
 
 XV. 
 XVI. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Heart s Fire .... 
 
 Winceby 
 
 Heart s Dew .... 
 A Forger of Thunderbolts 
 In a World of Disesteem 
 
 BOOK IV 
 
 THE IMPERIAL VOICE 
 
 The Fortunes of War . . 
 
 Challenged 
 
 Broken Music 
 
 Page 
 
 166 
 178 
 187 
 195 
 208 
 
 227 
 
 236 
 256 
 
 BOOK V 
 
 PROSPER 
 
 XX. Lady Margaret . ... 279 
 
 XXI. A Gallop over Harbledown . 290 
 
 XXII. "Monsieur My Nephew" . 309 
 
 BOOK VI 
 
 SIX TEARS AFTER 
 
 XXIII. The Latin Secretary . . . 327 
 XXIV. The Light Excelling . . . 340
 
 BOOK I 
 THE PEERLESS PURITAN
 
 "Mortals that would follow me, 
 Love Virtue; she alone is free. 
 She can teach you how to climb 
 Higher than the sphery chime; 
 Or, if Virtue feeble were, 
 Heaven itself would stoop to her."
 
 A GARDEN HOUSE IN ALDERS- 
 GATE STREET 
 
 ON a May morning five or six boys were 
 busy with their books in a large upper 
 room, the private study of a scholar s house 
 in Saint Botolph s Parish, London. 
 
 This house, secluded by an entry or court 
 and having behind it a pretty garden, stood 
 in the Aldersgate Street, just outside the 
 ramparts of the city and but a short distance 
 from the towering Jacobean Alders Gate. 
 The street, stretching away northward, was 
 free from noise and presented, according to a 
 writer of the day, a third of a mile of fair 
 houses on both sides "till ye come to Long 
 Lane"; it resembled an Italian street more 
 than any other in London by reason of the 
 spaciousness, the uniformity, and the conveni 
 ent distance of its buildings. The house in 
 question, a good and handsome one, had been
 
 12 The PEERLESS PURITAN 
 
 found fit for a scholar s turn by its well- 
 ordered seclusion and its dignified surround 
 ings. 
 
 The study had a low ceiling, crossed by 
 heavy beams of black oak and a high, paneled 
 wainscot, interrupted by a small pipe-organ, 
 an organ positive as it was called, and by 
 crowded bookcases reaching to the ceiling. 
 At either end of the room was a row of deep- 
 niched casement windows with small circular 
 leaded panes. At the one end, where the long 
 study table stood, these casements overlooked 
 the quiet street; from those opposite could be 
 seen the well-kept garden. In the recess of 
 these latter windows a young girl sat in a 
 straight-backed chair, at a small stiff desk on 
 which were quill pens, an ink-horn, and a few 
 well-worn Greek and Latin books. 
 
 The May sunshine streamed through an open 
 casement upon the head of this girl, whose 
 name was Delme and who distinctly belonged 
 to a different strain from the florid English 
 lads. Now and then she shaded her eyes with 
 one hand and glanced aside into the garden; 
 the hand was slender and brown-skinned ; hair
 
 A GARDEN HOUSE 13 
 
 and eyes were brown also, but in the sun gold- 
 dust seemed scattered through them. 
 
 At the foot of the garden stood an enormous 
 spreading plane tree. In the shade of it, be 
 tween the box-bordered flower beds where roses 
 bloomed and a tall hedge was white with May, 
 Delme could see the figure of a man in a black 
 scholar s gown, who paced the path slowly to 
 and fro. Presently she closed the book and sat 
 with her eyes fixed on the opposite wall in an 
 intent, nothing-seeing gaze, silently memoriz 
 ing the stately hexameter of her lesson. 
 
 From the table across the room rose a con 
 fused murmur of suppressed voices buzzing 
 busily the Latin conjugation of verbs and the 
 paradigms of nouns and pronouns. 
 
 "Do you, Ned, quit studying so loud," the 
 girl exclaimed imperatively. Her accent was 
 faintly foreign like her face. "You drive 
 everything out of my head with your never-end 
 ing Ho, Us, Hi, fimus, fitis, Hunt. How much 
 longer are you going to spend on that one 
 verb? This is certainly your fourth day." 
 
 "Ask her," murmured an older boy, not far 
 from Beimels own age, "how much longer she
 
 14 rhe PEERLESS PURITAN 
 
 expects to stick on that dactylic hexameter. 
 Kemember the gerund, Delme , and be a little 
 meek." 
 
 The girl s face flushed and her eyes darkened 
 with a swift and angry sense of mortification. 
 Her lips parted as if in hasty speech of defi 
 ance, then she checked herself, biting her 
 lower lip with keen purpose of self-control. 
 Something boyish, free, and unconscious be 
 longed to all her ways and motions. 
 
 "Good for Delme !" cried Tom Da vies. "She 
 has kept her temper twice to-day already." 
 
 "As if I had not kept it all the time," cried 
 the girl, laughing gaily now "and yours too. 
 Now, boys, listen ! Let us be sure and get our 
 lessons over in time so that he will go on with 
 the story of Sir Perceval, as he promised yes 
 terday. I love beyond everything to hear him 
 read those old tales of knighthood and adven 
 ture. It is like a solemn music, and his 
 eyes will always shine like stars as he reads. 
 He told me but the other day that it has long 
 been his purpose to write some poem of King 
 Arthur and his knights, which maybe is cause 
 for his care to read us Sir Thomas Malory.
 
 A GARDEN HOUSE 15 
 
 Study your best, boys, that we lose no time to 
 day with doing over of lessons. For me, I 
 have that Virgil rarely perfect now. If he but 
 lets me recite it before I begin to forget ! Why 
 does he not come in?" 
 
 Again Delme looked from the window. The 
 black-gowned figure still moved slowly down 
 the garden walk, the sunlight falling full on 
 the light loosely curling love-locks. The head 
 was held erect with chin lifted; the hands 
 clasped behind; the attitude expressed ab 
 stracted but by no means dreamy musing. 
 
 "He has forgotten all about us, I believe," 
 sighed Delme regretfully. "He thinks of noth 
 ing else now but the trouble between the King 
 and the Commons." 
 
 "Good luck, then, and hurrah for the Bish 
 ops War!" cried small Ned Phillips exult 
 antly, mounting with a bound to the table, 
 where he was about to turn a somersault when 
 a knock at the door startled them all to sudden 
 decorum. An instant later the door was 
 opened upon a scene of blameless order, all the 
 young scholars seated in their places, dili 
 gently intent upon their tasks.
 
 16 The PEERLESS PURITAN 
 
 "Methought I heard some strange variations 
 in thy paradigm, Ned Phillips." The deep and 
 rather melodious voice which spoke the words 
 came from a handsome young cavalier to 
 whose costume high boots with spurs and a 
 long sword gave a soldierly character. Salut 
 ing Delme by removing his plumed cap, and 
 bending low with ironical ceremoniousness, 
 the new-comer, Master Prosper Unwin, cap 
 tain of a London trainband, was greeted by an 
 exclamation of surprise from his young cousin. 
 
 "When did you return, Prosper?" she asked. 
 "You were supposed to be in Canterbury on 
 some mysterious errand." 
 
 "Quite true. I have but just arrived and 
 come now post-haste from Trinity Court to 
 fetch you back. You are wanted, and that, it 
 must needs be said, right early, on the moment, 
 in brief, if it please your master to grant you 
 leave. Come, sweetheart," and he held out his 
 hand, first removing a heavy gauntlet. 
 
 Delinks expression betrayed alarm and an 
 noyance. 
 
 "Indeed I shall not stir a step to go home 
 with you, Prosper!" she cried with manifest
 
 A GARDEN HOUSE 17 
 
 vexation. "I know perfectly that Master Mil 
 ton will not excuse me. I have a most prodi 
 gious, a most important lesson prepared for 
 him " 
 
 "And she looks to win great favour over the 
 others of us by tripping blithely through her 
 hexameters while we beside her stumble and 
 stammer like dunces. A shame, Prosper, to 
 spoil her sport !" It was Tom Davies who thus 
 interrupted, the son of Beimels stepfather. 
 Beimels cheeks grew crimson, and she lifted 
 her round chin with a small, defiant pout. 
 
 "You for saying unhandsome things, Tom," 
 she retorted ; then laughing in spite of herself, 
 added: "Still you are rather dunces, that I 
 cannot deny. But, Prosper, say what need is 
 there of me at home? Did my mother send 
 you?" 
 
 "That she did. In the matter of a goose 
 berry tart or a junket, I am not sure which 
 to be prepared instantly, and her hands over 
 full with roast and boiled, and I know not 
 what all." 
 
 Prosper had seated himself carelessly on a 
 corner of the study table and faced Delme*
 
 18 The PEERLESS PURITAN 
 
 with a smile of whimsical amusement on his 
 noticeably handsome features. 
 
 "But what is it all about?" cried the girl. 
 "No one was expected or bidden to dinner 
 when Tom and I came away this morning. 
 Dr. Davies was alone in the surgery, and my 
 mother sat spinning in perfect peace with no 
 body but the cat beside her. Even you were 
 supposed to be miles away, Prosper. I am 
 glad you are at home again, but you can be 
 sure I shall not give up my lesson to go home 
 and make sweetmeats for you to devour." 
 
 "No need to say that, Delink. I should know 
 better than to flatter myself so far," the young 
 soldier replied quietly. "Do you fancy I 
 would be here on such a fool s errand? No, 
 there are better men than I for you to serve, 
 a delegation from the Undercrofters. Pastor 
 Bulteel and old Dr. Primerose, with Philip, 
 have ridden up with me from Canterbury to 
 treat concerning the injunction on our worship 
 with William the Fox, or even, if they may 
 come so far, with the King s majesty itself. 
 They are now guests at the house and there 
 fore my Aunt Madeleine sends for her dear
 
 A GARDEN HOUSE 19 
 
 daughter Delme . But where is the magister? 
 It appears that you youngsters are having 
 things your own way here this morning." 
 
 "He went into the garden for a time," said 
 Tom Davies soberly, "much stirred in his mind, 
 we think, with this news of the rioting in Lam 
 beth and the attempt to sack the Archbishop s 
 palace." 
 
 "I have but just heard of it," said Prosper, 
 his face clouded with perplexity; "I judge it 
 will be no time for presenting the remon 
 strance of the Undercrofters. But whether 
 they are come in vain or no, the gentlemen are 
 here for a surety and must be served. Come, 
 Delme-." 
 
 Prosper drew on his gauntlet and started 
 for the outer door of the study, looking across 
 the room at Delme^ who still sat immovable at 
 her desk, biting vigorously at the end of a 
 quill pen. 
 
 "I will come anon. Will you be so good as 
 to go back and tell my mother that I shall be 
 there a few moments later? Hurry, please." 
 
 "I shall not go without you, DelmeY said 
 Prosper. With this he quietly drew off his
 
 20 The PEERLESS PURITAN 
 
 gauntlet again, tossed it on the floor between 
 them, then folded his arms across his chest, 
 and leaning against the door fixed amused eyes 
 on Beimels face. 
 
 The girl opened her book and for a moment 
 attempted a pretence of studying, but the tyr 
 anny of the glance resting upon her and the 
 gauntlet thrown down made her visibly un 
 easy. Looking up, she cried hotly : 
 
 "Oh, Prosper Unwin, why do you always in 
 terfere to trouble me? Why must your will 
 ever be set up against mine? This once you 
 shall not have your way. I tell you flat, I will 
 not go until I choose." 
 
 While Delme was thus speaking, her eyes 
 full of fire, her lips haughty and yet trem 
 bling with their own defiance, a door on 
 the side of the room opposite where the young 
 soldier stood was opened and, unheard by 
 Delrne , a man entered behind her and quietly 
 advanced to a position from which he saw her 
 face and heard all that she said. It was John 
 Milton, Gentleman, the master of the house 
 and of the study, the black-gowned scholar 
 who had just now paced the garden walk be-
 
 A GARDEN HOUSE 21 
 
 low. To him Prosper Unwin made reverent 
 salutation, and an awe of his presence fell in 
 stantly upon the boys around the study table, 
 who had been forgetting their tasks in their 
 diversion over the tilt between Delme and her 
 cousin. 
 
 Milton stood now the centre of all their eyes, 
 a slender man of singular distinction and of a 
 youthful grace of figure which his scholar s 
 gown could not wholly conceal. The extraor 
 dinary beauty of feature, the fair purity of 
 colour in his face gave a first impression of al 
 most seraphic sweetness, soon followed by the 
 stronger sense of hauteur, springing from 
 moral and intellectual fastidiousness. In fine, 
 the man was through and through a spiritual 
 aristocrat, and meanwhile sternly beautiful, 
 like an archangel bent on business with his 
 dragon, or so Delme Davies thought as she 
 suddenly was aware that other eyes than Pros- 
 per s were fixed upon her, and instantly rose 
 from her place and made her courtesy. 
 
 "What is all this?" Milton asked the ques 
 tion of the girl curtly, even wearily. Delme 
 felt herself as one of the Hebrew children
 
 22 The PEERLESS PURITAN 
 
 caught in their perversity by Moses coming 
 down from the Mount. Still she was un 
 daunted. 
 
 "I want to say my Latin," she said, appeal 
 ing to him with eagerness for his support. "I 
 do not want to go home until after." 
 
 Milton turned to Prosper, a few words from 
 whom explained the situation. Then to Delme 
 with a slight significant gesture of his right 
 hand, 
 
 "Come," he said and smiled, plainly amused 
 by her scholastic ardour. "Obedience is better 
 than sacrifice, Delme . Go to your mother as 
 quickly as you can. I w T ill listen to the Latin 
 to-morrow. Take her with you, Prosper. She 
 is going to be a good girl now. Stop. Are 
 you not?" There was a note now of sternness 
 in his voice. 
 
 Delme had moved but laggingly to the door, 
 held open by her cousin, her face clouded. The 
 master caught her hand and drew her to face 
 him squarely, which she was loath to do, her 
 eyes being full of passionate tears of disap 
 pointment. His face softened suddenly with 
 the tenderness of an intuitive sympathy.
 
 A GARDEN HOUSE 23 
 
 "It is hard, child," he said gently. "I un 
 derstand. You had worked well, and now you 
 seem to have missed the reward. Do not 
 grieve. That will be yours to-morrow if you 
 have fairly won it. For to-day you have an 
 other lesson to learn, a harder one, to 
 wait." 
 
 "I will learn it," said the girl, lifting her 
 head proudly. 
 
 Without reply Milton turned back to his 
 little nephew, Ned Phillips, speaking to him 
 kindly concerning his difficulty with the Latin 
 verb. Delme passed out of the room, took her 
 bonnet from its peg, and hurried down the 
 street. Prosper Unwin started to follow with 
 a curious discomfiture on his face for one who 
 had won his battle, however small. Probably 
 his discontent arose from the perception that 
 it was not he but another who had won it. At 
 the head of the stair Prosper passed Hubert, 
 the man-servant, with letters for Mr. Milton. 
 Of these the one which that gentleman opened 
 first and with some evident eagerness was 
 dated "Forest Hill, Oxford," and signed 
 Richard Powell. The letter reluctantly in-
 
 24 We PEERLESS PURITAN 
 
 formed the receiver that the writer was still 
 unhappily and most regretfully unable to 
 discharge the recognizance of five hundred 
 pounds for which he was and had long been 
 Mr. Milton s lawful debtor, but he hoped with 
 better times, etc. etc. 
 
 Milton stepped quickly to the stairs and 
 called to Prosper Unwin, who at that moment 
 was leaving the house. 
 
 "You have been in Oxfordshire of late, 
 Captain, if I mistake not?" 
 
 "Yes, truly," replied Prosper, stepping back 
 to the foot of the stairs, Mr. Milton looking 
 down at him from above. 
 
 "Did you chance there to see or hear aught 
 of a Koyalist gentleman, Mr. Richard Powell, 
 Esquire, of Shotover Forest, a few miles out 
 from Oxford?" 
 
 "Yes, as it happens," Prosper said, and 
 smiled. "I was even a guest of Mr. Powell s 
 over a night in spite of my Parliamentary 
 sympathies, being urged by the hospitality of 
 his son, young Dick, a jovial blade whom I 
 have known off and on for a year or two. 
 They keep open house, sir, at Forest Hill, as
 
 A GARDEN HOUSE 25 
 
 the place is called, and live in very pretty style, 
 I promise you." 
 
 "Is it so?" returned Milton musingly. "Mis 
 tress Powell I have heard brought some for 
 tune to her husband at her marriage." 
 
 "That may account for the fact that the lady 
 obviously rules the household, including its 
 master and a dozen children. She is quite the 
 grand dame, I assure you, sir; and, by my 
 faith! she has a pretty daughter with a will 
 of her own to match my lady s." 
 
 Milton frowned slightly, glancing again at 
 the letter in his hand. 
 
 "Then you saw as I judge small sign of 
 pinching poverty in the household of Mr. 
 Richard Powell," he commented as if ready to 
 dismiss the subject. 
 
 Prosper bowed. 
 
 "None, sir, whatever, but plenteous good 
 cheer with much merrymaking for all the 
 Royalist gentry thereabout. If you have no 
 further question I will proceed on my way to 
 Trinity Court." 
 
 "Thank you, Unwin, and good-day to 
 you."
 
 26 r/ie PEERLESS PURITAN 
 
 John Milton returned slowly to the school 
 room, the letter from Richard Powell, Esquire, 
 thrust out of sight, and no trace of vexa 
 tion lingering on his face beyond an amused 
 and faintly satirical smile.
 
 THE UNDERCROFT 
 
 AIONG the "persons of qualitie" who 
 fled as refugees to England from reli 
 gious persecution in the seventeenth cen 
 tury was Anthoine Onwhyn, cadet of the 
 noble house of Bersele in the Netherlands. Es 
 tranged from his family, who were ardently 
 Catholic, by his own Protestant sympathies 
 and by his marriage with a French Huguenot, 
 Onwhyn gathered together such goods as fell 
 to him and took ship to the English coast, 
 bringing with him Marie his wife and two 
 young children, both sons. The younger of 
 these sons, now in his early manhood, Prosper 
 Unwin, we have met in the house of Mr. John 
 Milton in Aldersgate Street, London. The 
 Dutch name Onwhyn had been quickly angli 
 cized to its present and less "outlandish" 
 form of Unwin. 
 
 The father of Prosper had settled in Canter- 
 
 27
 
 28 The PEERLESS PURITAN 
 
 bury with hundreds of other "distressed 
 exiles" who had there formed a Huguenot con 
 gregation of such proportions that permission 
 had been given them to hold worship in the 
 Crypt or Undercroft of the great cathedral. 
 The colony of refugees, known from that time 
 as "the Undercrofters," or as the "Strangers," 
 grew and multiplied in such degree that cer 
 tain cautious burghers of Canterbury at an 
 early period murmured lest they crowd out the 
 native citizens, with their strange language 
 and manners and their new industries of weav 
 ing "taffeties," taffanies," "bayes," and "pas 
 sementeries." To these fears Parker, Eliza 
 beth s great Primate of Canterbury, had made 
 the wise answer that these "were profitable and 
 gentle Strangers who ought to be welcomed 
 and not grudged at." 
 
 From Parker s time on to that of Arch 
 bishop Laud the Strangers were treated by 
 their hosts of Canterbury with ungrudging 
 kindness. 
 
 Seeing he had found so fair a haven from 
 the storms of persecution, still sweeping the 
 Walloon churches on their native soil, An-
 
 The UNDERCROFT 29 
 
 thoine Unwin had sent in the year 1620 for 
 his wife s brother, Vital Delon, a Huguenot 
 pastor of Lille. Being hard pressed by eccle 
 siastical authority, Delon had much difficulty 
 in escaping pursuit, but made shift with his 
 young wife to sail from Calais in an open boat 
 by night, landing after many perils in Dover, 
 and making his way to Kent and its cathedral 
 city. Here in process of time Delon became 
 pastor of the Undercrofters, and here was born 
 to him and his wife, Madeleine, a daughter 
 whom they named Delme , who was destined to 
 grow up fatherless, Delon dying while she was 
 still in her babyhood. 
 
 Madeleine Delon, who was a woman of un 
 usual charm and beauty, in process of time 
 was sought in marriage by Dr. Davies of 
 London, a Puritan physician of some distinc 
 tion. Dr. Davies was a widower with two 
 married daughters and a young son, but de 
 spite what might have seemed obstacles Made 
 leine Delon was persuaded to accept his suit. 
 Delinks mother was withdrawn from the Can 
 terbury colony of "Strangers" by her mar 
 riage, being thenceforth domiciled in London
 
 30 The PEERLESS PURITAN 
 
 in a goodly house in Trinity Court, Saint 
 Botolph s Parish, but none the less she sus 
 tained intimate relations with her friends in 
 Kent. Prosper Unwin formed a link between 
 the home in Canterbury and that in London, 
 having followed his aunt s family and joined 
 the militia. He was now captain in what was 
 later known among the Forces of the City of 
 London as the Red Regiment. 
 
 Meanwhile Anthoine Unwin lived with his 
 wife and eldest son, Philip, in the house in 
 Mercery Lane in Canterbury, which had been 
 their haven on their migration from the Low 
 Countries. Philip Unwin had. been sent to 
 Cambridge for the study of Divinity and had 
 followed the traditions of his family by tak 
 ing the place of his uncle, Vital Delon, as one 
 of the leaders of the now enormous congre 
 gation of the Undercroft. 
 
 Two days before Christmas in the year of 
 grace 1640, the London coach, lumbering over 
 Harbledown, entered Canterbury by the West 
 Gate and stopped before the famous inn, 
 "Checkers of Hope," at the corner of Mercery 
 Lane and the High Street.
 
 UNDERCROFT 31 
 
 John Milton, coming down into Kent to 
 spend the holiday with Philip Unwin, his 
 friend since their Cambridge days, alighted 
 from the coach. On inquiring concerning the 
 family of Master Unwin he was told that he 
 would find the house just then closed, the 
 whole family, including men- and maid-serv 
 ants, being gone to the cathedral Uijdercroft 
 for a solemn Thanksgiving service. 
 
 Milton walked rapidly through Christ 
 Church Gate to the South Porch of the cathe 
 dral. Above in Bell Harry Tower the big bells 
 were chiming curfew, all the air vibrating with 
 their clangour. But on a lower level a softer 
 sound became perceptible to his ears, that of 
 voices chanting a psalm of praise in unison. 
 Led by this music, in which he perceived a 
 thrill of singular pathos, Milton walked around 
 the silent and unlighted cathedral to a small 
 door in the south transept, which stood open. 
 Steps of massive masonry led from this door 
 down into the low, vaulted recesses of the 
 crypt. 
 
 Lighted on his way through the apparently 
 endless reaches by the flaring glow of cressets
 
 32 The PEERLESS PURITAN 
 
 attached to the stout pillars, the newcomer 
 soon saw before him, occupying the entire 
 space from the west wall to the Lady Chapel, 
 including the Black Prince s Chantry, a mul 
 titude of at least a thousand folk, standing 
 in ranks, chanting the psalm, the melody of 
 which had guided him thither. 
 
 The flickering lights, casting shapeless 
 shadows upon the groined arches of the low 
 roof, played over the quaint caps of the wo 
 men, the fair heads of little children, and the 
 keen, foreign faces of the men. Upon all faces 
 alike rested the impress of devout feeling and 
 tears rolled down the cheeks of many, both 
 men and women, as they sang in their native 
 French the ancient, exultant chorus: 
 
 " The Lord is my strength and song, 
 And He is become my salvation. 
 
 Thy right hand, O Lord, is glorious in power, 
 Thy right hand, O Lord, dasheth in pieces the 
 enemy : 
 
 Thou in Thy mercy hast led the people which Thou 
 
 hast redeemed : 
 Thou hast guided them in Thy strength to Thy holy 
 
 habitation :
 
 The UNDERCROFT 33 
 
 Thou shalt bring them in and plant them in the 
 
 mountain of Thine inheritance, 
 The place, O Lord, which Thou hast made for them 
 
 to dwell in, 
 The sanctuary, O Lord, which Thy Hands have 
 
 established. " 
 
 As the last sentence of the psalm was sung a 
 venerable man in whom Milton recognized 
 Guilbert Primerose, a Huguenot minister re 
 tired from the leadership of the congregation 
 by reason of age, stood forth and addressed the 
 people in a voice firm and sonorous despite his 
 advanced years. He cited them to their past 
 history, as exiles in England for liberty of 
 conscience; how in gracious hospitality and 
 sympathy for their distress her glorious 
 majesty, Queen Elizabeth, had given them un 
 der sign and seal her grant to worship in this 
 Undercroft, made dear to them at this day by 
 the memories of nigh unto a hundred years 
 and as the resting-place of their beloved 
 dead. 
 
 "Here," cried the old man, in rapid, impas 
 sioned French, "our fathers and we have 
 worked, wept, sung and prayed, worshipped 
 and prospered until William Laud, being ex-
 
 alted to the Primacy, set his hand to it that 
 all England should conform to those very 
 practices, as of the burning of incense and 
 candles, of the worship of the Virgin Mary as 
 daughter, mother and spouse of God, also of 
 the Real Presence on the altar and many other 
 such things, for conscience against which we 
 and our fathers fled from our native land. 
 Known is it to you all that that same William 
 Laud with harshness and cruelty did threaten 
 our humble congregation, that unless they did 
 straightway conform to the ceremonial which 
 he has established in the cathedral above our 
 heads and throughout all other parish 
 churches in this Isle of Thanet, he would cast 
 us out of this place and harry us out of the 
 kingdom. 
 
 "We withstood to his face in his palace of 
 Lambeth the Archbishop, I and Pastor Bulteel 
 and our younger brother Philip Unwin, who 
 now in the name of our Lord have the charge 
 over you, but from Canterbury we received 
 naught but contempt and rejection and fiercer 
 threats. So, since we could not bend our con 
 science to do his will, we have waited for the
 
 UNDERCROFT 35 
 
 day when once more we should be made home 
 less, but lo, the Lord God has turned again 
 our captivity and we are like them that dream. 
 Yea, the Lord has stretched out His arm against 
 the enemy of His people and his place is vacant. 
 William Laud, hooted thro the streets of Lon 
 don, has been carried away captive for his 
 treason against freedom of worship in this 
 fair land and is now condemned to the Tower. 
 May God have mercy on his soul ! My breth 
 ren, let us pray for those whom he and such as 
 he so grievously persecute." 
 
 As the old man, his strength spent, sank 
 upon a bench the junior minister came for 
 ward, a young man with dark, serious face 
 and brilliant eyes, clad in the black Geneva 
 gown with white lawn bands. Milton recog 
 nized across the sea of heads, and despite the 
 uncertain light, his Cambridge comrade, 
 Philip Unwin. 
 
 At a motion of the young preacher s hand 
 the great company fell on their knees on the 
 pavement of the crypt and joined in the simple 
 liturgy of the Huguenot church, closing with 
 the petition :
 
 36 The PEERLESS PURITAN 
 
 "We especially pray for our poor brethren 
 dispersed under the tyranny of Anti-Christ or 
 deprived of the Bread of Life, also for those 
 who are cast into prison by the enemies of thy 
 Gospel. Hold Thou their hands and aid them 
 as Thou knowest that they have need of Thee." 
 
 From his place apart in the darkness encom 
 passing the crypt beyond the company of wor 
 shippers, Milton looked on and listened with 
 glowing sympathy. Strong upon him was the 
 sense that he stood in the presence of the 
 spiritual successors of the early Christians as 
 they fled for worship to the Catacombs, pur 
 sued even there by the red shadow of perse 
 cution. Rome was the persecutor, first, last, 
 and always he reflected: Pagan then, Chris 
 tian now. No one knew better than he since 
 his long sojourn in Italy how near Laud stood 
 to the Vatican. 
 
 Yet stronger than Milton s historic sense, 
 however, was his poetic instinct, and to this 
 the scene before him made powerful appeal. 
 At a height little above the heads of the people 
 when standing, along the ranks of pillars ran
 
 The UNDERCROFT 37 
 
 the mystic phantasmagoria of the carved capi 
 tals; knights speeding their steeds to com 
 bat with diabolical monsters, cowled heads of 
 monks, coursing hounds, hideous grotesques, 
 alternating with luxuriant intricacy of flower 
 and leaf. To all this weird medley of images 
 a heightened effect was given by the red and 
 shifting light from the cressets, throwing them 
 into startling relief, or leaving them lurking 
 in impenetrable darkness, like creatures of the 
 night, hovering near but felt rather than seen. 
 Below on every side in sepulchral silence 
 stretched the endless, desolate vistas of the 
 crypt, broken here and there by crumbling 
 tombs with their decaying heraldry and rust- 
 eaten devices. And before him, bright in 
 the embrace of the stony and haunted 
 gloom, was this mass of impassioned humanity, 
 self-dedicated to the Invisible Divine, pledged 
 in high devotion to suffer and if need be die 
 for the sake of faith. The love of beauty, of 
 joy, and of life so vivid in these Strangers was 
 manifest in the faces of the youths and 
 maidens, in the delicate purity and beauty 
 of costume, in the grace of form and
 
 38 Me PEERLESS PURITAN 
 
 bearing. But no less palpable was the stern 
 loyalty to conviction, the courage to die for 
 an ideal, which could be discerned, he thought, 
 
 women. 
 
 Suddenly as he watched the strange scene, 
 among all the unfamiliar faces, one face be 
 came to Milton distinct, not so much because 
 it was a face he knew, as because in its reli 
 gious passion it struck his imagination as type 
 of all he saw and felt of the pathos of the 
 hour. The face was that of Delnie , the step 
 daughter of Dr. Davies and his pupil. Milton 
 knew that the young girl had come with her 
 family to Canterbury a week before, but her 
 presence here was at the moment unlocked 
 for and moved him strangely. 
 
 Unconscious that any eye rested upon her, 
 Delme knelt in the shadow not far from where 
 he stood, her hands clasped upon the kerchief 
 crossed upon her breast, her eyes lifted, her 
 head alone touched by the light of a torch. 
 The simple loftiness of the girl, her capacity 
 for daring and for submission, for self- 
 abasement and for exultant rapture, shone
 
 We UNDERCROFT 39 
 
 through the luminous face. Milton had not 
 known before that Delink was beautiful, but 
 even now she was to him only a beautiful child. 
 As he watched her she bent and kissed the 
 pavement of the crypt before her with a swift 
 impulse of joyous, devout gratefulness. 
 
 "Delme !" 
 
 The apostolic benediction had been spoken 
 and the stir of departure ran through the mul 
 titude. Delme lifted her head, feeling a hand 
 laid on her shoulder, and saw in the dusk a face 
 above her bending near, like the face of an 
 angel by her first thought. Then, rising, she 
 made her reverence to her master while her 
 heart beat violently with incomprehensible 
 ecstacy at his sudden presence. 
 
 "Come, my child," Milton said, "Philip Un- 
 win sees me and is about to join us. I will 
 ask him if we may go up into the cathedral, for 
 I much desire to see it in the light of this Ad 
 vent moon. Will you come also? You will 
 do well to cool a too eager little heart in the 
 silence up yonder."
 
 IN MERCERY LANE 
 
 THE lofty arches of the cathedral nave 
 were silvered by the keen light of the 
 winter moon, the uncoloured windows of 
 the clerestory through which it fell detracting 
 in nothing from its brilliancy. 
 
 From the organ in the rood-loft waves upon 
 waves of solemn music streamed, mingling, it 
 seemed to Deline", with the waves of moonlight, 
 light, and music meeting and soaring together 
 in mystical splendour. 
 
 Milton was at the organ and Philip Unwin 
 in the rood-loft beside him. To Delme , crouch 
 ing in the choir below, both were lost in shad 
 ows. But she needed no interpreter of the 
 music, for was it not plainly the translation 
 into sound by the hand of a master of improvi 
 sation of the scene just now enacted in the 
 crypt below? 
 
 40
 
 IN MERCERY LANE 41 
 
 "When the Lord turned again the cap 
 tivity of Zion, then were we like them that 
 dream. " 
 
 This was the theme on which the or 
 ganist improvised his dramatic sequence of 
 harmonies, first plaintive lamentation in the 
 minor key, then the power of deep major 
 chords suggesting mighty deliverance, and 
 now, at last, a myriad-motived dream music of 
 release which took Beimels very breath in its 
 final dizzy sweep of joy. That the choir was 
 dark save for the altar light she had forgotten, 
 and that it was piercingly cold within the 
 cathedral she did not even know. Then sud 
 denly the music stopped. Philip and Mr. Mil 
 ton coming down from the organ found the 
 young girl in the choir stall trembling from 
 head to foot, and supposing her chilled, were 
 aghast at their own carelessness and so hur 
 ried her with them out of the place and all to 
 gether ran at a brisk rate down Mercery Lane 
 to the Unwins house. 
 
 Here the broad low front, studded with fre 
 quent oriel windows, was gay with ruddy 
 candlelight. They three burst into the great
 
 42 The PEERLESS PURITAN 
 
 keeping-room, where the Yule logs blazed in a 
 deep-breasted chimney and Christmas gar 
 lands hung from the ceiling. Mistress Unwin, 
 bright-eyed and motherly, with merry lines 
 about her eyes and deep dimples in her fresh- 
 coloured cheeks, came to welcome them, speak 
 ing in her native French with charming vi 
 vacity. 
 
 John Milton, seated soon in the ingle-nook 
 opposite his host, stout Anthoine Unwin, 
 found himself swiftly transported from the 
 solemn impressions of the cathedral into a 
 world of fragrant fireside cheer and heartsorne 
 radiance. The large low room was lined with 
 Flemish cabinets and chests rich in carving, 
 their polished panels reflecting the many wax- 
 lights. In every window blossomed roses and 
 carnations, forced under glass to gladden the 
 Advent season. These were the pride of the 
 host, who occupied himself with importing 
 from his own land rare sorts of flowers and 
 coaxing them also to blossom in this English 
 soil on which he and wife and children had 
 thriven. Anthoine owned his spacious, well- 
 ordered house and the deep garden behind it,
 
 IN MERCERY LANE 43 
 
 sloping down to the Stour, being one of the 
 few men of substance among the Canterbury 
 Strangers. 
 
 Then presently the company gathered 
 around the great table shining with its hand- 
 woven and home-bleached "Hollands," laden 
 with Christinas cheer. And only one was 
 missing from the company. Prosper, ex 
 pected early in the day, had not appeared, but 
 as he was riding a roundabout way through 
 the Fen Country no anxiety was felt, and the 
 hour was given over to gladness. 
 
 Looking and listening from her place Delink 
 marvelled greatly to see that Mr. Milton, her 
 grave, preoccupied master, was heart and soul 
 of all the wit and repartee. The warm re 
 sponse and cordial sympathy of these now 
 around him, together with his veneration for 
 their character, melted the barriers of his re 
 serve. Over every turn of the conversation 
 his genius played like lambent light, in deli 
 cately piercing satire, poetic grace of expres 
 sion, or, as the grave political crisis was 
 touched upon, in bold and fearless judgment, 
 far in advance of the conventional opinions
 
 44 rhe PEERLESS PURITAN 
 
 of the day. The others applauded their 
 guest; Delme worshipped him. 
 
 There was a sound of hoofs down the lane 
 after nine, when they still sat about the table, 
 but a little withdrawn, and a joyful cry wel 
 comed the coining of the younger son. A serv 
 ant took his horse and Prosper instantly ap 
 peared, his face red and his fingers numb with 
 the cold, his wadded doublet sprinkled thick 
 with snow but his spirits at their top bent of 
 gaiety. 
 
 His mother and aunt received the gallant 
 salute of their young soldier with serene satis 
 faction and innocent pride in him. But when 
 Prosper bent and kissed Delink on one cheek 
 and the other with a cousin s freedom, exclaim 
 ing at her vivid beauty, which indeed just then 
 had something strange and new, her face 
 flushed high, her eyelids flickered and fell, and 
 she drew back hastily. 
 
 Prosper watched her for half a minute in 
 tently, a sudden shadow on his own face. For 
 Delme in the cathedral just now had, beneath 
 the mastery of music and of the musician, in 
 one hour gained what often needs slow years
 
 IN MERCERY LANE 45 
 
 to accomplish, even a woman s awakened na 
 ture. The free unconsciousness of the child 
 would never return to her. Prosper alone of 
 those about the girl, and he but dimly, dis 
 cerned this. To him the discovery was 
 sharply bitter-sweet, but, as was the man s 
 habit, the bitterness was kept to himself. 
 
 "Come, little cousin!" he cried, drawing up 
 to the table which his mother had quickly re 
 plenished w T ith fresh and delicate food: "Sit 
 you here close by my side. Let the rest go on 
 with their wit and wisdom. Pare me an apple 
 with your own hand, and light me a pipe pres 
 ently with one of those flashes that your eyes 
 only can give." 
 
 And Delme obeyed and sat at the table be 
 side him, but all the while her eyes slipped 
 past the soldier to the slender, graceful figure 
 in scholar s black withdrawn with Philip to 
 the chimney corner, and her heart was in her 
 eyes. 
 
 Milton began speaking now with irresist 
 ible charm of his recent travel and sojourn in 
 Italy, and of the men and women he had met 
 there: Galileo, Cardinal Barberini, Manso,
 
 Marquis of Villa and anon, with sudden ac 
 cess of feeling, of Signorina Lenora Baroni, 
 the Koman singer. Beimels whole heart lis 
 tened, shot through with a curious pang, to the 
 snatches which reached her of his praise of 
 the beautiful Italian with the marvellous 
 voice. Milton had made Latin epigrams in her 
 honour; he rehearsed one laughingly to Philip, 
 and Delme could have comprehended every 
 word, but Prosper would break in with his 
 commonplace talk to Uncle Anthoine about 
 that country squire, or gentleman farmer if it 
 pleased you better, of Saint Ives at whose 
 house he had put up the night before. Delme 
 had seen him, this Master Oliver Cromwell, 
 once when he was up in London for Parlia 
 ment and he was ill-dressed and had a large 
 red nose and sundry warts on his face and 
 shaggy eyebrows. Who wanted to hear about 
 him now when they might be listening to 
 verses on the divine Lenora? In her impa 
 tience Delme laid her hand on Prosper s sleeve 
 with a wistful, impulsive exclamation : 
 
 "Oh, please, if you will let me listen just for 
 a moment to what Mr. Milton is saying !"
 
 IN MERCERY LANE 47 
 
 But at that very instant the master himself 
 broke from his theme and cried with sudden 
 ardour : 
 
 "And now, Prosper, you have had all the 
 space that can be granted your huge appetite. 
 This much I have caught, while we have talked 
 against time waiting for your story, that you 
 come fresh from a meeting with Master Crom 
 well. Bring over here, I beg you, pipe and 
 armchair and acquaint us all with what the 
 Lord of the Fens, my friend Oliver, says of 
 the latest signs of the times." 
 
 Beimels lips parted in an irrepressible sigh. 
 So the theme was to be the Farmer of St. Ives 
 after all! Should she ever hear Mr. Milton 
 speak again of Lenora? Who could tell now? 
 
 There followed serious discourse between 
 the men of stirring deeds and grave prefigur- 
 ings, such as the Bishops War in Scotland, 
 the impeachment of Strafford, the imprison 
 ment of Laud, the Papistry of the Queen and 
 her Court, the fatuous perfidy of the King, the 
 growing sternness of temper of Parliament, 
 and the new names "Cavalier" and "Kound- 
 head" given now, so Prosper said, to the par-
 
 48 r/ie PEERLESS PURITAN 
 
 ties of King and Commons. But more often 
 than any name Delme , in the corner of the 
 great chimney-settle, heard that of Cromwell 
 spoken, heard his words repeated, his purposes 
 discussed. Half impressed, half irritated she 
 made bold at last to interrupt with a question. 
 
 "Pray, Cousin Philip," she asked, "why is 
 it that all your talk is of that Mr. Cromwell? 
 Surely he is a sad sloven, or was when I had 
 sight of him." 
 
 "Aha !" cried Milton, "Delme has not heard, 
 I fancy, of Hampden s word to one who called 
 Cromwell sloven. That sloven, he said, 
 whom you see before you, if we should ever 
 come to a breach with the King, which God 
 forbid ! will be the greatest man in England. " 
 
 "It was well said," cried Prosper, "and if 
 that breach comes, as I no longer doubt it will, 
 and the people of England rise, then I ride 
 with Oliver for land and liberty. My hand 
 has this day been pledged to it." 
 
 In the autumn following the Irish massacres 
 shook the land with horror and shivered the 
 last crumbling remnant of confidence in the 
 faith of the King. In August of 1642, at Castle
 
 IN MERCERY LANE 49 
 
 Hill by Nottingham, Charles set up his stand 
 ard of battle against Parliament and people. 
 The engagement at Edgehill followed quickly 
 and all England groaned at the tidings that 
 five thousand of her best and bravest men, 
 Cavalier and Roundhead, lay dead on the 
 field. 
 
 At Edgehill, Prosper Unwin rode as he had 
 foretold with a regiment of Cromwell s own 
 raising, and at the end of the day he was 
 placed in command of a troop. 
 
 The King then fell back upon Oxford, 
 thenceforward the Royalist headquarters, 
 while London remained the Puritan capital 
 and the conflict went on. 
 
 Meanwhile Milton was fighting in his own 
 way, sending forth in swift succession fearless 
 philippics, full of the very genius of Puritan 
 England. But while with power and passion 
 he put forth pamphlets which stirred tumult 
 in the breasts of all thinking men of his day, 
 he sat at his desk in the studious quiet of the 
 garden house by the Alders Gate, in outward 
 calm, surrounded by the little company of his 
 young scholars, to whom he continued to open
 
 50 We PEERLESS PURITAN 
 
 the stores of classic learning with unabated 
 zeal. 
 
 Deline* Davies had now added to her tasks 
 under Mr. Milton the study of the Italian lan 
 guage, easily learned, as her master himself 
 said, "in any odd hour."
 
 BOOK II 
 BOUND IN SHALLOWS
 
 IV 
 
 SHOTOFER 
 
 TOWARDS ten of a fresh April morning 
 a small troop of Royalist cavalry, dash 
 ing down the high road from Aylesbury 
 to Oxford, drew up hastily under Shotover 
 Hill. The foremost man of them blew a shrill 
 strain on a bugle slung at his side. Up the hill 
 from Oxford, whose towers were well in sight, 
 several Cavaliers were seen approaching at a 
 gallop. The central figure of the company, a 
 gentleman in light armour, lace ruffles, and a 
 plumed hat over his long curling hair, had 
 been recognized by the troopers as the King. 
 Horses reined up, hats off and swung high in 
 air, they broke out in rude chorus, sung with 
 a will : 
 
 " King Charles, and who ll do him right now? 
 King Charles, and who s ripe for fight now? 
 Give a rouse : here s in hell s despite now, 
 King Charles ! " * 
 
 * Browning, " Cavalier Tunes." 
 53
 
 54 "BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 As they passed the troopers the Cavaliers 
 gave an answering cheer, and the King bent to 
 his saddlebow in gratified recognition. Then 
 with the thunder of hoofs along the road, each 
 party swept on its opposite way. But the 
 sound of the martial song and cheers had set 
 echoes flying along the countryside, and over 
 a turnstile in the hedge on the left of the road 
 peered the heads of half a dozen maid- and 
 men-servants who had rushed breathless from 
 their business in the Grange to see King 
 Charles and his troop pass by. From a side 
 gate, directly the road was clear, a man rode 
 out from the Grange paddock and turned his 
 horse tow r ard Oxford, or, it might be, towards 
 London, a commonplace horse and a com 
 monplace man, with the aspect of a gentle 
 man s messenger, the aspect furthermore of 
 one who has not prospered overmuch on his 
 errand. 
 
 In the great brick Grange itself, the home 
 of Mr. Richard Powell on the slope above 
 the highroad, meanwhile, no little confusion 
 reigned. The house door stood open and 
 through the hall could be seen the stout mid-
 
 SHOTOFER 55 
 
 die-aged Squire himself in hunting jacket and 
 gaiters, bearing gingerly to the door of the 
 great parlour at the right of the entrance a 
 dish of eggs cooked in the shell. 
 
 Inside the parlour was a mighty uproar of 
 men s voices, where half a dozen young officers 
 in military undress were cutting wild capers 
 in coolest disregard of Dame Powell s sacred 
 best furniture. Spurs, arms, pieces of harness, 
 and armour lay everywhere in careless con 
 fusion. 
 
 The Squire was met in the parlour doorway 
 by a young major clad but scantily in ruffled 
 shirt and knee breeches, O Neale of the King s 
 main body of horse, who, taking the dish of 
 eggs from the hand of Mr. Powell with some 
 by-play of mock ceremony, said patronizingly : 
 
 "Excellent, excellent, my dear sir. I can see 
 through the very shell that they are done now 
 exactly to our minds. You will forgive the 
 trouble," he added carelessly, his back already 
 turned to his worried host, who did not fail to 
 hear the comment from within, "God send they 
 be warmed through at least." 
 
 "Mr. Powell, Mr. Powell !" A woman s voice,
 
 56 "BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 sharp with irritated command, rang through 
 the hall from unseen regions at the rear of 
 the house. 
 
 The Squire, whose ruddy face showed much 
 disquiet, hurried down the hall and by a stone 
 stair to the dairy. Here in the doorway stood 
 a handsome woman of generous figure, her face 
 flushed high, hands on hips in attitude of no 
 small determination. 
 
 "What is the matter, Ann?" cried her hus 
 band testily. 
 
 "Matter!" was the dame s scornful echo, 
 "do you mean to tell me that you, Mr. Richard 
 Powell, Gentleman, of Forest Hill and 
 Wheatly, Justice of the Peace of Oxford, are 
 carrying in with your own hands the break 
 fast to those swearing, swaggering soldiers 
 who sit there in my parlour eating us out of 
 house and home? I tell you I will not have 
 it ! Where are those lazy wenches whose busi 
 ness it is, I would be pleased to know? What 
 had you to do meddling with their w T ork, pray 
 tell?" 
 
 "Every wench in the house flew down to the 
 road to see the King pass just now. Did you
 
 SHOTOFER 57 
 
 not hear the cheering? It stirred my blood, 
 I vow, and I should have gone likewise," added 
 the Squire ruefully, "if it had not been that the 
 major was swearing at such a rate over the 
 eggs being slack done " 
 
 "Slack done or over ddne makes no differ 
 ence," broke in Mistress Powell ; "my husband 
 is not to serve as orderly even to a King s 
 major. Where was Mary? Better her than 
 you." 
 
 "Nay, mistress," replied the Squire stoutly, 
 with a tone that suggested that at a pinch he 
 could assert himself, "not better Mary than 
 me. Sooner will I turn every jackanapes 
 of the batch out of my house neck and 
 crop than send Mary to and fro at their 
 bidding." 
 
 His energy had its mollifying effect. The 
 good wife turned her attack from him to the 
 maids, who had left the milk unskimmed, the 
 cream unchurned, the pans unscalded, and had 
 ears and eyes only for the blast of a bugle and 
 a sword dangling at some fool s leg. 
 
 "You are sharp set this morning, Nancy," 
 said the honest Squire. " Tis but human na-
 
 58 "BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 ture. Has something gone wronger than 
 usual?" 
 
 "That it has, as who should know better 
 than yourself? Is the man from London gone 
 yet or is he hanging around to wring a few 
 pounds out of us yet for his master?" 
 
 "Oh, Mr. John Milton s messenger? I saw 
 him clap saddle on his nag some time since and 
 never did my heart sink heavier than to send 
 again such answer." 
 
 "Let Mr. Milton keep his man at home then ! 
 He must know in times like these there is no 
 money to be had. The best we can do is to 
 keep a roof over our heads and a joint on the 
 spit, with the King quartering his roistering 
 knaves upon us in this fashion." 
 
 "All the same it is an honest debt," and 
 the Squire looked down, gnawing his lip 
 gloomily. "A debt we have owed the Miltons, 
 father and son, I like not to say how many 
 years," he added after a pause. 
 
 "Very well, there are other debts we owe," 
 cried Dame Powell. "How about the debt to 
 your own daughter of a proper husband and 
 she turning seventeen and never a man to
 
 SHOTOFER 59 
 
 speak of marriage to her for lack of a portion, 
 poor lass? I brought my husband three thou 
 sand pounds when we wed, but where is it 
 now? Not enough left to buy poor Mary sarse 
 net for a decent gown, and she bid to the offi 
 cers ball at the King s quarters in Oxford 
 come to-day week. Better worry yourself over 
 your own girl, Mr. Powell, than over these 
 Puritan gentry who sit at ease in their London 
 houses and stir loyal folk to rebel against their 
 lawful King." 
 
 "Mary ll not lack for a husband," said the 
 Squire, his face relaxing to his natural easy 
 good-humour. 
 
 In the fenced garden across the bit of turf 
 at the back of the Grange, Mary Powell, com 
 ing from the poultry yard with a white willow 
 basket on her arm, was at the moment bending 
 to gather certain newly opened daffodils. 
 Thus busied she was pondering deeply whether 
 she dared send in the daffodils when gathered 
 to the parlour for the officers regaling, or 
 whether, should such action come to her 
 mother s notice, she would be counted forward, 
 and chidden. A deep bow-window of the great
 
 60 "BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 parlour opened upon the level of the turf and 
 in it two of her father s uninvited guests had 
 stationed themselves, perhaps to watch her 
 movements. Mary was not sure, but she knew 
 her sprigged gown and white lawn cape were 
 trim and taking and every one of her move 
 ments, if not unconscious, was pretty and kit 
 tenish, and calculated to catch a bachelor s 
 eye. 
 
 "Deuce take her," cried O Neale, wrapping 
 the window hangings about him to cover his 
 undress, "but she is confoundedly killing this 
 morning ! Where the devil is that groom with 
 my doublet and boots? Does it take all the 
 forenoon to brush them? Have I to stay 
 penned in this dark rabbit hutch while lovely 
 Molly walks alone the garden paths with no 
 one to follow? Gad, but that ruffled sunbonnet 
 becomes her to distraction, and she knows it, 
 the rascal, none better." 
 
 Not many minutes later the valiant major 
 sat on a narrow garden bench beside Mary, 
 whose hands he despoiled of her heavy garden 
 ing gloves, which done he counted the dimples 
 in the small plump fingers with serious atten-
 
 SHOTOFER 61 
 
 tion, then got possession of her daffodils and 
 teased her into a tussle over them in which 
 their hands mingled perforce freely. Next, the 
 Cavalier opened fire on the maiden as regarded 
 the officers ball next Thursday, whether she 
 would be generous and grant him half a dozen 
 dances, but here he was surprised by an April 
 shower of tears from Mary s blue eyes. For 
 how could she go to a ball in the King s 
 quarters and all the Oxford girls in silks and 
 satins, and she with no other frock but her 
 old white mull which she had clear-starched 
 with her own hands over and over, until it 
 could scarce hang together? 
 
 Such a situation called for tender sympathy 
 and Mary found it bestowed to an even em 
 barrassing degree, since the major found it 
 needful to kiss away the tear which clung 
 longest to the peach bloom of her cheek, a duty 
 only properly performed with his arm around 
 her waist. Who should come into the garden 
 at such a moment but Dame Powell herself, 
 and Mary, in wholesome fear of her mother s 
 tongue, sprang up, dropping the daffodils all 
 abroad on the path. The major, sauntering
 
 62 "BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 easily away toward the paddock, whistled his 
 groom to saddle his horse, and in a trice was 
 seen galloping out to the Oxford road. 
 
 Whether her mother had seen the little at 
 tentions of the major or no Mary could not 
 determine. Plainly the dame s mind w r as on 
 larger matters and ready to slide with un 
 wonted ease over minor peccadillos. She had 
 two letters in her hand and bidding Mary 
 take her place again on the bench she seated 
 herself beside her with a grave face, as con 
 cerned the major saying only : 
 
 "It is high time to stop gallanting with these 
 idle fellows, my girl. They do but make a fool 
 of you for a moment s sport and the last thing 
 they think of is marriage." 
 
 At this Mary coloured and tossed her head 
 with a wilful pout on her pretty mouth. 
 
 "What is more," her mother continued 
 sharply, "is that you, Mary, with ten children 
 in the family, seven younger than yourself, 
 and your father s affairs going from bad to 
 worse with mortgages eating the heart out of 
 everything, that you, the eldest daughter, are 
 no likelier to provide for yourself than if you
 
 SHOTOVER 63 
 
 were seven in place of seventeen. Where is the 
 Royalist gentleman, soldier or civilian, who 
 will marry a worse than portionless girl in 
 times like these? And little you care of how 
 things are going or ask what is to happen 
 next. I tell you the King s cause is losing on 
 every side. Hereford and Tewkesbury are 
 taken, and Reading, hard by his Majesty s own 
 chosen headquarters here in Oxford, is on the 
 point of giving up to the Roundheads." 
 
 Mary made a little disdainful motion of 
 her head. 
 
 "I fancy the Roundheads will not be for 
 coming nearer his Majesty s presence than 
 Reading!" she cried scornfully. "Major 
 O Neale has told me that Essex dare not press 
 the King too hard for very shame, with his 
 regiments of tapsters, tinkers, soap-boilers, 
 and such like." 
 
 "Fool," cried her mother, "you know as 
 little of what you prate about as that dancing 
 doll of a major who fills your silly brain with 
 his lies! Tapsters and tinkers or no, the 
 Roundheads are better soldiers and tougher 
 than our own, who spend their time dancing
 
 64 "BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 and drinking and gallanting. Your father 
 says so himself. Our men do not hold their 
 own with them. And where shall we come out, 
 I w r onder, if Parliament wins? I see nothing 
 better for you, if things go on this way longer, 
 than to join the Nuns of Little Gidding, 
 where you will at least find honourable shelter 
 and occupation befitting a gentlewoman." 
 
 Mary Powell turned red and pale by turns 
 in angry dismay. 
 
 "The Nuns of Little Gidding? Those poor 
 bleached Protestant saints that Mr. Nicholas 
 Ferrar keeps at their tasks of broidery and 
 lettering from morn till night, with prayers 
 and penance from night till morn again? You 
 cannot mean that you think to put me in a 
 place like that!" The girl s voice in anger 
 rang with a touch of the sharpness of her 
 mother s. 
 
 "It may come to that, I promise you," and 
 Dame Powell compressed her lips firmly and 
 shook her head with impressive solemnity. 
 
 "Civil war is a stern thing, and these are no 
 holidays we have before us." 
 
 As she said these words she laid open on
 
 SHOTOFER 65 
 
 her knee one of the letters which had been 
 lying loosely in her hand. Glancing across, 
 Mary Powell read at the head of the letter, 
 "London, St. Martin s-le-Grand Lane," with 
 date of an early day of that same month of 
 April. She recognized the hand of her aunt, 
 Mrs. Blackborough. 
 
 "This is not a fresh letter from my aunt?" 
 she asked impatiently. 
 
 "No, it came by post some ten days since. 
 I read it but indifferently then, being pressed 
 to my wits end by the charge of such a family 
 as is on my hands. But since yesterday, when 
 a messenger came from Mr. John Milton, now 
 of Aldersgate Street, with this other letter here 
 requiring of your father some payment on that 
 old debt we have owed so long, I was reminded 
 of it afresh." 
 
 "And why, pray? What can my Aunt 
 Blackborough have to do with that terror 
 of our lives, that monstrous cruel Mr. John 
 Milton?" 
 
 "Monstrous cruel no one can call it for a 
 man to try after sixteen years owing to collect 
 what your father says is more than a just debt.
 
 66 < BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 For a fact, Mr. Milton has been rather lenient 
 than cruel, since he might have forced the pay 
 ment long ago, seeing his claim has precedence 
 by law of all other claims upon our lands and 
 goods. Press it he can and press it I fear he 
 will now with small delay." 
 
 Mary looked at her mother surprised. She 
 seemed almost to be taking the part of the 
 man against whom she had been wont to 
 storm. 
 
 "Your Aunt Blackborough lives and has for 
 five years just within the new Alders Gate, as 
 you know, if you have heeded what she has 
 written in her letters. Mr. John Milton has 
 not so very long ago taken a pretty garden 
 house in Aldersgate Street without, also in the 
 Parish of St. Botolph. So you see they are 
 now neighbours and with good liking between 
 them. Mistress Blackborough writes in this 
 letter of Mr. Milton, how he is a bachelor 
 and exceeding learned, though by no means 
 old or ill-favoured. He has his nephews living 
 with him, and tutors them, and with them as a 
 great favour a few others, sons of his friends. 
 She tells of how high an honour she and
 
 SHOTOVER 67 
 
 her husband esteem it that he consented 
 to take their Jack on for his Greek and 
 Latin." 
 
 "An honour," cried Mary tartly, "why an 
 honour to have this sour Roundhead creditor 
 of ours for tutor? I wager poor Jack gets 
 drubbings enough at his hands. I can see no 
 honour myself in it." 
 
 "Nay, because you do not know enough to 
 see! This Mr. John Milton has written some 
 very pretty verses, your aunt says, which give 
 him no small reputation, and that in high 
 quarters, though he be a Puritan. She says 
 he is truly gently bred and can play sweetly 
 on viol and organ. It is her persuasion that 
 if I could meet him and we could confer, this 
 grievous matter of the statute-staple, that is, 
 our debt to his father and him, could be 
 smoothed over, for a time anyway. God knows 
 something must be done." 
 
 "Then you think of journeying to London?" 
 Indifferent otherwise to her mother s anxious 
 enterprise Mary s mind kindled instantly to a 
 sense of new freedom suddenly to be granted 
 herself. Possibly her quickened interest in
 
 68 BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 this question betrayed her, for Danie Powell 
 replied promptly and curtly : 
 
 "Yes, I purpose to start day after to-mor 
 row, and you with ine, to be gone ten days, 
 maybe." 
 
 "I?" cried Mary at this unexpected turn, 
 even more acutely distressed than at her 
 mother s mention of the Nuns of Little Gid- 
 ding. "Why, mother, I never can go to Lon 
 don now. Tis flatly impossible." 
 
 "And why then?" 
 
 "There is the ball, you have forgotten, on 
 the Thursday, to-day week." 
 
 "You could not go to it if you were here. 
 You have no frock to wear." 
 
 Mary s eyes filled with hot and angry tears. 
 
 "Frock or no frock, I shall go! There are 
 plenty to dance with me were I to wear the one 
 I have on this minute." 
 
 "You know better than to talk in thwart 
 fashion to me, my girl. Shall me no shalls. 
 Not but I m sorry enough myself about the 
 ball. But it can t be helped. You can see for 
 yourself that I cannot go to London and leave 
 you in the house alone here with these wild
 
 SHOTO7ER 69 
 
 young blades. Go you must with me, and go 
 you will." 
 
 Whereupon Dame Powell rose from the gar 
 den bench and walked back to the house. 
 Mary, left to herself, buried her face in both 
 hands and sobbed aloud in furious but help 
 less rebellion.
 
 V 
 
 GENTLEWOMEN IN DISTRESS 
 
 IN Villiers Street off the Strand there 
 resided at the time of the Civil War 
 the Lady Margaret Ley, daughter of the 
 first Earl of Marlborough, in the time of 
 James the First the Lord High Treasurer of 
 England. 
 
 Lady Margaret, wife of an accomplished 
 gentleman of Parliamentary sympathies, made 
 her house a resort for the leaders of advanced 
 thought of her day, among them John Milton. 
 For him she had, as says the ancient chroni 
 cler, "a particular honour and took much 
 delight in his company, as also her husband." 
 To this lady, Milton with his fearless spirit, 
 his passionate devotion to liberty and his mar 
 vellous lyric gift, was the Genius par excel 
 lence of the Puritan party, which to her satir 
 ical turn of mind often appeared heavy and 
 
 70
 
 GENTLEWOMEN IN DISTRESS 71 
 
 prosaic. A welcome always awaited him in 
 her home, and in herself he never failed to find 
 a kindred mind. 
 
 ^Returning one afternoon in April from a 
 visit to Villiers Street, Milton found a group 
 of Parliamentary politicians waiting for him 
 in his study. His house was in some sort a 
 seat of the liberal ferment and many of the 
 motions of the famous Long Parliament at 
 Westminster had their inspiration in the se 
 cret counsels of the poet s study. 
 
 The matter which brought his present visit 
 ors was of painful interest, being the suspicion 
 that William Waller, known for his success in 
 the w r ar as William the Conqueror, was turned 
 traitor to the cause. During the troubled 
 discussion Milton s housekeeper, Mistress Han 
 nah Glynn, brought in a letter which she 
 placed in her master s hand. This letter Mil 
 ton broke open, glanced over with perplexed 
 impatience, and threw aside. When, towards 
 sunset, the company broke up and scattered, 
 leaving him alone, however, he re-read this 
 communication with some interest. 
 
 The letter was from Mrs. Blackborough,
 
 72 "BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 mother of young Jack, his pupil, and ran as 
 follows: 
 
 "ST. MARTIN S-LE-GRAND LANE. 
 "MR. JOHN MILTON,, 
 
 "Honoured Sir This is to say that two 
 gentlewomen, relations of my own by marriage 
 and much respected, are at this present in my 
 house, being come on a visit with no small 
 distress of mind in a matter concerning your 
 self. Should you be minded to grant them 
 the favour of your presence with speech upon 
 the occasion of their solicitude, I would name 
 this evening at early candlelight," etc. 
 
 It was with quickened curiosity that, agree 
 able to this summons, Milton set out within the 
 hour to visit the home of his neighbours, the 
 Blackboroughs, just within the great gate of 
 the city. Who the two gentlewomen in no 
 small distress might be he could not anticipate 
 or guess. The massive Alders Gate, with its 
 sculptured figures of King James riding into 
 the city for his coronation on the outer wall 
 and seated on his throne on the inner, was 
 fortified and closely guarded by a patrol of
 
 GENTLEWOMEN IN DISTRESS 73 
 
 Parliamentary soldiers. Passing these, Mil 
 ton paused on his way into the city within 
 the narrow portal for foot-passengers. Up the 
 street, called Aldersgate beyond the rampart, 
 but within known as St. Martin s-le-Grand 
 Lane, he could plainly see not far from the 
 famous Bull Inn the front of the Blackborough 
 house. At that moment the door was opened 
 and a youthful feminine figure in a red cloak, 
 the hood of which was drawn over her head, 
 appeared upon the threshold. Closing the 
 door behind her this person now hurried down 
 the street in the direction of the Gate, but, 
 turned aside before reaching it. With the evi 
 dent purpose of climbing to the public walk 
 on the summit of the rampart, she ran lightly 
 up a circuitous path winding up the steep bank 
 at a short distance to the left of the Alders 
 Gate. 
 
 Something in the young woman s bearing of 
 confused lack of familiarity with her sur 
 roundings at once suggested to Milton that she 
 might be one of the distressed gentlewomen 
 whom he was now on his way to meet. Plainly 
 she had left the house for a quiet walk and had
 
 74 "BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 chosen the city rampart, at other times a fa 
 vourite promenade for the citizens of London. 
 Under present conditions, the city being 
 fortified and the trenches full of rough sol 
 diery, this had become a place where no maiden 
 might walk unattended. Without an instant s 
 hesitation Milton hastened by a short cut with 
 which his own daily walk made him familiar 
 to mount to the upper level, and, by inter 
 cepting the stranger, save her from possible 
 annoyance. 
 
 They met a moment later on the top of the 
 rampart, Mary Powell having stopped, breath 
 less from her hasty climb. Great was her 
 surprise to see directly in her path a gen 
 tleman apparently of fashion by the fineness 
 of his dress and the sword swinging by his side, 
 who saluted her with respectful if somewhat 
 distant ceremony, removing the hat from his 
 long curling hair and bowing with all a 
 cavalier s graceful homage. 
 
 Mary s eyes were swollen by tears, and 
 her cheeks and, it must be confessed, her neat 
 little nose were chafed and reddened by in 
 cessant crying. Convinced now that she was
 
 GENTLEWOMEN IN DISTRESS T5 
 
 one of the tristful gentlewomen, and not a 
 little moved at the sight of her pretty face 
 and of a distress in some mysterious way con 
 nected with himself, Milton addressed her with 
 peculiar gentleness : 
 
 "You have come up here for the fresher air, 
 madam, if I am not mistaken," he said, "and 
 I approve your choice, seeing this is my own 
 favourite walk." As he spoke thus, Milton 
 walked slowly forward along the rampart, the 
 girl, timid and trembling, moving on by his 
 side, uncertain of what she ought to do. "I 
 beg you will permit me to attend you for a 
 little space, seeing you may not walk here now 
 alone on account of the soldiery." 
 
 As he spoke Milton pointed down to the 
 trenches swarming with the city guards, 
 rough, noisy fellows whose glances at her own 
 person instantly convinced the girl of the 
 truth of what the stranger said. At the mo 
 ment they passed a sentinel, match-lock on 
 shoulder, patrolling the rampart, who saluted 
 her companion with formal, military precision, 
 after a manner which proved to Mary that he 
 must be a personage of no small importance.
 
 76 "BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 "Oh, indeed, sir, indeed I am greatly 
 ashamed that I should have made such a blun 
 der!" she cried, her chin quivering like a 
 child s and fresh tears springing to her eyes. 
 "I am just up from the country and know 
 nothing of the ways here. I should go back 
 at once to my aunt s," and she stopped, glanc 
 ing up humbly at Milton s face, the ex 
 traordinary beauty of which fairly startled 
 her. 
 
 "No, there is nothing to fear. Do not cut 
 your walk short," he said, and walked on, 
 smiling gravely. "You can perfectly well 
 walk here if some citizen known to the regi 
 ments accompanies you. Without doubt you 
 are in need of the purer air to which you are 
 accustomed." 
 
 "It seems as if I should smother, shut up 
 all day in that dark house," murmured Mary, 
 her voice broken by small, pathetic sobs. "Lon 
 don is so terrible and I am so unhappy." 
 
 "This is quite, quite too bad," said Milton, 
 divided between amusement and sympathy, the 
 latter prevailing, however, as his eyes rested 
 upon Mary s golden hair, from which the scar-
 
 GENTLEWOMEN IN DISTRESS 77 
 
 let hood had fallen, and her innocent girlish 
 face. "Could you possibly tell me somewhat 
 of your trouble?" he added with respectful 
 gentleness. "I should be glad to make Lon 
 don a little less terrible to you if it lie in my 
 power." 
 
 "Oh, thank you kindly, sir," said Mary, 
 greatly touched by the friendliness of his tone, 
 "but that would be impossible. It was to have 
 been to-night, just now, with me away off here 
 in this place where nobody knows or cares 
 about me and no young person about save only 
 Jack Blackborough, who is so rude as to mock 
 my country ways of speech. And all the rest 
 will be dressing now for it, and the officers in 
 their best uniforms and the bugles piping up 
 oh, it is too hard!" 
 
 Here Mary s voice broke entirely. A glim 
 mering of what might be the matter dawned 
 upon her companion, who, although inclined 
 to smile at the display of unrelieved woe for 
 such cause, was by no means unresponsive to 
 an appeal like this. It was not so long since 
 he had himself mingled freely in the masques 
 and revelries of young lords and noblemen at
 
 78 "BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 Harefield and Ludlow Castles. He could by 
 force of the vividness of his imagination put 
 himself without effort in the place of the sim 
 ple country girl, heartbroken at losing her 
 climax of social pleasure. 
 
 "Truly it is a pity," he said, the sincerity of 
 his sympathy breaking down Mary s small 
 stock of reserve. Just who the gentleman was 
 seemed to make so little odds when he was so 
 kind and when he wore such beautiful black 
 silk stockings and shoes with silver buckles, 
 and the finest ruffles at his wrists and neck 
 her eyes had ever rested on, and had, moreover, 
 such a high-born shape and such a high-bred 
 way with him. Even the Oxford Cavaliers 
 seemed in comparison a trifle vulgar. As they 
 walked on Mary dried her tears resolutely and 
 made vigorous effort to keep the quiver out 
 of her voice and converse intelligently. It 
 was a melancholy joy to find some one in 
 London who cared to listen to her, and the 
 fresh April evening wind blowing on her 
 cheeks from across the green Artillery Ground 
 beyond the w r all to the south calmed her 
 feverish excitement.
 
 GENTLEWOMEN IN DISTRESS 79 
 
 "But there are so many troubles," she 
 sighed plaintively, wondering as she looked 
 over at Milton if her nose were very red, and 
 if, in this light, he would notice that she had a 
 few freckles and think her little better than 
 a milkmaid. 
 
 "So many?" echoed Milton with delicate 
 irony; "but not so bad as this of losing the 
 dance? That would be impossible!" 
 
 "No, not quite so bad," returned the girl 
 innocently, "that is for me, but everything is 
 dreadful now for everybody. We could have 
 stayed at home and I could have gone to the 
 ball and have been perfectly happy and never 
 
 have had to come to London at all if " 
 
 Here she stopped short with a sudden fear that 
 her confidences were going too far with a per 
 fect stranger. 
 
 Milton made no response, and they walked 
 on in silence to another sentry box, then 
 turned, retracing their steps in the direction 
 of the Alders Gate. 
 
 "Well," he said at length, having been for 
 some time studying a tiny tendril-like curl of 
 fair hair just above a small rosy ear and find-
 
 80 BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 ing it very good; "well, as you began to say 
 just now, you might have been perfectly happy 
 if if what?" 
 
 Mary, relieved now to find that this impres 
 sive individual who had come so gallantly to 
 her relief from an embarrassing situation, had 
 not suddenly dropped all interest in her and 
 her small affairs, returned to the discussion 
 of them with quickening impulse to arouse his 
 sympathy. 
 
 "Oh !" she cried, with a plaintive shake of 
 her head, "if only it were not for a dreadful 
 old Roundhead schoolmaster somewhere here 
 in London who worries me and my father 
 and mother and Dick too almost out of our 
 lives." 
 
 "That sounds truly heartless." 
 
 "Oh, yes, I am quite sure he can have no 
 heart, and I call him monstrous cruel myself, 
 insisting on being paid what my poor father 
 owes him, and he with not a shilling to give 
 me for ribbons, much less enough to buy me 
 a new gown. But my mother says monstrous 
 cruel the man is not, since the debt is a just one, 
 and owing many years. So the worst is com-
 
 GENTLEWOMEN IN DISTRESS 81 
 
 ing, and we must give up the Grange, though 
 we all do love it so dearly, and mother says 
 I must even join Mr. Ferrar s Nunnery at 
 Little Gidding," here Mary s composure dis 
 solved anew and she stammered on between 
 fresh sobs, "because no gentleman will think 
 of marrying poor me, who am worse than por 
 tionless, and they cannot support me at home 
 since we shall have none soon, unless 
 
 "Yes. Unless what? Please tell me; there 
 must be some hope." 
 
 "If my mother can have speech of this same 
 creditor, and can find any pity in him so that 
 she can move him to wait still a little longer, 
 then, then perhaps 
 
 "Then perhaps Mr. Richard Powell s charm 
 ing daughter need not to go quite yet to join 
 the Nuns of Little Gidding?" 
 
 As he spoke Milton was standing on the 
 steps leading down to the street, giving his 
 hand to Mary to aid her in the descent. 
 
 "How could ever you have found out my 
 name?" she cried, stopping short where she 
 stood, her blue eyes full of wonder and alarm, 
 looking straight into his face and noting, for
 
 82 "BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 all her confusion, that his skin was fairer than 
 her own and his eyes a dark grey and lighted 
 strangely as from within. 
 
 "I have not found out your name, sweet Mis 
 tress Powell," was Milton s answer, as he led 
 her in spite of her impulse of withdrawing 
 on down to the pavement below. "I have 
 learned very much in this last hour, and some 
 what indeed of news about myself, but of your 
 name I am still in ignorance. I should guess 
 it to be Rose if it fit you." 
 
 "Nay, but only plain Mary," sighed the girl. 
 They walked on up the street in the twilight 
 towards the Blackboroughs house, seeing 
 lights in which Mary exclaimed : 
 
 "Out upon me for forgetting ! With all my 
 talk of him I had quite forgot it was this night 
 by candlelight that my mother hopes she may 
 have speech with this Mr. John Milton. Oh, 
 dear, what ever shall I do?" 
 
 "I hope you are not frightened," said Mil 
 ton, noting the girl s changing colour. 
 
 "But indeed I am. You cannot think how 
 my heart flutters till it clean takes my breath 
 from me."
 
 GENTLEWOMEN IN DISTRESS 83 
 
 "You have never seen your father s cruel 
 creditor?" 
 
 "No, never, but ever since I can remember, 
 his name and his claim have hung over us 
 children like some dark cloud, sure to bring 
 storm when it fell. Dick used always to play 
 at fighting him in the lists when we held our 
 tournament games in the big barn." 
 
 "I can fancy it would be a case of Death 
 without Quarter, " commented Milton with 
 a whimsical smile. 
 
 "But to think he may be coming up the 
 street at this very minute!" cried the girl, 
 looking up and down St. Martin s Lane in 
 growing agitation. "I must hurry and keep as 
 much out of sight as may be when he comes. 
 It may chance he will not notice me at all." 
 
 "Do not delude yourself with that vain 
 notion," said Milton; "I dare prophecy he 
 will have eyes for no one else." 
 
 "Oh, but you mistake much. He is no gay 
 and gallant bachelor, but as I said a crusty, 
 fusty Puritan schoolmaster." 
 
 "With spectacles on his nose, a wig on his 
 head, and a birch rod in his hand."
 
 84 "BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 Mary laughed at the picture in spite of her 
 self. They had reached the doorstep, and her 
 hand was on the knocker. 
 
 "Good-night," she said, turning then to give 
 Milton her hand with sudden pretty shyness. 
 "You were very good to care for me on my 
 walk. Shall I ever see you again, I wonder?" 
 
 "I think it partly possible." 
 
 He bowed low and walked rapidly away. 
 
 Ten minutes later Mistress Blackborough, 
 sitting with Mistress Powell in the prim upper 
 parlour, both women tense with expectation, 
 heard a knock at the house door. 
 
 "Mary," called her mother, opening a door 
 into an inner chamber; "hurry and take your 
 place in here at once. No doubt that is Mr. 
 John Milton knocking this minute." 
 
 "Yes, of a surety," added Dame Black- 
 borough, "for I never mistake his knock. It 
 is like himself always gentle and yet im 
 perative." 
 
 A long, agitated breath escaped the lips of 
 Mistress Powell. 
 
 "Heaven send his gentleness be uppermost 
 to-night ! " she sighed.
 
 GENTLEWOMEN IN DISTRESS 85 
 
 "Why is it that I have to be here, mother? " 
 Mary, coming in, asked the question with 
 nervous petulance. "What good can I possibly 
 effect in such a matter?" 
 
 "Pray don t argue now, child," her mother 
 answered angrily. "Your aunt and I know 
 what is best. For mercy s sake don t look so 
 frightened neither. I should think you ex 
 pected to see a ghost." 
 
 "Mr. Milton is not going to carry you off 
 bodily, Mary," added her aunt with a cheerful 
 laugh. "Cheer up now. You may be the very 
 one to plead your father s cause." 
 
 "Mr. John Milton." The maid, opening the 
 door, announced the name of the visitor, who 
 entered immediately and made respectful 
 salutations. 
 
 Mary Powell, standing in the shadow be 
 yond the circle of the few twinkling candles 
 on the sober centre table, grew giddy for a 
 moment, next cold ; then, as the visitor crossed 
 to her, bent and kissed her hand, she blushed 
 a rosy red, and something knit tight together 
 in her throat. 
 
 "Madam," said Milton, turning to Mistress
 
 86 "BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 Blackborough, "as I came up the stair I heard 
 you say that Mistress Mary Powell might be 
 the one to plead her father s cause. Will you 
 permit me to say that she has done this 
 already?"
 
 VI 
 A DEBT FOR A DOWRY 
 
 4 * 1 \ 7" HAT is the name of that book? " 
 \\ "It is Tasso s Aminta. " 
 
 "Who is Tasso?" 
 
 "He was an Italian poet. He has been dead 
 fifty years." 
 
 "It looks but dull reading. Not a word of 
 sense can I make of it. What do you read it 
 for? I saw you sitting here when we came in 
 above just now, and Mr. John Milton here on 
 this garden bench beside you." 
 
 "I was doing my lesson with him." 
 
 "You need not go so fire red over it. I sup 
 pose there is no harm in that, though I should 
 say myself that you were much too old to be 
 doing lessons with a bachelor like him. How 
 old are you, then? You are near as tall as 
 me." 
 
 "Six months over sixteen." 
 
 87
 
 88 "BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 "I am near a year more. But at six 
 teen it looks ridiculous to be reciting lessons 
 like a child in a dame school. You are not ill- 
 looking neither, though brown." 
 
 "Thank you kindly. Neither are you, 
 though pink and white." 
 
 Mary Powell laughed, then sighed mourn 
 fully. 
 
 "So I have heard. Oh, me, when shall I lis 
 ten to such speeches again !" 
 
 "You have listened to one now. Does not 
 that suffice for a little?" 
 
 "La! you know what I mean. Was ever so 
 dull a place as London ! I am deathly home 
 sick here. Not a sign of a gallant of age be 
 tween Mr. John Milton and Jack Blackbor- 
 ough have I seen since I left Oxford. What 
 do you do for beaux?" 
 
 "I have never had them. But sure one would 
 not expect gallanting in time of war like this." 
 
 "That shows you are but a school-child. 
 War is the very time ! I have had six different 
 suitors you may not strictly call them, but 
 followers, and all soldiers, since the war broke 
 out. There is one waiting with impatience now
 
 A DEBT FOR A DOWRY 89 
 
 for my return, as pretty a fellow as you could 
 ask to see a major in the King s army." 
 
 "Why don t you hurry back to Oxford to see 
 him, then?" 
 
 "Thank Heaven we go day after to-morrow. 
 We have stayed on, my mother having business 
 with Mr. John Milton, besides spending every 
 morning in the drapers shops in the Strand, 
 turning over all their wares and buying next 
 to nothing. It has been most tiresome." 
 
 "There is your mother now with Mistress 
 Blackborough in the window of Mr. Mil 
 ton s kitchen, and Dame Glynn with them !" 
 
 "Who is Dame Glynn?" 
 
 "Mr. Milton s housekeeper. Why has she 
 taken those ladies into her kitchen and pantry 
 too as it looks from here?" 
 
 "Oh, housewives are curious about such-like 
 things. It was because I knew what was 
 coming that I slipped down here where I saw 
 you. I suppose the good creatures will exam 
 ine every feather bed in the house before they 
 are through and every cup and trencher into 
 the bargain. Where can Mr. John Milton be, 
 then, all the while?"
 
 90 BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 "He went in to greet your mother and aunt 
 when you arrived, but it can scarce be expected 
 that he w r ill follow them with Dame Glynn 
 around the wash-house and still-room. He has 
 matters of more importance." 
 
 Mary Powell yawned. 
 
 "Yes, I suppose so. I wish he would leave 
 them though, and come out here. This is rather 
 a pretty bit of garden for London, but the 
 house I call gloomy. Tis the Puritan of it." 
 
 "Do you call its master gloomy, too?" 
 
 "Nay, he is as fine a man as I ever looked 
 upon, and wears his hair like a proper cavalier. 
 If he were but under thirty instead of over 
 there might be some sport with him." 
 
 "How old must a person be to strictly suit 
 you." 
 
 "Anything under thirty will do." 
 
 "So it wear doublet and hose ! There is your 
 mother beckoning you from the window of the 
 little matted parlour. Good-bye." 
 
 "What, you are going?" 
 
 "Yes, I must run home. I see there will be 
 no more lessons to-day. The boys are dis 
 missed already."
 
 A DEBT FOR A DOWRY 91 
 
 "You live very near, do you not? May I 
 come and see you to-morrow, Mistress Delme 
 Davies?" 
 
 "Any time you like and kindly welcome, 
 Mistress Mary Powell. You will find me in the 
 least gloomy house of Trinity Court, but I can 
 promise you no cavaliers." 
 
 With this and a gay little laugh like a bird- 
 note, Delink disappeared through a narrow 
 door in the garden wall leading to the "entry" 
 from the street, while Mary Powell, by the fra 
 grant garden walk, returned to the matted 
 parlour. 
 
 Half an hour later, Mistress Powell being in 
 business conference with Mr. Milton in his 
 study adjoining, Mary sat waiting with the 
 housekeeper and Dame Blackborough, looking 
 listlessly from the window down into the quiet 
 Aldersgate Street. Suddenly she straightened 
 herself in the chair, pushed the casement wider 
 open, and tilted her head to catch a better view. 
 On the opposite side of the street at the foot 
 of the little court there had appeared a dash 
 ing young officer of the Puritan horse, as she 
 could judge by the boots and spurs showing
 
 92 BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 beneath his long cavalry cloak; his hair was 
 worn long and curling beside his face, like a 
 Cavalier s, and upon his head sat gracefully a 
 beaver hat with broad drooping brim and a 
 long plume. 
 
 With growing excitement Mary perceived 
 that the interesting stranger had his eye upon 
 Mr. Milton s house, as he advanced to a point 
 just opposite and shading his face with one 
 gloved hand gazed fixedly up at the very win 
 dow where she sat. Mary blushed high in no 
 small flutter, but did not withdraw from the 
 window and in the next instant the soldier 
 waved his hand and then, placing it over his 
 heart, bowed with glances of ardent admira 
 tion. Upon this the girl laughed and tossed 
 her head with some pretence of disdain, but 
 moved a bit closer to the window in her curi 
 osity to see more distinctly the face of her ad 
 mirer, which struck her as ruddy and hand 
 some. At this he made response in a gesture 
 full of dramatic fire as if pleading for her 
 favour, which moved her slightly to relent, 
 and even to wave one hand coquettishly 
 towards him. Between terror and delight
 
 A DEBT FOR A DOWRY 93 
 
 Mary saw that upon this the unknown 
 dashed across the court to the house door, 
 which she was unable to see from her window. 
 An instant later the ring of a spurred boot on 
 the stair told her that he had actually entered 
 the house and that without knocking. 
 
 In great uneasiness Mary kept her eye on 
 the open study door, much fearing that Mr. 
 John Milton would observe and disapprove this 
 intrusion upon his domain of an apparent total 
 stranger, but there was no chance for remedy, 
 as the parlour door was speedily thrown open, 
 the bold soldier dashed into the room, and re 
 gardless of the presence of the women fell on 
 one knee before Mary, whose hand he clasped 
 ardently in both his own. 
 
 "Lovely lady," he declared in a curiously 
 muffled whisper, "I have followed you on the 
 street day after day, smitten to the heart by 
 your beauty. Sure no man could set eyes on 
 your face and escape unwounded. Your name 
 I do not know, but at last I have found you in 
 your home, and hear me you must !" 
 
 "But, sir," admonished Mary in great excite 
 ment, "this is not my home at all. I beg you
 
 94 BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 will hasten to depart before Mr. Milton ob 
 serves you. I cannot listen to you now 
 another time another place " 
 
 "But listen you will you must ah, dearest 
 maid, forgive me lit is but your beauty s fault," 
 with which the gallant soldier rose, threw an 
 arm around Mary, and even pressed a kiss upon 
 her cheek. 
 
 Mary gave a little scream. Milton, who 
 from his study had been a witness to the whole 
 scene, strode into the room ; after him Mistress 
 Powell in bustling disturbance. Laying his 
 hand on the shoulder of the cavalier, Milton 
 whirled him around to the light, which until 
 now had not struck full upon his face. Twitch 
 ing off the broad-brimmed hat which had 
 shaded it, Milton exposed to view the face of 
 Delme Davies, now recognizable though dis 
 guised by clever use of lamp-black and ver 
 milion. 
 
 In rising wrath Milton pointed to the study 
 door. Kissing her finger-tips merrily to the 
 discomfited Mary, Delme passed into the study, 
 and the door was closed upon her. 
 
 Mistress Blackborough and her guests took
 
 A DEBT FOR A DOWRY 95 
 
 a somewhat hasty departure, Mary pouting 
 and sulking with mortification, a fact which 
 her mother was at some pains to cover. Milton 
 apologized gravely to the girl, for the unhand 
 some trick which had been played upon her, 
 promising condign punishment upon the of 
 fender. They parted with an invitation from 
 Mistress Powell to visit Forest Hill, an invi 
 tation which Milton seemed inclined to accept. 
 Returning to the study he found Delme^ 
 seated demurely at the long table, busy with a 
 book. Prosper s cavalry cloak and hat lay 
 upon a chair; beside them the top-boots into 
 which she had made shift to tuck her petticoat. 
 Delme had made use of her time to clean her 
 face of its disfiguring pigments, and to fasten 
 her hair tidily under the little lawn Puritan 
 cap which she had carried hidden in her bosom. 
 Milton, taking a chair opposite her at the oak 
 table, looked at her deliberately, hiding behind 
 an expression of stern disapproval his surprise 
 at her swift transformation from the dashing 
 officer to the quiet, decorous Puritan maid. 
 "You may close that book, Delme ." 
 Delme thought she had never known any-
 
 96 "BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 thing so cold as her master s voice as he spoke 
 the words, but by some oddity of temperament 
 the sense of his displeasure awakened in her 
 a spirit of frolicsome defiance. She closed the 
 book obediently, clasped her hands upon it, 
 and looked across the table at him, not at all 
 scared. 
 
 "I wish you were a boy," he said severely. 
 There was a pause, Delme making no response, 
 though her lips twitched with the effort to con 
 ceal a smile. 
 
 "Because then I could thrash you and be 
 done with it," continued her master. "Now I 
 have the harder part of trying to make a wilful, 
 light-minded girl understand what she has 
 done, which from the very fact that she could 
 commit such an action may be almost impos 
 sible." 
 
 "You might try, sir," said Delme with ap 
 parent humility. "I never thought of troub 
 ling you by what I did." 
 
 "But you did trouble me grievously, Delme", 
 since you chose to flout and mock in most un- 
 maidenly wise, and that in a time of peculiar 
 heaviness and sorrow, my guest, a gentle,
 
 A DEBT FOR A DOWRY 97 
 
 sensitive girl, whom it should have been your 
 part to comfort and befriend." 
 
 "But she was so silly, Mr. Milton!" burst 
 forth Delme with irrepressible honesty. "I 
 could not resist it." 
 
 "You will not speak of Mistress Mary Powell 
 in terms like that in my presence," said Milton 
 haughtily. "It ill becomes you. Though near 
 the same age she is womanly and mature, while 
 you are like nothing but a boy, and a naughty 
 one at that." 
 
 "That may be, sir," said Delme , impenitent 
 still but moved to speak in her own defence; 
 "and yet I do not count myself inferior to Mis 
 tress Mary. For, though I be boyish and un- 
 mannered and unskilled in coquetry, you shall 
 find some day that I am as true woman as 
 she, yes, truer." 
 
 Beimels head was held erect as she said 
 these bold words, and Milton could not re 
 press a smile at the mingling in her expression 
 of a woman s firmness and a child s wounded 
 pride. He leaned back in the high armchair 
 and watched her for a little space contempla 
 tively beneath drooping eyelids; her cheeks
 
 were flushed, her bright brown hair fell 
 a little about her brow, and beneath it her 
 eyes flashed with their gold-coloured lights; 
 some strange subtle consciousness baffling 
 his discernment lurked in the curves of her 
 mouth. 
 
 "You are not well-behaved, Delme ," Milton 
 commented slowly ; "you are not even properly 
 penitent, and yet I shall let you go unpunished 
 I can plainly see. It is impossible not to for 
 give you." 
 
 "I shall not go unpunished," returned 
 Delme , and bent her head that he might not 
 see the burning tears which sprang to her eyes 
 as she spoke. "I shall punish myself. I am 
 coming here no more for lessons. Is not that 
 enough?" 
 
 "No more? And why?" 
 
 Silence for a moment, and then : 
 
 "She says, Mistress Mary whom you rate so 
 high, that I am too old to be any longer les 
 soned with lads, and I partly believe it. So I 
 am coming no more." 
 
 "I shall miss you. You have been my quick 
 est pupil and my Child, do you think you
 
 A DEBT FOR A DOWRY 99 
 
 are too old, surely? We shall not like to give 
 up the Italian." 
 
 Milton leaned forward as he spoke, his arms 
 upon the table, one hand unconsciously out 
 stretched as if to take hers, but suddenly with 
 drawn. 
 
 "She says I am." 
 
 "She may be right. Yes, it may be better. 
 Delme , if I can but win her consent it is my 
 purpose shortly to make this same maiden 
 whom you so wantonly offended now my 
 wife." 
 
 "Mary Powell?" 
 
 Delme spoke the words under breath, all 
 colour for the moment leaving her face but a 
 brave smile on her lip. 
 
 "The same." 
 
 "I give you joy, sir," and she held out her 
 hand gallantly across the table. "For certain 
 this is great news, though something sudden." 
 
 "Sit down and I will tell you how, though 
 the flower of love and wedlock may blossom 
 swiftly, the root goes far down and is of many 
 years growth." 
 
 "I shall be glad to hear, sir," said the girl
 
 100 "BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 quietly, resting her elbow on the table and 
 shading her face from him with one hand. 
 
 "There has been a wretched old debt in the 
 Milton family against Richard Powell, the 
 maiden s father, which he has been unable 
 to discharge. The dame s errand to London 
 just now was to plead with me for still longer 
 forbearance, as the family is in great straits, 
 so that if the matter were pressed the old farm 
 house where they live, near Oxford, must be 
 given up, and other grievous things will be the 
 issue." 
 
 "Did Mistress Mary know of this debt?" 
 
 "Yes, and had most terrible dread of her 
 father s creditor, as some monster of cruelty," 
 and he smiled at recollection of his first meet 
 ing with the maid. 
 
 Delme laughed her quick, blithe little laugh, 
 but her hand still shaded her face. 
 
 "Under these conditions, as you can guess, 
 the daughter of Richard Powell has no dowry 
 and stands liable in these uncertain times to 
 meet with hardships sooner than with a hus 
 band." 
 
 "That is clear, sir."
 
 A DEBT FOR A DOWRY 101 
 
 "Yes, Delme," said Milton abruptly, throw 
 ing himself again back in his chair, "you see it 
 all. I need not tell you farther." 
 
 "For you it is but a privilege to give over a 
 debt where other men would look to take over a 
 dowry. And if you do this you also save her 
 you wed from hardships and even homeless- 
 ness." 
 
 "It may even be. I would like to do so." 
 
 "It is like Arthur s knights in the chronicle 
 of Sir Thomas Malory that you have often 
 read to us," said the girl slowly. "Yes, it is 
 like you, sir." 
 
 "And the maid herself is a rare one, when 
 you know her better; housewifely, homelov- 
 ing. It pleases me to see one so womanlike, 
 
 " devout, and pure, 
 Sober, steadfast, and demure. " 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Milton." 
 
 "And a very pretty little lady to look upon, 
 is she not, Delm6?" 
 "Very pretty."
 
 fT^ 
 
 VII 
 
 A LETTER 
 
 Mr. Prosper Unwin, Captain in the 
 Regiment of Colonel Cromwell s 
 
 Ironsides. In camp near Grantham, Lincoln 
 
 shire. 
 
 "DEAR PROSPER: 
 
 "We hear of the good success of your arms in 
 Lincolnshire with gladness, since, save by my 
 Lord Fairfax and Colonel Cromwell in the 
 North, things are going but ill with our 
 armies. 
 
 "I have come just now from Mr. John Mil 
 ton s house, where I have been on truly a 
 strange errand, namely, the hanging of rose 
 wreaths and myrtle garlands to welcome the 
 bringing home of a Bride. What you will 
 think a yet greater marvel is that the Bride is 
 of a Royalist family, being daughter of that 
 Mr. Richard Powell whom you wot of. But 
 102
 
 A LETTER 103 
 
 you must by no means think that Mr. Milton 
 has gone over to the King himself, like certain 
 others, because he rode down a month since ( it 
 was at Whitsuntide) into the King s quarter 
 at Oxford, and sojourned at Forest Hill. He is 
 staunch Patriot and Puritan as ever, and as 
 chivalrous in this marriage as in all else. 
 
 "You will smile that I was caught by the 
 whole wedding party, coming in two carriages, 
 while Dame Glynn and I were adorning the 
 Bride s table. There seemed many of them, 
 and for Mr. Milton s studious ways rather 
 noisy, as they poured into the house. Still, it 
 will not be for long, perchance a week. Then 
 Mistress Milton will have House and Husband 
 to herself, and God grant all go well. She 
 caught me as I fled by the garden door and 
 gave me a hearty kiss. She looked fine and 
 handsome in a pelisse of green satin with pinks 
 in her bonnet. Sure it is but a grim time to 
 bring a Bride to London in, but the love of 
 such a Husband may well make all else 
 forgot. 
 
 "It will be a joyful day when you come back, 
 bringing, as we hope, the end of the War with
 
 104 BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 you, though some say it may tig-tag on this way 
 a twelvemonth yet. All pray for you both 
 night and morning. So no more now from 
 your loving cousin. 
 
 DELME DAVIES. 
 
 Trinity Court, St. Botolph s Parish, 
 June 21st, 1643."
 
 "AN IMAGE OF EARTH 
 
 tt T ISTEN. This will give you cheer, I ll 
 _j wager. The words are your husband s 
 own, Mistress Milton, and the music his 
 father s : 
 
 " Sabrina fair, 
 
 Listen where thou art sitting 
 Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave, 
 
 In twisted braids of lilies knitting 
 The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair ; 
 Listen for dear honour s sake, 
 Goddess of the silver lake, 
 Listen and save. " 
 
 Delme Davies, having seated herself at the 
 organ in the Aldersgate Street study, sang the 
 lines to her own accompaniment, her voice 
 pure and high as a flute note. 
 
 In the window overlooking the garden at 
 the desk formerly Beimels sat the bride of two 
 weeks, Mary Milton, her head bent upon her 
 arms crossed on the desk-lid, her face hidden, 
 her breast heaving with long-drawn sobs. 
 
 105
 
 106 "BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 "His father is coming to live with us," she 
 murmured dismally, making no comment on 
 the song as Delme rose from the organ. 
 
 Delme laid her hand on Mary s shoulder 
 with soothing touch. 
 
 "You will love old Mr. Milton dearly; no 
 one could do other. He is most gentle, cour 
 teous, and of noble beauty of person like his 
 son." 
 
 "I never bargained to wait on an old man 
 when I married, in addition to my husband. 
 Tis unfair to make me." 
 
 Mary Milton lifted her head as she spoke, 
 some energy of irritation taking the place of 
 her previous abandonment to despondency. 
 Her face was red and swollen with weeping, 
 her cap awry and hair much disordered. 
 
 Delme suppressed her first swift scorn. 
 
 " Tis thought by others to be an honour to 
 wait upon Mr. Milton s father," she said coldly, 
 then added, as if bringing herself by compul 
 sion to Mary s point of view, "besides he is 
 really of not the smallest trouble in the house, 
 as I know from what Dame Glynn has told 
 my mother when he has made visits to London.
 
 " AN IMAGE OF EARTH" 107 
 
 Hubert does all he requires, and he asks only 
 his books and music." 
 
 "What Dame Glynn may say is of small con 
 sequence," cried Mary peevishly at this; "a 
 cross-grained, whining old conventicle gos 
 sip! Never a good word out of her for me, 
 whom she looks at as if I were some wandering 
 hussy Mr. Milton had picked up on the road, 
 set on his saddle before him, and rode home 
 with." 
 
 "Oh, how comic !" laughed Delrne merrily. 
 
 "You may laugh, but you ll find old Dame 
 Glynn on her winding way to some other house 
 ere long, for abide her I cannot, singing psalms 
 through her nose in my pantry and kitchen ! " 
 
 "Old Mr. Milton plays heavenly upon the 
 viol," interposed Delink, persevering in her 
 peace-making purpose. "He will drown out 
 Dame Glynn s psalm-singing." 
 
 "He will make one more in the house none 
 the less," said Mary sulkily, going to a glass 
 to arrange her hair and cap. Looking up at 
 the dry and faded nuptial garlands still hang 
 ing from the beams of the ceiling she said dole 
 fully:
 
 108 "BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 "I suppose I may as well take down those 
 wreaths you placed for me, Delme . The leaves 
 rattle from the steins if one but touches them 
 and the blossoms are brown." 
 
 " Faith, I should think it full time they were 
 thrown away. Why have you kept the poor 
 things up till now?" 
 
 "Because they kept me still in mind that I 
 was a bride, which dear knows I am like to for 
 get in this dull house with nothing doing from 
 morn till night, and I suppose it will be yet 
 worse when Mr. Milton begins the tasks with 
 those lads again. To think I must give over 
 this, the one fair room in the house ! and poor 
 me driven to that stupid little matted parlour 
 to sit alone or with that old man who is com 
 ing," and Mary threw herself into a chair, a 
 fretful frown on her pretty forehead. 
 
 "Tell me of your bridal doings," cried Delme 
 in something like desperation; "this is my 
 first chance to hear." 
 
 "Yes, I took it very ill that you did not come 
 near till I sent to fetch you." 
 
 "But you d the house full until three days 
 ago, and a perfect riot of merriment."
 
 Mary smiled for the first time since Delinks 
 coming. 
 
 "But we did have a frolic while Dick and the 
 girls were here ! " she cried. "Oh, with young 
 men and maids like them all is different! I 
 thought I should break my heart, I cried so 
 when they left. I clung to Dick and begged 
 him to take me back to Shotover with him. 
 You know I did ever hate London." 
 
 Delme bit back the words which sprang to 
 her lips. 
 
 "It must be a change," she said slowly and 
 with an effort, which the other did not note. 
 "You ve such a great, gamesome family at 
 Forest Hill. Is the Grange as full as formerly 
 of the King s Cavaliers?" 
 
 "Lackaday, no," replied Mary; "my father 
 had them all cleared out even w r hile my mother 
 and I were here in London at my Aunt Black- 
 borough s. So place was made for Mr. Milton 
 when he came riding down, which was greatly 
 to my amazement, I promise you." 
 
 "But you guessed his purpose from the 
 first? I mean, when he appeared at Forest 
 Hill."
 
 110 "BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 Mary s eyes had grown bright and her 
 pretty pink and white skin showed clear again 
 from her crying. 
 
 "It would have been hard to mistake it," 
 she answered roguishly, "after once he had set 
 eyes on me, my dear. There was that on his 
 face that told the story. He was a gallant 
 wooer and no mistake, and knew so well how 
 to come forward with a maid that I could not 
 doubt he had had experience." 
 
 "I do not know," murmured Delme vaguely, 
 and thought of the beautiful Lenora Baroni. 
 
 "It was a pretty time for wooing, you 
 know," continued Mary, warming to her 
 theme. "And you should see my mother s 
 garden in the season of roses. We d nightin 
 gales to sing for us, and Mr. Milton now and 
 again came out with most sweet verses in 
 praise of me, all mixed up, you must under 
 stand, with the roses and nightingales. That 
 is the way with these poems not quite one 
 thing nor another, but rather a mixture," she 
 explained with some seriousness as of wide 
 experience. 
 
 Beimels blithe laughter rang in reply.
 
 "AN IMAGE OF EARTH" 111 
 
 "Like that phrase of Mr. George Herbert, <a 
 box where sweets compacted lie/ " she com 
 mented. 
 
 "Yes, rather that way. I ve a lot of them 
 in a box now with my ribbons." 
 
 Delme bit her lip and laughed again. 
 
 "We d a quiet wedding in the parish church 
 of Shotover," Mary went on in high good hu 
 mour now ; "my father would hear to nothing 
 else with the country in state of war and the 
 King hunted from his throne." 
 
 "What was your wedding gown?" 
 
 "Of white taffeties, which you must know 
 my mother bought here in Cheapside all un 
 beknown to me, the sly thing, when here in 
 April." 
 
 "So the marriage was really settled then," 
 remarked Delme . 
 
 "Settled in so far as could be without con 
 sulting me," replied Mary shrewdly; "but I 
 was not for holding out against it, having had 
 worse threatened me. So we went to church 
 with only a few neighbours to look on, and it 
 did seem a pity, since all said a finer pair had 
 never been seen in the parish. I d white posies
 
 112 BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 in my bonnet, and a veil of white gauze hang 
 ing from it, as long as that." Mary rose and 
 pointed to her knee. 
 
 "You would look sweetly!" murmured 
 Delme cordially. 
 
 "And for the bridegroom," Mary cried, 
 "truly he was more beautiful than a picture 
 that morning, all said. He was pleased with 
 his bride, to be sure, that you could see in his 
 eyes, and he held his head proudly, and his 
 skin, as you know, as fair as a girl s." 
 
 "My cousin Philip Unwin has told me that 
 when he was in Cambridge, a student in Christ 
 Church College, they used to call Mr. Milton, 
 The Lady of Christ s. " 
 
 "Because of his beautiful face?" 
 
 "Yes, and also for his being of such a spot 
 less purity, Philip says, even to disdain of 
 aught vulgar whether in taste or in morals 
 quite above the common." 
 
 "You do feel it in him," said the young wife 
 with a touch of pride. 
 
 "I think it is partly," Delme went on half 
 timidly, "and so my cousin thinks, because Mr. 
 Milton has always hoped to write some great
 
 "AN IMAGE OF EARTH 113 
 
 thing, even beyond those poems already writ 
 ten, and it is his notion that only a high, un 
 tainted mind can do this." 
 
 Mary looking attentive beyond her habit, 
 Delme added, a bright flush rising in her 
 cheeks : 
 
 "You know he has said something like this : 
 that he who would not be frustrate of his hope 
 to write well hereafter ought himself to be a 
 true poem, and also that every free and gentle 
 spirit, without the oath, ought to be a born 
 knight. " 
 
 "What noble speeches, and how well you 
 have learned them, Mistress Delme !" said 
 Mary, smiling archly ; "I see I shall have need 
 to keep an eye on my husband s charming 
 pupil, for charming you are, child," she 
 added condescendingly, "and much prettier 
 than I thought you at first, in particular 
 when you colour up as you did then." 
 
 "But you were telling me of the 
 wedding," said Deline , embarrassed, and 
 rising. 
 
 "Oh, don t be for leaving me, I beg of you ; 
 pity my dulness with Mr. Milton himself
 
 114 l BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 gone. He set out for Westminster early to 
 have speech with certain of those tiresome 
 Puritan preachers in the Jerusalem Chamber." 
 
 "He is coming in though this very minute," 
 said Delink, looking from the window, "and go 
 I must." 
 
 On the stair she met Milton, who had entered 
 with a clouded brow which turned clearer as 
 he recognized his wife s visitor. 
 
 "Delink," he cried joyously, "the first time I 
 have seen you since Whitsuntide! You alone 
 gave me joy on my going forth, as you alone 
 knew the errand on which I rode." 
 
 "And I give you joy, sir, now on your return. 
 I have had long and friendly gossip with your 
 wife." 
 
 "Good child! You are getting quite the 
 woman. You will come again then, and come 
 often?" 
 
 "That I cannot say." 
 
 "And why not?" 
 
 "I have much to do at home, my mother 
 not being well of late." 
 
 "But my wife is lonely, little one. The 
 house is too still for her, being used to some-
 
 "AN IMAGE OF EARTH 115 
 
 thing different. It was never too still for me, 
 you remember," smiling humorously. 
 
 "No, sir, nor still enough when we young 
 sters ran riot on occasion." 
 
 "Was I very cross-grained, Delme ?" 
 
 "Once or twice." 
 
 "If that is all you should be most obliging 
 now when I ask you a favour. You know you 
 deserved every scolding you had. Will you 
 come, then?" 
 
 "If you wish it, sir," still reluctant. 
 
 "Remember, then, I do." 
 
 Milton found his wife fastening her cap co- 
 quettishly to the coils of her fair hair, and 
 pouting a little as she greeted him. There was 
 a quick questioning anxiety in his eyes as he 
 entered the study and crossed to kiss her which 
 gave place to a smile as he saw that she was 
 in fair spirits and humour. 
 
 "How is pretty Molly, then?" he cried. 
 "Sure she never looked more blooming." 
 
 "What is this I hear?" she said for an 
 swer, and sat again at Delm6 s desk, "and 
 from a young and handsome damsel too, about 
 my husband s plan to write some great thing,
 
 116 "BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 book or poem or what I know not, since it 
 has not been confided to me?" 
 
 Milton coloured with sudden pleasure, and 
 his eyes kindled. 
 
 "I did not know that thou didst care to hear 
 of such matters, sweetheart," he said w r ith 
 exquisite gentleness; "else should I have 
 talked of it with thee long ago." 
 
 "To be sure I care. What else have I 
 here to care about?" she asked wearily, 
 then took from the desk a strip of Holland 
 and began stitching. "Why do you not 
 go on?" 
 
 Her husband had draw r n a chair beside the 
 desk and sat thus facing her, his head propped 
 on his hand. 
 
 "Ah, my Mary, this is delightsome," he ex 
 claimed, "to come home no matter how weary 
 and burdened to find thee sweetly smiling, 
 white-handed and wifely ; to sit down together 
 to talk of things worthy and dear to us both 
 with no intermeddling stranger near. It is 
 of this I have dreamed." 
 
 Mistress Milton smiled prettily over at him, 
 glancing up from her stitching.
 
 "As concerns this project of mine," Milton 
 continued with something of diffidence and 
 hesitation, "I may confess that it is true that 
 for many years it has been my hope* by labour 
 and intent study (which I take to be my por 
 tion in this life) that I might perhaps leave 
 something so written to aftertimes as they 
 should not willingly let die." 
 
 "I am not much for books myself," said 
 Mary; "they give me headache if I stick long 
 at them." 
 
 "It is not needful that every one should find 
 them alike indispensable, yet is a good book 
 the precious life-blood of a master spirit treas 
 ured up to a life beyond life," was his earnest 
 answer. 
 
 "An it be so great as all that to write a 
 book," quoth Mary, "I should think you would 
 be in haste to go on with it." 
 
 "And so I was, my wife, until these stormy 
 times came on, when I thought it ill became 
 me to withdraw from public affairs into the 
 quiet and still air of studies, delightful and 
 
 Here, as frequently throughout the present volume, use is 
 made of Milton s own words.
 
 118 "BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 profitable to myself but in no wise so to the 
 nation in its peril." 
 
 "Then you have given over this book-writing 
 after all?" 
 
 Milton had risen and crossed to his own pri 
 vate chest of drawers. From one of these he 
 took some sheets of manuscript, closely writ 
 ten, and returned with them to his seat beside 
 the little desk. 
 
 "I have put it by, sweetheart, for the time, 
 yet is the plan and purpose of it never wholly 
 out of my mind. A year ago I began work 
 ing out my theme, a very high, majestic one it 
 is, Mary, far beyond that of King Arthur and 
 his knights which I had once considered. I was 
 soon forced by public affairs to lay it aside, 
 but here are a few sheets written with some 
 care. If thou wilt I can read them." 
 
 Mary consenting by a smile, Milton began to 
 read his stately lines, descriptive of night 
 fall in Paradise, beginning with 
 
 " Now came still evening on, and twilight gray 
 Had in her sober livery all things clad." 
 
 As he read on the creative enthusiasm which 
 had first inspired him in the writing awoke
 
 "AN IMAGE OF EARTH 119 
 
 again and took possession of his mind. He 
 grew more profoundly impassioned with every 
 line and his voice thrilled with his intensity of 
 insight and exaltation. 
 
 When he looked up presently for an answer 
 ing enthusiasm he discovered that his wife s 
 head had dropped upon her hand, her elbow 
 resting on the desk, and that she was fast 
 asleep. 
 
 A week later, old Mr. Milton being now es 
 tablished in the house, the school hours with 
 the boys going on as of old, as also the pro 
 longed conferences with the Puritan leaders, 
 Mary Milton sat alone in the garden. Above 
 her spread the branches of the great plane tree 
 on the bark of which her husband had, since 
 her coining, carved her name. A crumpled, 
 tear-stained letter had fallen on the grass at 
 her feet, and her sewing lying neglected she sat 
 lost in gloomy self-debating. 
 
 "Molly!" 
 
 It was Milton s voice calling within the 
 house, but Mary did not stir. Presently he 
 called again, this time from the open window.
 
 120 "BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 Next the garden door opened and he came 
 down the shaded walk, plainly seeking her. 
 Hearing his footsteps approach, the young 
 wife straightened herself and turned a cheer 
 less face to meet him. 
 
 "Dear, I have searched for thee everywhere. 
 Those gentlemen are gone now after long con 
 ference. Our cause has had a heavy blow and 
 I a bitter loss; Hampden is dead, being mor 
 tally wounded at Chalgrove. I have been shut 
 in the study all day and need air and lighter 
 thought. Let us go for a walk together. I 
 will take thee to my friend Lady Margaret 
 Ley ; she has desired thy acquaintance and she 
 is a most gracious woman and witty also." 
 
 Milton s face was haggard with fatigue, and 
 with sorrow and anxiety which he strove to 
 conceal. 
 
 "I have no heart to walk or to meet these 
 Roundhead ladies," was the dull reply, Mary s 
 hands dropping spiritlessly at her sides. "Go 
 visit your Lady Margaret if you will. It 
 makes no difference to me whether I am alone 
 a few hours more or less." 
 
 Her husband bit his lip; one hand was
 
 "AN IMAGE OF EARTH 121 
 
 clenched tight for an instant, while a look as 
 of inexpressible weariness crossed his face. 
 
 "Thou hast a letter, I see," he said kindly 
 after a short pause, and forced a smile. "Is it 
 from Oxfordshire?" 
 
 There was no reply. Mary turned away her 
 head and tapped sharply with one foot on the 
 ground. 
 
 "Yes," she burst out with startling vehe 
 mence an instant later, "it is from home, and 
 they want me and need me back, and I know 
 not why I ever left where I was so happy to 
 come to this prison! They tell how Robin, 
 my darling pony, misses me and turns his head 
 to look if it be me when any come into 
 the stall, and how there is no one to pick the 
 flowers and the gooseberries are ripe, and the 
 King s men asking where is pretty Mistress 
 Mary and when will she be coming. . . . And 
 here I sit day after day and nothing to see but 
 the dark walls of that house or this dusty 
 strip of garden, or to walk out and watch those 
 horrid Roundhead soldiers training to murder 
 my darling Dick if they can and all my friends. 
 . . . And the fighting as near home as Chal-
 
 122 "BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 grove now and you caring only for Hampden 
 and traitors like him ! Nothing do I hear but 
 the talk against the King, who is the sweetest 
 gentleman that ever lived, or else the dismal 
 groaning of the organ and the droning of those 
 schoolboys tasks! . . . Oh, Mr. Milton what 
 do you want to keep me caged up here for, for 
 all the world like a poor stupid frightened 
 bird in a cage! How can I make you happy 
 w r lth my heart fit to break? Let me go down to 
 Shotover for a few weeks at least !" 
 
 Milton stood, his arms folded across his 
 breast, his head dropped forward, his lower 
 lip bit hard between his teeth, and let the 
 storm break around him. In the end the irony 
 of the situation, they being hardly out of the 
 honeymoon, seemed to smite him keenest, for 
 he smiled a curious, inscrutable smile as of one 
 partly incredulous, as he lifted his head. 
 
 Not long after he kissed his wife and that 
 tenderly, and told her that they must devise 
 brighter days for her, yet try not separate so 
 early even for a visit; also that war made all 
 conditions grim and could but bring much 
 heaviness.
 
 "AN IMAGE OF EARTH 123 
 
 The following day, however, brought a fresh 
 outburst of rebellious complaining from Mis 
 tress Milton, and the next and the next. The 
 scholar s house full swiftly lost its daily 
 beauty of studious serenity. The ceaseless 
 clash of an obstinate woman s peevish discon 
 tent with a man s increasingly stern resistance 
 filled the place with ignoble discord. 
 
 As a last resort Mistress Milton privately 
 sent a messenger to Forest Hill with word 
 that an imperative summons for her to return 
 home for a time would be not unwelcome.
 
 IX 
 A BRIDE DELINQUENT 
 
 IT was midsummer morning. Up the open, 
 spacious Aldersgate Street, in the day s 
 early freshness, Delrne Davies came blithely 
 tripping from Trinity Court, carrying 
 on her arm a basket of Madonna lilies, 
 grown in her mother s garden. Delinks gown 
 and kerchief and close Puritan cap were as 
 spotless as her flowers; her step was elastic, 
 and the delicate bloom on her cheeks and 
 the light in her eye spoke of an inner hap 
 piness. 
 
 Nevertheless, Beimels spirit was not as buoy 
 ant as her step as she walked towards the 
 Milton house, nor as unclouded as the lucent 
 light in her eyes. She was bent on a morn 
 ing visit of cheer and enlivenment to Mistress 
 Milton, in accordance with the promise she 
 had given her former master, more than a 
 
 124
 
 A BRIDE DELINQUENT 125 
 
 week before, but with every step she felt her 
 distaste for the approaching interview in 
 crease. A vision of the month-old wife, for 
 Mary Powell was hardly more, sulking and 
 pouting as she had last seen her like a spoiled 
 child, because of the scholarly quiet of her 
 husband s house, came persistently before her. 
 The prospect of an hour spent in coaxing, flat 
 tering, soothing, and inspiriting a creature so 
 petty as not to perceive and glory in the gen 
 ius of the man who had stooped from so great 
 a height to her simplicity, was far from allur 
 ing to Delme . She bit her lip as she recalled 
 her last attempt at bringing Mary to a good 
 humour by stimulating her childish egotism. 
 With the impulsiveness of her nature, for 
 Delme was no saint, she declared to herself 
 that she w r as tired to death with Mary Powell, 
 and would stir not a step to give her pleasure, 
 were it not for the duty she still felt her 
 self owing to Mary Powell s husband. 
 
 When Delme reached the passage leading 
 from the street up to Mr. Milton s house, she 
 was surprised to see, a few steps beyond the 
 corner where she turned in, the untidy servant
 
 126 "BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 maid, (for already Dame Glynn, under Mis 
 tress Milton s brief household reign, had a suc 
 cessor), standing bareheaded in the sun, gos 
 siping with another servant. Her presence 
 here at this early hour, when beyond a doubt 
 she should have been bent upon her business 
 within the house, was surprising. Sarah, the 
 maid, however, appeared to have no compunc 
 tions regarding neglected duty, for she did 
 not turn her head or observe Delme , but con 
 tinued her talking, which was loud and ex 
 cited, and in which Delme , as she passed, 
 caught such phrases as, "and she but a month 
 w r edded," and, "such a one for getting her own 
 way saw I never." 
 
 Delme went on up the walk to the house, her 
 previous sense of annoyance with Mistress 
 Milton changed into annoyance with the maid, 
 who could thus retail small slander of her 
 house to the neighbourhood. The great door 
 stood halfway open, and as no one responded 
 to her knocking, Delme entered and ran 
 lightly up the stairs, intent on reporting the 
 maid s misconduct as quickly as possible to her 
 mistress. She found the doors on all sides
 
 A BRIDE DELINQUENT 127 
 
 open into the linen presses, the matted par 
 lour and the study, but no person was in 
 sight. 
 
 For a moment Delme stood uncertain, mar 
 velling at the prevailing air of confusion, at 
 the silence, at the empty parlour above all, 
 at the empty study. Where were Mr. Milton s 
 scholars this morning? Suddenly remem 
 bering that this was a high holiday, Delme 
 ventured into the study, set her basket on the 
 small desk once hers, and looked down into 
 the garden. There she saw old Mr. Milton 
 sitting in a rustic armchair, with pipe 
 and books, a white-haired, venerable figure. 
 Delme loved and revered the old man. She 
 decided at once to go down and have a little 
 chat with him in the garden, and inquire for 
 Mistress Milton. What more likely than that 
 the young married pair, still in their honey 
 moon, had gone out into the fields, and woods, 
 for a lovers midsummer holiday? But first 
 she would leave the lilies she had brought, and 
 on the long table across the room stood oppor 
 tunely a tall pewter jug, half full of water. 
 
 As Delrne arranged the lilies, their tall
 
 128 BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 graceful spires rising like torches from the 
 jug, she noted with rising repugnance the 
 dust on the table, the dim, unwashed glasses 
 standing about and, her glances straying 
 wider, the general air of neglect and disorder 
 pervading the room. Where was Hubert? 
 Had he too been dismissed by the new mistress? 
 In the days when she had shared in Mr. Mil 
 ton s instructions, days which she could never 
 recall without an aching access of desire 
 stirring within her, this room had ever been 
 immaculate in its dignity of fair order, like 
 its master, whose purity of person and belong 
 ings always spoke to her thought the purity of 
 his mind. 
 
 And now ? Delme thought of the slat 
 ternly maid below on the street corner stand 
 ing arms akimbo with flying hair to gossip 
 with another servant concerning the affairs 
 of this house; of the careless open door; of 
 these vacant untended rooms with their 
 changed expression, their curious, subtle loss 
 of old-time grace and charm. 
 
 "I hate Mary Powell, and I wish I had never 
 had to call her Mary Milton," thought Delnie
 
 hotly. "Would that her foot had never crossed 
 the threshold of this house. I will leave her 
 a note to say I have been here, and then I shall 
 count my duty done, and cease to trouble my 
 self further concerning her. She is to me 
 antipatica and can never be other wise. What 
 can Mr. Milton find in her?" 
 
 With her girlish impatience thus getting 
 the best of her earlier good intentions, Delme 
 sat down at the little desk upon which she 
 found dusty quills and half-dried ink. From 
 her own pocket she drew out a letter just come 
 by post that morning from Lincolnshire. She 
 had read it through once and had found that 
 it told of a chance that Prosper might soon or 
 late but suddenly come on business for the 
 Army to London. From this important epistle 
 Delme proceeded to tear off a strip of blank 
 paper on which she might make shift to write 
 a note to Mistress Milton, to be left with the 
 lilies. A trace of the girl s old defiance was 
 on her compressed lips as she bent over the 
 desk. What she was about to write w r as at 
 heart in the nature of a half-implied valedic 
 tion to a person toward whom she felt irrecon-
 
 130 "BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 cilable disfavour which the sincerity of her 
 nature made it impossible for her longer to 
 conceal. 
 
 "Is that you, Hubert?" 
 
 Delme , intent on her note, hearing a man s 
 lagging, spiritless step in the passage behind 
 her, asked the question without raising her 
 eyes or turning her head. Then the door 
 opened, the step approached the place where 
 she sat, and she sprang to her feet with swift 
 intuition of a presence she had not expected. 
 Never had she known her master s step like 
 this, but never before had she seen in his face 
 the weary apathy which accorded, she found, 
 but too well with the dull step. But at sight 
 of her, rising from her pupil place to blush and 
 curtsey in girlish confusion upon his entrance, 
 a sudden animation spoke in Milton s eyes and 
 a smile softened the compression of his lips. 
 
 "Delme !" he commented quietly, almost 
 musingly, folding his arms across his breast 
 as he spoke; "Delme , bending to her tasks 
 even though the others take to their heels to 
 make holiday! Sit down." Delme could do 
 no other thing than obey him, crushing the
 
 A BRIDE DELINQUENT 131 
 
 note to Mary Milton in her hand. "Why have 
 you not gone also, child? All the rest are 
 in hot haste to leave me to my empty house. 
 But let that go. Have you your Greek 
 ready?" With this Milton swiftly assumed 
 his schoolmaster tone and expression, and 
 lifted his hand with a quick, characteristic 
 gesture commanding attention. "It is Plato, 
 I believe, this morning," he added gravely, 
 and took an armchair at a little distance con 
 fronting her. 
 
 Beimels eyes were fixed upon his face; a 
 tremulous smile played for an instant upon 
 her own in response to his humour, but an irre 
 sistible sweep of heartsickness quenched it 
 presently in scalding tears. No word was 
 spoken for many minutes. A bumble-bee 
 flung in at the window, buzzed loudly above 
 their heads for a moment, and swam out again. 
 Some one entered below and began dealing 
 noisily with kettles and coppers. 
 
 "I do not quite comprehend tears from you" 
 Milton spoke at length. His tone was ju 
 dicial, unemotional, yet Deline", who had mas 
 tered her weakness and was again able to
 
 132 "BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 meet his look, surprised a curious moisture 
 in his eyes. 
 
 "I cried because it made me homesick for a 
 moment," she answered, steadying her voice 
 with a valiant effort, and essaying a little 
 laugh, "ridiculously homesick, to sit in this 
 place and hear you speak to me as you used. 
 All the old days and the old ways came back 
 with a rush." 
 
 "I see. Then they were good days, good 
 ways, Delme , to you also?" Milton asked 
 gently. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I have missed them curiously myself ; more 
 than I looked to do." He broke off abruptly 
 and glanced about the room, shrugged his 
 shoulders slightly, and gave an impatient sigh. 
 
 "You do not find us in very dainty trim 
 this morning. Confusion hath made no mas 
 terpiece to be sure, but a shabby bungling at 
 it. There is nothing to alarm you, Delnie , no 
 tragic doings here, but rather most stupid 
 comedy; no heroic scene, but a mere vulgar 
 bit of genre with which your white radiance 
 has scant agreement. If Hubert were here
 
 A BRIDE DELINQUENT 133 
 
 twould be a shade better on the surface, since 
 he is wont to have an eye on certain niceties 
 of the housekeeping, but it was needful to let 
 him go down to Oxford with his mistress." 
 
 Beimels eyes opened wide with wonder. 
 
 "To Oxford!" she echoed; "Mistress Milton 
 has not " 
 
 "Yes, the wife has left London on a visit 
 to her father s house, departing yesterday," 
 said Milton with sardonic brevity, "to return, 
 I am informed, at Michaelmas. I suppose such 
 is a common procedure with young wives, in 
 particular when they receive letters imploring 
 their return, and when they, poor things, are 
 dying of dulness in the house of their hus 
 bands. Is it not so? I have been so much of 
 a recluse that I am hardly fitted to judge." 
 
 "No more am I," murmured Delnae hur 
 riedly. 
 
 "At first I will admit the notion of so swift 
 a separation struck me unfavourably," he pro 
 ceeded, his biting satire disguised in a cap 
 tivating gentleness; "for I had been deluded 
 by a number of superstitions with regard to 
 this sweet and gladsome state of matrimony,
 
 134 < BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 which I had a little difficulty in ridding my 
 self of. But the work went forward merrily, 
 Delm^, at the last, and two days since I gave 
 the word for two nags to be saddled and 
 Hubert to go as groom. Faith, such speedy 
 exodus would not have been my choice, but 
 one must judge gently of a timid and bashful 
 spirit first set free to stand alone amid 
 strangers." 
 
 They had both risen now and Delme had 
 taken her basket, making ready to go. She 
 could find nothing to say. 
 
 "The house is empty, it is dusty and dis 
 ordered, as you see," and Milton raised his 
 eyebrows and made an expressive motion with 
 
 both hands, "but " again he broke off. 
 
 They had reached the door now, which he held 
 open for her; "There is surcease of perpetual 
 distemper, little friend," he added haughtily, 
 with a brilliant, bitter smile, "and at least 
 it is still" 
 
 "It will all be better henceforward," es 
 sayed Delme boldly, discerning that here had 
 been severe strife and believing scarcely at all 
 in what she said; "when Mistress Milton is
 
 A BRIDE DELINQUENT 135 
 
 away she will learn, better than she felt when 
 here, how strong the ties are that bind her 
 to her home, to you." 
 
 "Thank you," said Milton gravely, albeit a 
 faintly cynical smile played about his mouth; 
 "that is really, I should think, the very gen 
 tlest and kindest word could be given a man 
 in case like mine. A moment, Delme those 
 lilies! They were not here before you came, 
 surely. Nothing was here then but dust and 
 ashes. You can make even a desert like this 
 blossom, then. But for whom did you bring 
 them? For my " 
 
 "For my master," said Delme , her eyes 
 flashing, "for him and for nobody else, and I 
 would bring him everything bright and noble 
 and precious in this whole world, if it were 
 mine, to give him joy this day. Yes, I mean 
 it every word." 
 
 The smile which answered her was free 
 of bitterness, for the girl s frank, unstudied 
 devotion touched the man s heart tenderly in 
 the moody gloom of the hour. 
 
 "Good-bye, good little girl, true little girl," 
 he said as they parted at the street door.
 
 136 BOUND IN SHALLOWS" 
 
 "You will not be coming here again for a 
 while, I fear me?" 
 
 Delme shook her head. 
 
 "Not unless the others should be coming." 
 
 "Certainly it would not do for young maids 
 like you to venture here in the next two months 
 unprotected, since I am now become a species 
 of unclassified monster, dangerous to ap 
 proach, being neither bachelor, benedict nor 
 widower, as I see plainly myself. Go then, 
 but see you do not forget to keep a place in 
 Trinity Court for a lonely neighbour on a 
 stormy night now and then." 
 
 "I shall remember," said Delme . 
 
 "And Delme ," he detained her yet another 
 moment, "after Michaelmas, when my little 
 lady is here again, will you help me to make 
 better cheer for her, that so she may even at 
 last forget her father s house and cleave to 
 mine?" 
 
 Seeing the wistfulness and the haggard anx 
 iety of his look, the girl could not withhold 
 her promise. She hurried then from the house, 
 her young heart swelling dangerously high 
 with pity and scorning.
 
 BOOK III 
 
 THE POET, THE LAW, AND 
 THE LADY
 
 X 
 
 AN ULTIMATUM 
 
 IN a walnut-wainscoted dining-room in 
 Trinity Court on Tuesday, in the second 
 week of October, two gentlemen sat over their 
 wine and fruit. The elder, Dr. Davies, a man 
 with keen falcon nose and short-cut hair of 
 iron-grey, was clad in the severe but elegant 
 black habit with broad transparent ruff of the 
 Puritan civilian ; the younger, Prosper Unwin, 
 wore the faced red-coat with gold lace of a 
 major in the Parliamentary army. 
 
 The noon meal being over the women of the 
 family had withdrawn, leaving these two to 
 their earnest discussion of the political crisis, 
 and the immediate and urgent nature of the 
 errand which had brought Prosper to London. 
 He had arrived but that morning, having rid 
 den hard all the way from the Lincolnshire 
 wolds, his errand being to stir the Parliament 
 ary leaders in London to despatch volunteers 
 
 139
 
 140 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 in all haste to Huntingdon. At the moment 
 Colonel Cromwell with his division was await 
 ing there the reinforcements, of which his need 
 was extreme. 
 
 "It is but little cheer, take it all in all, 
 you ve to bring us, Major Unwin," Dr. Davies 
 said soberly, pushing his chair away from the 
 table, his brows knit in a frown of undisguised 
 anxiety. 
 
 "No cheer now," was the prompt reply 
 spoken in Prosper s firm undaunted fashion, 
 "but good cheer soon to be if Parliament but 
 bestirs itself." 
 
 As he spoke a door behind him was gently 
 pushed open and a woman s voice exclaimed 
 with quaintly foreign accent, and peculiar 
 sweetness of modulation: 
 
 "Ah, if the Doctor would but permit us to 
 return and listen to the speech of our nephew !" 
 
 Both men sprang to their feet; Prosper 
 opened wide the door with ceremonious rever 
 ence, while his host drew two chairs forward 
 and held out his hand in a gesture of cor 
 dial invitation. A slender, graceful matron, 
 dressed richly in a gown of violet silk, entered
 
 AN ULTIMATUM 141 
 
 the room with an air of much simple dignity, 
 an affectionate smile to husband and nephew 
 in her singularly beautiful brow r n eyes. Made 
 leine Davies was followed by her daughter, and 
 as Prosper bent for a moment over her chair, 
 he realized anew what had occupied the fore 
 ground of his thoughts throughout dinner, that 
 Delme Davies had grow r n lovelier than ever, 
 with a new womanly self-possession which be 
 came her marvellously. 
 
 "Pray do not let us interrupt or divert your 
 speaking. We promise to be most quiet." 
 Madeleine Davies spoke with pleading serious 
 ness, folding her hands demurely in her lap 
 and lifting attentive eyes to the regard of the 
 two men. Delme had not thus far spoken. Dr. 
 Davies, having resumed his chair, nodded as 
 sent, saying: 
 
 "Be seated Major, if you please, and let us 
 continue. There is nothing of which we may 
 not speak as freely in this presence as if we 
 were alone, for my wife is Silence, and my 
 daughter Discretion." 
 
 "Do I not know that?" returned Prosper, 
 lifting his glass with glances of admiring horn-
 
 142 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 age to the ladies. "Would I had better cheer 
 for Silence and Discretion, but our tide seems 
 running fast out. Gainsborough is lost, Lin 
 coln is lost, and unless Parliament rouses it 
 self in earnest all may be lost." 
 
 "Is the army itself alive to the nature of 
 the position?" 
 
 "Yes, and that is the worst of it, sir, for the 
 hearts of our men are so deaded by persistent 
 defeat that many have deserted of late, and 
 before this the ranks were badly thinned by 
 disease and losses in battle." 
 
 "It is the loss of heart, the spread of treach 
 ery, which is undermining our cause, worse 
 than all the out-and-out defeat," returned Dr. 
 Davies. "Waller s defection is a heavy blow 
 and Bristol has surrendered over-soon to 
 Prince Rupert. Our props are few, for my 
 Lord Fairfax is beaten all to pieces, which 
 has to say truth fallen on our leaders in Par 
 liament here in London like a death sen 
 tence. In every direction we look is darkness. 
 The only man in England to-day who can 
 save her is your man, Major Unwin, Oliver 
 Cromwell."
 
 AN ULTIMATUM 143 
 
 "Eight, sir, and save it he will," replied 
 Prosper stoutly, but with nothing of youth 
 ful swagger. Delme , who watched him 
 steadily, saw great change in him. It 
 was not merely that he was war-worn 
 and his skin weather-beaten and powder- 
 stained, that his frame had taken on a 
 hardness like iron, and his face had lost its 
 boyish smoothness and become rugged and 
 sternly lined. The greater change came, the 
 girl felt, from within, in an effect of solemnity 
 and steadfastness of spirit, in something 
 heroic, suppressed from sight but as of a mor 
 tal passion of religious patriotism. He had 
 been in the School of War, and had Oliver 
 Cromwell for schoolmaster. 
 
 "And you ride to Peterborough to-morrow, 
 Prosper?" she asked timidly, a softening of re 
 gret perceptible in her tone; "that is short 
 space for tarrying here at home when you have 
 been so long away." 
 
 Prosper, at first sound of her voice, bent on 
 Delme a look of tender response, his whole face 
 irradiated suddenly by the kindness of her 
 words. She had been used to speak to him
 
 144 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 with the comrade carelessness of cousins nur 
 tured together. He fancied a change which 
 sent hope thrilling through his veins. 
 
 "Yes, Peterborough and Boston to-morrow, 
 my dear," he said gently, then to hide his pleas 
 ure, over-great, in her passing concern, went 
 on, turning to the Doctor : "It s Boots and Sad 
 dles and away this time sure, for the Royalists 
 are on the march through the Fen country 
 even now, and in great force. Yet if Par 
 liament be quick enough all may still go 
 well." 
 
 "Unless the women of London prevail," in 
 terposed Madeleine Davies ; "we hear that only 
 yesterday a great multitude of them, wives of 
 substantial citizens, clamoured at the door of 
 Commons for peace." 
 
 "And shame upon them for it, too!" cried 
 Delme , her colour rising, and the defiant lights 
 which Prosper well remembered kindling in 
 her eyes. Old memories stirring then to life 
 he asked quickly : 
 
 "I have heard nothing yet of our neighbour, 
 Mr. John Milton, since my coming. You wrote 
 me three months since of his taking a wife and
 
 AN ULTIMATUM 145 
 
 from the wrong camp, but I trust she is not 
 of the sort that clamour now for peace." 
 
 "Delme made no answer, but a swift change 
 passed over her face, a change which Prosper 
 marked but could not interpret. 
 
 "Nay," put in Mistress Davies, "she is of the 
 sort that when not six weeks married clamour 
 to go home to her father s house. Go she 
 would and go she must in the summer, promis 
 ing to return at Michaelmas. But that being 
 past, still there she abides, leaving husband 
 and house to shift for themselves. More than 
 once, Dame Blackborough owns, he has sent 
 after her, but without result." 
 
 "By the Lord Harry !" cried the Major, "but 
 she must be a choice spirit! How does Mr. 
 Milton bear it?" his eyes still on Delme . 
 
 "I do not know," said the girl, her voice 
 grown cold; "I have seen Mr. Milton but 
 rarely since she left. He has his father with 
 him, stays much at home, and works hard, I 
 hear, at his pamphlets." 
 
 Dr. Davies had risen, and now crossed the 
 room to the outer hall, as with instant purpose 
 for going out.
 
 146 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 "I ain glad you have spoken of John Milton," 
 he said, turning at the door, "it is but right 
 that we should go to him with the Major, 
 which may not be if we delay. Though your 
 tidings is heavy, Prosper, it is needful that 
 Milton learn all he can at first-hand from 
 you. Moreover, the man s face haunts me, for 
 it shows him sorely chafing under the insult 
 of his wife s frivolous conduct. Come, all of 
 you. It is but neighbourly kindness, and the 
 sight of two gentlewomen in his neglected 
 house may bring him passing comfort." 
 
 Half an hour later the four visitors to the 
 house by the Alders Gate were ushered by the 
 servant-maid Sarah, who, Delrne perceived, had 
 changed in appearance only for the worse, di 
 rectly into the garden. Here in his armchair 
 in the sunshine of the October afternoon sat 
 John Milton, the father, a gentle old man with 
 the finely-kept person and delicate, blue- 
 veined hands of the patrician. The beauty of 
 face and figure which distinguished the 
 younger, as well as his gracious courtesy of 
 manner, were conspicuous in the elder Milton, 
 as he rose from his place and stood in the
 
 AN ULTIMATUM 147 
 
 garden path to welcome the friends of his 
 son, 
 
 Sarah was sent into the house for chairs 
 for the ladies while room was found on rustic 
 benches for Major Unwin and the Doctor. 
 Still there was no sign of the presence of the 
 master of the house. 
 
 "My son will come presently," said Mr. Mil 
 ton at length, a shadow of misgiving on his 
 face in spite of his words. "The maid has gone 
 now to summon him. I am sure he will come. 
 It is with difficulty, I will confess, that we 
 entice him now from his desk for the ordinary 
 intercourse of social life. He confines himself 
 far too closely and his eyes suffer and, I fear, 
 his health." 
 
 While his father spoke, however, Milton 
 himself appeared, coming rapidly down the 
 garden walk in his scholar s gown with out 
 stretched hand and a smile of welcome. De 
 spite the animation called up by their coming, 
 Prosper Unwin was shocked at the change in 
 his face; it had grown noticeably thin and 
 careworn and was touched furthermore by un 
 conscious languor, as of settled depression.
 
 148 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 For an hour they sat together, absorbed in 
 earnest discussion of the crisis of the war, so 
 menacing to what they all believed the cause 
 of human rights and British liberties. Delme , 
 taking no part save to listen, sat on the outer 
 edge of the group and was the only one to 
 hear the door open in the garden wall, giving 
 access to the passage from the street. Looking 
 through the shrubbery which concealed the 
 little group from his view, she saw Hubert, Mr. 
 Milton s man-servant, approach hastily by a 
 side path. That he was in no small excitement 
 of mind was shown by his countenance and by 
 the disorder of his dress, usually of particular 
 neatness. 
 
 At the moment of Hubert s coming unex 
 pectedly upon the little company, Milton him 
 self caught sight of him and sprang from his 
 place in sudden and marked agitation. Neither 
 he nor the servant in the brief dialogue which 
 followed seemed aware that they were not 
 alone. 
 
 "What news from Oxfordshire?" was the 
 first hasty question of the master. 
 
 "In all Cavalier quarters fierce triumph over
 
 AN ULTIMATUM 149 
 
 the ill success of our troops and confidence 
 that the war nears its close." 
 
 "But you come alone, Hubert?" There 
 was a note of poignant anxiety in this. 
 
 "Aye, sir, I could not bring the mistress." 
 
 "What word have you brought?" 
 
 "Worse, sir, than before." 
 
 "Did you see my wife?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, though but for a moment." 
 
 "What said she? What message did she 
 send me this time?" 
 
 "None, sir. Mistress Milton though w r as less 
 thwart than her mother, saying but little save 
 that she was well content to bide with her 
 own folk and not minded to return to the 
 enemies of her King and kindred. Some 
 King s men, ribald cavaliers, stood by jeering 
 at my rebuff, but it was Dame Powell did talk 
 most and that huge high and most unhand 
 somely, if I must tell the truth." 
 
 "Tell it thoroughly, man, to the bottom," re 
 plied Milton in a deadened, toneless voice. 
 
 "Very well, Mr. Milton," and the old ser 
 vant s voice shook at the remembrance, "I will 
 say then that never have I met such abuse as
 
 150 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 was heaped upon me at Mr. Powell s gates. 
 No bite or sup was offered for man or beast, 
 and me ridden all the way from London. 
 Turned away was I by the dame like a beggar 
 and with harder words than you would like to 
 hear, such as that my master was a canting 
 hypocrite and traitor. She bid you keep your 
 dirty knaves at home and waste not their wind, 
 which would be food for the hangman s rope 
 now in short order since the King would soon 
 be coming to his own." 
 
 "Go on," said Milton, harshly. 
 
 "The upshot of all, sir, was that your lady s 
 mother wished you to know certainly that Mis 
 tress Milton would not return to be mewed up, 
 as she put it, like a sheep in a pen, and that 
 if any more varlets came to Shotover with 
 your summonses they would find the horsewhip 
 waiting for them." 
 
 Hubert stopped, his stiffened but sturdy 
 frame trembling, his voice choked with indig 
 nation. During the recital Madeleine and 
 Delme , ill at ease, had taken each the other s 
 hand and gone quietly apart a few paces 
 among the flower beds.
 
 AN ULTIMATUM 151 
 
 "Go into the house, Hubert," said his mas 
 ter, "you are dead tired and no wonder. Have 
 Sarah give you food and drink and then to bed 
 as fast as may be." 
 
 Hubert then turning to leave, Milton con 
 fronted his visitors, his face ghastly, but his 
 eyes like glowing coals. 
 
 "Gentlemen," he said, with a sudden deliber 
 ate formality of utterance as necessary to self- 
 command, "I call God to witness and you, this 
 day, that I have no wife! Let it be clear. 
 Mary Powell is naught to me from this day 
 forward as I am less than naught to her. 
 Let her name be never mentioned before 
 me." 
 
 Then in a sinister sort of calmness he 
 crossed the path before Delme and her mother 
 with careful apology and stepped to the plane- 
 tree on whose bark he had so recently carved 
 the name of his bride. Drawing from his belt 
 the strong sheath-knife which it was his habit 
 to wear when without a sword, he cut from 
 the tree that portion of the bark enclosing the 
 name Mary Milton with a few clean, swift 
 strokes. Then turning to the three men he
 
 152 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 bowed, still with the same grimness on his 
 face, and added : 
 
 "Gentlemen, the curtain is rung down. The 
 play, though brief, is over. Major Unwin," he 
 continued steadily, addressing Prosper, "from 
 the light you give me on the position of our 
 forces I conclude that all possible influence, 
 even my own, should be brought upon moving 
 Parliament to increase and hurry forward the 
 reinforcements to Cromwell. A battle seems 
 imminent. You have seen certain of the lead 
 ers, but there are others, men of consequence, 
 to whom I wish you to tell your story. Shall 
 we start at once for Westminster?"
 
 XI 
 
 THE VISITOR IN THE SEDAN 
 CHAIR 
 
 NEXT morning before break of day Delme 
 was up to see Prosper off. As he stood 
 in helmet and cuirass ready to mount 
 and gallop away eastward with his troop, he 
 studied her face soberly for a moment. He 
 was sure that she had not slept by her hollow 
 eyes and a pallor which was yet not all the re 
 sult of sleeplessness, he thought, but rather of 
 the scene in Milton s garden. He had seen 
 her but for a little time late the night before 
 on his return from Westminster, but had then 
 discerned that some strong change had passed 
 upon the girl, for her mind seemed to dwell 
 apart, and all her movements were restless and 
 full of suppressed excitement. 
 
 "Good-bye, little sweetheart," he said, being 
 mounted, while she and her mother stood at 
 
 153
 
 154 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 the stirrup. "I am still bold to call you so, 
 Delme . Think of me, will you, now and then?" 
 
 "Always, dear Prosper, and in my prayers 
 particularly." 
 
 "Very good, and needed. The battle will be 
 on soon. Good-bye," and he tightened rein and 
 galloped off toward the Alders Gate, his shape 
 soon lost in the morning mist. 
 
 It was a grey and lowering morning and, 
 after Prosper s departure, Delme felt a heavy 
 cloud hanging upon her own spirit. Being 
 market-day her mother departed with the cook, 
 the morning tasks over, for an expedition sure 
 to consume several hours. Dr. Davies was al 
 ways occupied during the forenoon with pa 
 tients in the surgery, and Delme found herself 
 doomed to her own solitary society. Restless 
 and vaguely apprehensive she tried in vain to 
 spin or sew or put her mind on the Italian 
 reading which she now continued alone. At 
 the end of the long drawing-room was a pipe- 
 organ of unusual proportions and power. Dr. 
 Davies, himself a musician of some note, had 
 taken no small pains in instructing Delme in 
 the use both of the organ and of virginals.
 
 The VISITOR 155 
 
 Hitherto the organ s music had been a source 
 of unfailing solace to her, whatever her heart 
 ache, but this morning its strains rang hollow 
 and toneless in her ears. In fine, nothing 
 interested her or served to draw her thoughts 
 away from the vision of John Milton, as slie 
 saw him yesterday standing under garden 
 boughs to receive, through poor Hubert, the 
 final blow to hope. She had seen his man 
 hood suffer shock, but had seen all the quiver 
 ing passion of humiliation curbed by the un 
 conquerable will. She had suffered with him 
 in every fibre through the piercing intuition 
 of her sympathy. What wonder that the scene 
 haunted her and drove her restlessly from 
 room to room as if in search of something 
 she could not find ! 
 
 Glancing presently in her fitful course from 
 one of the front windows Delme caught sight 
 of an object strange and new in the court be 
 fore the house and turned to look more nearly. 
 Before her own door two stout servitors were 
 at the moment carefully setting down a lac 
 quered and gilded sedan chair hung with flow 
 ered silk curtains. This French form of con-
 
 156 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 veyance, only lately brought to London, was 
 so unfamiliar to Delme as to awaken a child s 
 lively curiosity. For a moment all her griefs 
 and forebodings were lost in the absorbing 
 question : what visitor could be coming to their 
 house in this gorgeous and aristocratic 
 vehicle? A gloved hand quickly parted the 
 curtains and a lady stepped to the pavement 
 and turned to give orders to the chair-men, 
 thus giving Delme an instant in which to see 
 that she was tall, stately, and richly dressed. 
 A moment or two later the small household 
 page opened the drawing-room door and an 
 nounced, "The Lady Margaret Ley." 
 
 Delme curtseyed to her distinguished 
 visitor, who held out a cordial hand, then took 
 the chair offered her and sat for an instant 
 looking attentively at her young hostess. 
 Something shrewdly searching, yet kindly 
 quizzical in the lady s strong-featured face 
 struck upon Delinks sense of humour, and 
 with the frankness habitual to her, she 
 laughed lightly and remarked : 
 
 "Am I all that you could wish, your Lady 
 ship?"
 
 The VISITOR 157 
 
 Upon this Delmd s visitor laughed outright 
 also, relaxed her somewhat tense attitude, and 
 clapping her hands together, cried: 
 
 "All, and more than all! You suit me to 
 admiration. I hope you know your neighbour, 
 
 my friend, Master John Milton, Mistress ; 
 
 nay now, what is your name, my pretty child?" 
 
 "Delme Davies, your Ladyship." 
 
 "Davies to be sure, being daughter of my 
 late father s quondam physician. My father, 
 perhaps you do not know, my dear, was Marl- 
 borough, minister to his Majesty James I. 
 Your father attended him, I well remember, 
 in his last illness. So much for Davies. But 
 Delink sure tis a French name and odd at 
 that. How come you by it?" 
 
 Lady Margaret s imperious abruptness, so 
 far from disconcerting Delme , amused and 
 aroused her. 
 
 "Dr. Davies is my stepfather, Lady Mar 
 garet," she replied with composure. "My par 
 ents were both French. Have I not a right to 
 a French name? In good truth I should be 
 Delink Delon, but it pleases my stepfather 
 that I should be called by his name."
 
 158 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 "Excellent. A perfect explanation, for it 
 answers a.11 the questions I had in the back of 
 my head ready to fire. Now your question is : 
 What is this old woman come here for, any 
 way? Answer now! Am I right?" 
 
 Again Delink laughed unconstrainedly, and 
 assented. "Only not old," she interjected. 
 
 "Very good, very good! Listen, Delme 
 Davies," began Lady Margaret with a change 
 to a more serious tone ; "up yonder in that gar 
 den house, rather a pretty house from with 
 out it is, though not so good as this, off the 
 Aldersgate Street, lives my very particular 
 friend, Master John Milton, poet, scholar, 
 patriot, gentleman." 
 
 Beimels rising colour was her sole response. 
 Lady Margaret continued. 
 
 "He advised me of his marriage down in the 
 country somewhere, a few months ago. I bid 
 him bring the bride to Villiers Street, being 
 most desirous of showing her hospitality. For 
 some reason he did not do it, though to my 
 surprise he came to the house once and again 
 for an hour without her. The bride secluded 
 herself persistently. Well, I began to think,
 
 The VISITOR 159 
 
 though she be country bred and a mere slip of 
 seventeen and I all of forty-five, she stands on 
 her dignity, that I shall first seek her out, and 
 make her my devoir. Doubtless she will be 
 rather tiresome, but I must e en do it for my 
 poet s sake, since he is the principal relief 
 Heaven furnishes me in this present world of 
 warfare and foolish strife. So then, sweet 
 Mistress Delnie , this morning, being not pre 
 vented by affairs, I called for my new-fangled 
 French chair; a very gaudy bit of trumpery, 
 I call it, and vastly prefer my stout old 
 mare s legs to those of yon two grinning 
 knaves. But I thought the new Mistress Mil 
 ton might fancy me putting on my bravery 
 for her sake, so in I got and off we started. 
 As you see, I was nice in dressing myself, in 
 my next-to-best satin gown, and so alighted 
 at Master Milton s door, and was shown by 
 the very obliging man-servant up into the par 
 lour where all was as stiff and cold as if a 
 corpse lay in the corner ready for burial. I 
 cannot say what a deadly constraint fell on 
 me the moment I entered. Twas never like 
 that in other times when I have been in the
 
 160 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 house; I remember being then received by 
 a very comfortable, decent body. I forget her 
 name." 
 
 "Dame Glynn." 
 
 "Yes, yes. That s the name. Have her sent 
 for, will you, my dear? immediately. Your 
 mother can see to it, for she must be fetched 
 back at once. But let me proceed : in a few 
 moments in comes John Milton, but on my 
 honour I might better say his ghost. I fairly 
 jumped from my chair, and would have asked 
 him bluntly for the good Lord s sake what 
 ailed him, but there was that about him which 
 forbade the liberty, and I quite shook in my 
 knees as I stood and asked with as much 
 politeness as my scattered wits would serve 
 me to if I might have the favour of paying a 
 visit to his wife." 
 
 Beimels cheeks had grown pale and her fin 
 gers twisted unconsciously tight together. 
 
 " Pardon me, Lady Margaret, I have no 
 uife. Will you believe me, my dear, that was 
 what he said ! I was on the point of blurting 
 out then, Good gracious, man, when did she 
 die? which would indeed have been another
 
 The VISITOR 161 
 
 faux pas, when he saved me by saying with 
 marvellous composure, but yet most bitterly, 
 The lady whom I made my wife last June dis 
 covered in four weeks time that she preferred 
 her father s roof to mine and accordingly re 
 turned to it. Pardon me if I say nothing 
 more. With that he went immediately off 
 upon the subject of the Scotch Commissioners, 
 and spoke fluently and well, and yet withal 
 with a mechanical turn as if of necessity 
 and habit. All the while he stood, nor was 
 either of us seated, and looked like a man in 
 battle with a death wound, propped up to fire 
 one more shot before he reels and falls." 
 
 Lady Margaret s keen dark eyes had filled 
 with tears, and Deline , hardly knowing what 
 she did, seeing this, caught her hand and 
 kissed it impulsively. 
 
 "For sweet mercy s sake, child," murmured 
 Lady Margaret, passing her handkerchief im 
 patiently across her eyes, "what is it all 
 about? I can see the matter can never again 
 be touched in Milton s presence, so you must 
 tell me. Was the girl a fool?" 
 
 "Rather. At least she could find no pleas-
 
 162 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 ure in the studious life of Mr. Milton s house, 
 lacking mirth and revelry." 
 
 "Did she ever love him?" 
 
 "I think not. Her mother made the mar 
 riage." 
 
 "Did he love her?" 
 
 "He loved what he deemed her to be; sweet, 
 modest, housewifely, homekeeping so he 
 described her once to me." 
 
 "Home-keeping!" sniffed Lady Margaret 
 scornfully. "About as much as a man s judg 
 ment of a woman is worth ! But I can gather 
 now the sort she was, pink and white and in 
 nocent-looking, but bent on her own way. The 
 worst kind. I know them, and they re worth 
 just about as much as dolls, and yet the Lord 
 permits them to ruin the noblest men He 
 creates. Probably He has His reasons." With 
 this Lady Margaret rose. "Perhaps you still 
 ask to know my reason for coming here," she 
 paused to add. "Simply this : John Milton is 
 extraordinarily dear to my husband and to me, 
 and I am afraid for him. The man is des 
 perately hurt, whether in pride, in heart, or in 
 hope I know not yet, and I fear what may hap-
 
 The VISITOR 163 
 
 pen next if he is left wholly alone in that 
 silent, dreary house. When I came away, I 
 asked the old man-servant, who looked alto 
 gether broken-hearted, I fancied, if his master 
 had any good friends in the neighbourhood 
 with whom he might consort if he were lonely, 
 and he named your family. So, remembering 
 well Dr. Davies, I came straight here to see 
 any of you who might be at hand and lay it 
 upon you to keep some watch and ward for 
 these coming weeks over the man, for never 
 saw I one in sorer need. Had you known of 
 the wife s defection? When did it happen?" 
 
 "Yes, we have known. She has been since 
 midsummer away, but it was only yesterday 
 that Mr. Milton received the final word that 
 she would not return. I will tell Dr. Davies 
 and my mother, your Ladyship, what you 
 wish." 
 
 They were now at the door, which Delme 
 opened for her visitor. 
 
 "Tell yourself also. Child as you look, you 
 can do more than they if I mistake not. There 
 is heart s fire and heart s dew in your eyes and 
 together they should make heart s ease. Mil-
 
 164 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 ton had done much better, since he was for 
 marrying in such haste, to have saved the jour 
 ney to Oxfordshire, and looked nearer home. 
 There now you are turning rosy again, though 
 but now so pale. You are sensitive as a wind- 
 flower, Delme Davies. It is the hardest nature 
 to possess in a hard world like ours, little one, 
 but it is the nature which most enamours us. 
 Good-bye. Kiss me, my dear, and when I send 
 for you, will you come to Villiers Street?" 
 
 "That will I." 
 
 "Meanwhile, do not forget John Milton." 
 
 With this the door closed upon Lady Mar 
 garet Ley. 
 
 "Forget John Milton?" 
 
 In an onset of shivering, tearless sobs, 
 Delme threw herself upon the sofa in the 
 drawing-room; her face was buried in her 
 hands and Lady Margaret s last words re 
 peated themselves again and again through 
 the tumult of her passionate heart. 
 
 Then, how long after Lady Margaret s de 
 parture she had no means to measure, she felt 
 the presence of some one near her, although 
 no footstep could be heard on the soft, thick
 
 The VISITOR 165 
 
 carpet. No word was spoken, but a hand was 
 laid on her head and suddenly the storm of 
 her spirit died away and a calmness of ten 
 der reverence rose in its place. She stood up, 
 and was face to face with her master.
 
 XII 
 
 HEARTS FIRE 
 
 4 4 " CAME upon you like a thief in the 
 night, DelmeV 
 
 "I am glad you are here." 
 
 "I have been for a little in the surgery, let 
 ting the Doctor minister to my eyes." 
 
 "Then they are troublesome again?" 
 
 "Something more of late, as I have been 
 closer at work. Dr. Davies insisted I should 
 bide here till after dinner; he sent me in from 
 the surgery to discover any of the family who 
 might be within, or to take the freedom of 
 the house alone." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Delme seated herself quietly on the sofa, 
 and looking up in Milton s face as he stood 
 before her, she made a swift eloquent gesture 
 with both hands, as if she had said, "Let these 
 immaterial incidents pass. Speak what is 
 really in your heart." 
 
 166
 
 HEART S FIRE 167 
 
 He understood her, and for a moment bent 
 a measuring look upon her, reading her awe 
 and piteous wonder. Strong agony, Deline* 
 perceived, had worked havoc with the fine sen 
 sitive face, ploughing deep lines and wasting 
 strange hollows. The mouth, of old rich in 
 the beauty of its generous curves, was grim 
 and hard-set, but in the eyes were fires as of 
 disdain and great amazement. The extraor 
 dinary brilliance, just then, of Milton s eyes, 
 singularly luminous as they were wont to be, 
 was caused by the drug just employed in dilat 
 ing the pupil. This Deline" understood; none 
 the less in the pallor of his impassioned face, 
 they seemed to her imagination to blaze with 
 supernatural light. 
 
 Her own eyes fell beneath the fiery gaze, 
 so turning away he strode impetuously down 
 the long drawing-room. Coming again to her 
 side, he exclaimed: 
 
 "In my vigil last night, Deline*, you were 
 often before me. In very truth I have come 
 to hold you in no small part responsible for 
 the blunder of my ill-twisted wedlock, and 
 therefore you shall pay the penalty. Yes,
 
 168 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 you and you alone, and this once only, shall 
 bear to hear the vain and futile railing of a 
 fool caught in his own folly." 
 
 "Say instead of a poet caught in his own 
 poetry." 
 
 Milton glanced in surprise at the girl, for 
 she spoke with a readiness and a composure 
 he had not anticipated, unembarrassed by 
 the unlooked-for, whimsical menace of his 
 words. 
 
 "It comes to the same thing," he said, a 
 faint shadow of a smile crossing his face. 
 "The dreamer who dares to think he can trans 
 late these hard, fierce human conditions which 
 surround us into the poetry and heavenly 
 harmony of his dream is little better than a 
 fool." 
 
 "You have said, Mr. Milton, that I bear 
 responsibility in this . . . that has happened. 
 . . . Why?" 
 
 "You do not seem frightened at the 
 thought." 
 
 "Because I do not yet believe it." 
 
 "Then let me prove it." 
 
 As he talked on, Milton continued his
 
 HEART S FIRE 169 
 
 stormy pacing of the room, while Delme sat 
 motionless as before. 
 
 "It was you, child, gave me my measure 
 of a maid. I saw you timid, unassuming, and 
 gentle before your elders, yet nevertheless 
 firm in yourself and mettlesome as suits a 
 noble and conquering spirit, and eager in as 
 piration ever to win fresh fields of thought 
 and study. I should no doubt have seen that 
 yours was the rare, the exceptional nature. 
 But I took it for norm and type of girlhood. 
 So then, do you see? when fortune brought 
 my way one of wifely maturity, of fair seem 
 ing, yet a mute and bashful virgin, hapless, 
 forlorn, and needy of one to undertake for 
 her, I discerned in her those qualities peculiar 
 to you which I was fool enough to fancy 
 proper to your order. It was my convince- 
 ment that I had found a gentle, teachable 
 nature, which, however simple still and 
 untrained, would respond with gladness 
 when called by love to things high and 
 noble." 
 
 There was a long pause. Then under his 
 breath Milton groaned:
 
 170 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 "And I had, in fact, found an image of 
 earth, heartless, lifeless, faithless." 
 
 Again silence; then breaking through the 
 barriers of his reserve as though he were but 
 thinking aloud, Milton went on with agitated 
 utterance : 
 
 "And to this image, to this unspeakable 
 thraldom to a shadow of that which at best 
 is naught, the- Canon Law of England binds 
 me body and soul while I live. Now first 
 do I perceive the body of death with which 
 numbers of my fellow men are burdened 
 throughout this mortal life, because a super 
 cilious crew of Papist prelates in the Middle 
 Ages saw fit to lay their sacramental yoke 
 upon all succeeding generations, so creating 
 a set of imaginary and scarecrow sins. What 
 were nobler: to steep one s soul in the suffo 
 cating fumes of a polluting disunion, main 
 tained in spite of mortal antipathy for a 
 lifetime, or to smite off with one blow the 
 fetters of needless servitude from one s self 
 and so from all who suffer a like bondage, 
 and stand free among the free?" 
 
 As Milton went on with this extraordinary
 
 HEART S FIRE 171 
 
 monologue he was like a man feeling his way 
 from tree to tree of a pathless forest, guided 
 only by a far-distant gleam of light be 
 yond. Delme followed, but vaguely, the 
 motions of his mind, and knew herself now 
 forgotten. 
 
 "Were marriage a convention, a bargain of 
 expediency," Milton slowly proceeded, his eyes 
 stern and fixed before him, all their late lustre 
 fled, "were it a mere physical ordinance, then 
 were the Canon Law of inevitable perpetuity 
 justifiable, but sure tis something far nobler, 
 else were we little better than the brute 
 creation. The unity of souls, the communion 
 of pure and aspiring minds, the harmony of 
 spirits as in a perfect musical chord, rising 
 to divine and heavenly sweetness, that is 
 God s thought, God s plan. And when men 
 degrade a noble instrument to lesser ends 
 by such uncomplying discord of nature, what 
 is it but violence to the higher spiritual law by 
 obedience to the letter of tradition? There 
 may yet be a blow to strike for liberty, not of 
 the one, but of the many! Whatever is done 
 must be done aloft under the roof of Heaven,
 
 172 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 and by one who shall dare to be sole advocate 
 of a hitherto discountenanced truth. But 
 this I see clearly, that men of most renowned 
 virtue have in the past sometimes, by trans 
 gressing, most truly kept law." 
 
 He stopped speaking, walked twice the 
 length of the room, his head dropped forward, 
 his hands linked behind. Next, as if mechani 
 cally and of habit, observing the open organ, 
 he seated himself before it and with power 
 ful, spontaneous touch struck from its keys 
 discords and harmonies w r hich gradually gath 
 ered in tumultuous power as he played on un 
 til they mingled in a storm of mighty music, 
 like the struggle of gods. And still Delme 
 stirred not at all from her place, but watched 
 her master as he beat his music out and 
 through the music swept the titanic rage of 
 his soul and filled the place where they sat. 
 Unmoved though she seemed, the girl felt 
 her whole being, body, mind, conscience, will, 
 swept onward as by a flood which no mortal 
 strength could stem. What it was she did not 
 know, nor whither it might carry her, whether 
 to blessing or to bale. Milton s seraphic
 
 HEARTS FIRE 173 
 
 beauty, though devastated by present anguish 
 and prolonged anxiety, appeared to her in that 
 moment of throbbing tension to return and 
 with it a grandeur she had never seen before, 
 a grandeur not of an aspect gentle or gracious, 
 but fierce, imperious, full of the perilous 
 brooding fires of scorn, as if of an archangel 
 ruined. 
 
 As she looked and listened Delme lost her 
 sense of the small realities of time and place, 
 habit and convention. Within her a myste 
 rious voice awoke and she heard as with her 
 outward ear the word : 
 
 "Some time this man whom you so reverence 
 will discover that you are no longer a child. He 
 will ask you to leave all to follow him; what will 
 you do?" 
 
 Swiftly she seemed to herself to answer: 
 
 "Nothing could hold me back; the world 
 would be well lost. He is kingly, Jove-like. I 
 should glory in sacrificing to him all a 
 woman can." 
 
 And still the great chords and discords 
 crashed on. 
 
 "Delme ! Delme !"
 
 174 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 Milton s voice seemed to float to her ears 
 from some far cloudy height and a weight like 
 lead held her eyes close sealed. The music 
 had ceased. 
 
 "Oh, please I cannot," she murmured 
 vaguely. 
 
 Then her hands were taken in a strong 
 grasp and chafed, and through her drooping 
 eyelids she felt piercing glances of urgent 
 solicitude. With all her might, then, she 
 roused herself, withdrew her hands, and lifted 
 her eyes, smiling wanly. 
 
 "You fainted, Delme", sitting quietly here in 
 your place. Are you better? How did it 
 chance? Was it my fault, wretch that I am, 
 pouring out my heady vapourings upon you, 
 poor little one, until you could bear no 
 more? Shall I go for Dr. Davies?" 
 
 "No, no, Mr. Milton, and it was not at all 
 your fault. I am very strong now," she added 
 faintly. 
 
 He sat down beside her then and taking her 
 wrist in his hand very gravely tried the pulse. 
 Delink trembled. Could his nice touch dis 
 cern the very passion of her heart? Milton s
 
 HEART S FIRE 175 
 
 eyes seemed fascinated by the hand which lay 
 in his. It was small, finely slender, weak 
 just now, and yet it was not a child s hand, 
 and the heart that sent its high tide surging 
 through the delicate wrist under the pressure 
 of his fingers was not a child s heart. Was 
 he at last about to divine this? Despite her 
 languor and confusion, Delme distinctly felt 
 herself on a perilous margin, for if her pulse 
 did not betray her might not his glance sur 
 prise the rapture of surrender lingering in 
 her eyes? She rose, hastily withdrawing her 
 hand, averting her face. 
 
 Milton rose also, and seeing the girl s slight 
 frame waver as she stood, held out his arm to 
 support her. 
 
 "No!" she cried with sudden energy; 
 "you cannot. You must not." 
 
 Without another word, she left the room, 
 but before Milton had had time to reason 
 upon what might underlie her abrupt repel 
 ling, Mistress Davies appeared with kindly 
 welcome, and the announcement that dinner 
 was served. From the family meal Delme was 
 absent, sending word that she suffered from a
 
 176 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 slight headache and begged that she might be 
 excused. 
 
 That same evening when they were alone 
 Delme said to her mother that if she would 
 give her leave it was her wish to go for a time 
 to her uncle s in Canterbury. 
 
 "And why, child?" asked Mistress Davies, 
 not a little surprised. "Are you not satisfied 
 here?" 
 
 Delme smiled, but her smile was forced and 
 unlike her. 
 
 "I cannot tell why," she said hesitatingly, 
 "I do not really know, myself; but I feel it 
 better that I go, believe me." 
 
 Her mother looked keenly in Her face. She 
 respected Delme deeply. 
 
 "And when would you go?" she asked pres 
 ently. 
 
 "By the coach the day after to-morrow." 
 
 "But this is sudden! Would it not be bet 
 ter to send by post first to inquire if it suit 
 your aunt to have you?" 
 
 "It always suits Aunt Marie to have me." 
 
 "And it never suits me to spare you," and 
 the mother laughed fondly, "but I will not
 
 HEART S FIRE 
 
 hold you back for that. I see something is 
 working within you and driving you forth." 
 Without reply Delme , grown tall now, and 
 slim and straight as a young poplar, bent and 
 kissed Madeleine, who seeing tears welling in 
 her eyes felt a pang as mothers do when they 
 perceive that their daughters can have sorrow 
 and struggle into which it is not theirs to 
 enter.
 
 XIII 
 
 WINCEEY 
 
 COACHING along old Watling Street, 
 the highroad from London to Canter 
 bury, over the Kentish downs and through the 
 autumn orchards and copses, Delink Davies 
 was set down just before sunset of Friday 
 evening in the sober old town of Rochester. 
 Here were friends of her family with whom she 
 spent the night, rising bright and early in the 
 crisp October morning to take the stage-coach 
 for the remaining thirty miles or so of her 
 journey. A very respectable old lady in whose 
 charge Delme had been placed on leaving Lon 
 don by her stepfather, left the coach at Sit- 
 tingbourne two hours after the start from 
 Rochester, and it was while waiting here that 
 Delme first heard news of fighting in the East 
 Country on the day before. 
 
 A cavalry horse, his skin flecked with foam 
 from hard riding, stood at the inn door, where 
 
 178
 
 WINCEBY 179 
 
 the coach was held for some minutes in order 
 to water the four horses. Within the inn, 
 Delme , leaning from the coach window, saw 
 a trooper of the Ironsides in torn and stained 
 regimentals sitting with a pot of ale before 
 him, giving between draughts concise answers 
 to questions asked him in quick succession by 
 a group of eager yeomen. 
 
 "At Winceby?" 
 
 "Aye, masters, near to Horncastle." 
 
 "A battle you say, a pitched battle?" 
 
 "Nay, but a bit of sharp fighting, and we 
 gave the enemy a hot chase and smote them 
 hip and thigh, for the Lord gave them into our 
 hand." 
 
 A fierce shout of exultation from the towns 
 men told that their sympathies were not with 
 the King. 
 
 "Who commanded for us?" 
 
 "Old Noll, be sure, and Fairfax. Sir John 
 Henderson led the Cavaliers." 
 
 "The first victory in many a long day! 
 Twill turn the tide back again!" and the low 
 inn roof resounded with fiery cheers. 
 
 The trooper rose and came out to the inn
 
 180 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 door, followed by his listeners, some of whom 
 addressed themselves to caring for his horse 
 with almost affectionate interest, seeing he 
 had brought such news all the way from Lin 
 colnshire. Delme from the coach window 
 beckoned to the fellow, who approached with 
 a clumsy reverence. 
 
 "I have heard you speaking of a battle by 
 Horncastle. Did you say Colonel Cromwell 
 was in command?" 
 
 "Aye, mistress. He led the van, did Oliver 
 himself on his big black stallion, and w r e fol 
 lowed him; our men singing psalms as we 
 came on the field, the Lord of Hosts himself 
 being with us. However, in the first charge 
 the black horse was killed under the Colonel, 
 and he, being thrown, had much to-do to get 
 his footing again, and twas no sooner got 
 than a blow from a pike on his helmet struck 
 him down again." 
 
 Delme clasped her hands hard and gave a 
 cry of dread. 
 
 "Nay, mistress, give yourself no sorrow. 
 Oliver can t be got rid of that fashion. The 
 Angel of the Lord overshadows him on the
 
 WINCEEY 181 
 
 field. I d but a sorry horse myself, not half 
 so good as that beast yon even, but I was by 
 good luck near and gave it him on the spot 
 when he got to his feet and after that Lord, 
 how he did fight, and how he routed the 
 enemy! God made them as stubble before 
 him!" 
 
 Delme had grown white with so fresh a 
 taste of the reality of battle, yet was not ready 
 to let the messenger go. Behind him a dozen 
 or more men pressed close with eager, listen 
 ing faces. The postilion had mounted to his 
 place on the coach and the driver had 
 gathered the reins in his hand for starting, yet 
 stood, one foot on the forewheel, listening for 
 yet a word or two more of the great news. 
 
 "Do you know if certain reinforcements un 
 der Major Unwin reached the army before the 
 fighting?" 
 
 Delme asked the question with lips which 
 trembled, and yet with a thrill of eagerness 
 for Prosper to have had his share in the glory 
 of the victory. 
 
 "That they did, mistress, though but just in 
 time and by fierce riding night and day," an-
 
 182 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 swered the soldier. "They did their part well 
 to save the day too, both the Major and the 
 raw troop with him, but he fell, poor lad ! and 
 by your leave, lady, I have business upon that 
 from Colonel Cromwell himself, that lets me 
 not bide longer here. I must mount and ride 
 to Canterbury as fast as I may." 
 
 The trooper turned abruptly, the crowd fell 
 back, the driver sprang up to his seat, and the 
 coach w^as already in motion, when a cry 
 of distress from Delink caused some one to 
 signal the coach to stop. At her urgent re 
 quest the messenger from Cromwell was pre 
 vailed upon to leave his horse at the inn to 
 await his return and to proceed by coach on 
 the last stage of his journey to Canterbury. 
 Sheepishly and with awkward reluctance the 
 fellow then took his seat for a time inside 
 the coach, that so the lady from London 
 might have further conversation with him. 
 
 At the end of fifteen minutes the man burst 
 open the door as the horses slackened pace 
 at a long hill, and scrambled up to a seat 
 where he might feel better at ease beside the 
 driver. Delme , left alone now, for she was the
 
 WINCEBY 183 
 
 solitary inside passenger after Sittingbourne, 
 went over and over in her mind the points 
 in the man s short and startling story. For 
 the first time in many days the image of John 
 Milton faded, receding to give place in her 
 imagination to that of Prosper Unwin, lying 
 wounded, dying perhaps, alone among stran 
 gers. By an error in judgment on the part of 
 his superior officer, according to the mes 
 senger, the young major had been sent late in 
 the engagement at Winceby with a small com 
 pany of horse to drive a detachment of 
 Cavalier soldiers from a position they had 
 taken commanding the ford of a stream. This 
 small river, swollen by the autumn rains, fur 
 nished a serious obstacle in Henderson s re 
 treat. A mile farther down stream, however, 
 a bridge unguarded gave the Royalists a bet 
 ter means of escape and rendered the ford a 
 point of no strategic consequence. Whether 
 Major Unwin knew that the order to charge 
 the detachment at the ford was a blunder or 
 no (the officer giving it appeared to have been 
 a boastful, bombastic man), he obeyed orders 
 and accomplished his mission successfully
 
 184 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 against heavy odds. It was a bloody en 
 counter, however, attended with woeful and 
 needless loss of life. The Major had been shot 
 through the thigh; and of his fellow-soldiers, 
 some killed and wounded, the others scattered, 
 none were able to give him aid. It was night 
 fall and, darkness coming on suddenly, he was 
 left lying all night where he fell, in a chilling 
 rain. Next morning the men discovered him 
 and reported his condition, which appeared 
 serious, to Cromwell. The Colonel, then ob 
 liged to fall back rapidly in the direction of 
 Ely, showed the young officer marked kind 
 ness, and attempted to convey him with the 
 army. The regimental surgeon finding the 
 long marches too severe for the wounded man 
 however, Prosper was left behind with two at 
 tendants at March, a dozen miles to the north 
 ef Ely, and the messenger sent post-haste with 
 a letter from Cromwell to his friend, Master 
 Anthoine Unwin in Canterbury, advising him 
 of his son s situation. 
 
 No outward circumstance of the journey 
 from Sittingbourne to Canterbury registered 
 an impression upon Beimels consciousness.
 
 WINCEEY 185 
 
 Every faculty of her mind was concentrated 
 intensely on the situation of painful anxiety 
 so unexpectedly revealed to her. When, 
 early in the afternoon, she alighted from the 
 coach in Mercery Lane followed solemnly by 
 Cromwell s messenger, her mind was fully 
 made up as to what must be done, and she was 
 ready to command the line of action in a man 
 ner worthy of a general. 
 
 Her unexpected coming was hailed with 
 joy by her Aunt Marie, who was ailing with 
 rheumatism ; a servant was sent running down 
 to the garden for the master and to the study 
 for Master Philip, and so in short order the 
 household, all unaware of aught impending, 
 was gathered together. Meanwhile the sol 
 dier, unobserved by the family, was accommo 
 dated in the kitchen with food and drink. 
 With steady courage Delink then unfolded 
 the story to these three so vitally involved 
 in the issue, and while disguising nothing, con 
 trived to infuse into all their minds a con 
 tagion of hope and cheer which lightened the 
 weight of their anxiety. 
 
 The messenger was then permitted to de-
 
 186 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 liver his Colonel s letter, rewarded, and sped 
 on his return way. Plans were made rapidly ; 
 the young girl, almost insensibly to the others, 
 leading their thoughts in the channel she had 
 been mentally preparing on her lonely jour 
 ney. The afternoon would be spent in secur 
 ing saddle horses, a driver, and a second pair 
 of stout road horses with a covered carrier s 
 cart in which a mattress could be laid; all 
 the space available in the cart was then to be 
 filled with cordials, medicines, linen, bandages, 
 and every needed surgical appliance. Here 
 Delme , familiar with the details of her step 
 father s profession, was easily the head, and 
 gave out rapidly and clearly the orders for all 
 the various requirements. 
 
 The start for March was to be made at four 
 the following morning, at which time Delme 
 promised to be ready herself, fresh and rested 
 and fit for any hardships. For to the surprise 
 of them all, the girl declared it her fixed pur 
 pose to accompany the relief expedition of her 
 uncle and Philip, that their wounded hero 
 might not suffer lack of a woman s nursing.
 
 XIV 
 HEARTS DEW 
 
 "Yes, ... I am coming." 
 "Come back, dear Prosper." 
 "I am trying. ... Is that Delme ?" 
 "Yes," with infinite gentleness, "DelmeV 
 "Darling . . . little . . . Delink. Did you 
 
 call me?" 
 
 "Uncle Anthoine says, Prosper, I must tell 
 
 you something. . . . Can you listen?" 
 "I hear you every word." 
 "They say, dear, that you may not be with 
 
 us, may not be in this life when it is morning 
 
 again." 
 
 In the beating silence Delme held Prosper s 
 
 hand in both her own as she knelt beside him, 
 
 covering it with a woman s kisses and tears 
 
 of heart-breaking tenderness. 
 
 It was a comfortless cottage chamber where, 
 
 on a lowly bed, the wounded man lay under 
 
 187
 
 188 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 the darkened rafters. In the poor room ad 
 joining, on the bare floor, in the gathering 
 gloom of the autumn evening, Anthoine Un- 
 win and his older son knelt together, wres 
 tling in prayer to God for the life so deeply 
 dear to them. 
 
 The flush of burning fever was on Prospers 
 face. He had lain long with closed eyes, but 
 now, when he opened them, they were 
 strangely bright and yet unseeing. Again he 
 spoke, and his voice surprised Delink by its 
 strength. 
 
 "I am not afraid. . . . The Captain . . . 
 of my Salvation . . . will not fail me. . . . 
 Tell my father . . . mother," his voice died 
 away again and Delme^s eyes grew blind with 
 tears. 
 
 "I feel your tears, my girl. . . they quench 
 my thirst . . . they fall on my heart . . . 
 like dew, . . . Delink, do you care ... so 
 much?" 
 
 "Beyond words, Prosper; oh, my dear, we 
 cannot let you go." 
 
 "If you care . . . Deluxe" . . . what use 
 ... is dying? . . . Pray."
 
 HEART S DEW 189 
 
 "Lord, look down ; pity our sorrow ; give him 
 Thy grace; touch him with Thy power, to 
 heal." 
 
 The simple, broken words faltered and 
 failed her, and she bent her brow upon Pros- 
 per s hand. With a mighty effort the suffer 
 ing man lifted the other hand and laid it on 
 the girl s head, murmuring softly : 
 
 "There, there, little Delme . . . . Good 
 night. . . . Don t cry. ... I shall sleep." 
 
 At the midnight watch Philip found Pros 
 per sleeping a peaceful, refreshing sleep, 
 while Delme , crouching on the floor by the 
 side of the cot, slept also, his hand upon her 
 head. Philip sent her away to rest and took 
 her place. At dawn Philip saw that the fever 
 was gone and beckoned his father to come and 
 see the sure change for the better. So these 
 two strong men who loved him clasped hands 
 over their soldier s narrow bed, thanked God, 
 and took courage. 
 
 Two days later, the improvement continu 
 ing in Prosper s condition but an unconquer 
 able restlessness possessing him and a longing 
 for home, he was placed in the home-made am-
 
 190 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 bulance, Delme seated beside him, and the 
 little cavalcade, headed by Anthoine and 
 Philip on horseback, began its slow progress 
 southward. That night they slept at Ely, the 
 next at Bury St. Edmunds at the Angel 
 Tavern. 
 
 Prosper, on first being placed in the great 
 luxurious bed in the fine old best room of 
 the Angel, fell sound asleep, then woke at 
 nine, and saw in the moonlight which poured 
 through the open casement that Delme sat, a 
 quiet, pensive figure, watching. For the first 
 time since she had known of her cousin s ex 
 tremity the girl s thoughts had been with 
 drawn from him to their old centre. His 
 voice startled her as if from a dream. 
 
 Instinctively she sprang to her feet, took a 
 glass of medicine from its place, and ap 
 proached the bedside. 
 
 "I don t want that," said the major, smil 
 ing drowsily; "I want you." 
 
 "You have me, Prosper, always, except when 
 Philip makes me leave you." 
 
 "Not always. You were far away just 
 then."
 
 HEART S DEW 191 
 
 The girl fancied his mind disturbed by re 
 turning fever and laid her hand lightly on his 
 forehead. 
 
 "Do you know I am getting well, Delme ?" 
 he asked then, a child s simple gladness on his 
 face. 
 
 "I know you are. We are all happy, thank 
 ful beyond words." 
 
 "There is nothing in my heart but thanks 
 giving and love." 
 
 "Nor in mine Yes, there is one other 
 
 thing, Prosper. That is indignation. It is 
 hard for me to forgive that stupid, blundering 
 officer who ordered you at the risk, and al 
 most at the cost of your life, to attack that 
 useless point that ford." 
 
 "What do you know about my orders, 
 about the charge?" in great surprise. 
 
 "Oh, I know. I know how you dashed 
 straight into the thick of peril, and I love you 
 for it, but I almost hate the man who made 
 you go. Such orders ought never to be obeyed. 
 It is inhuman." 
 
 "Hush, DelmeV 
 
 "You knew all the time you were doing the
 
 192 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 thing that it was needless ; did you not, Pros 
 per? Tell me that." 
 
 "I knew. Certainly." 
 
 "Then it would have been better not to obey, 
 to my thinking. Remember what we have all 
 what many others have suffered " 
 
 Beimels eyes flashed her young and fervid 
 wrath, but the light, in Prosper s eyes checked 
 her. Abruptly she stopped speaking. 
 
 "All wrong, my girl," he said bluntly. 
 "You have taken the thing by the wrong 
 end." 
 
 There was a little silence in which a touch 
 of Beimels defiance, if unspoken, might be felt. 
 
 "What is one life, Delme , compared with 
 bringing misrule into an army?" 
 
 Prosper asked the question with a severity 
 she had never heard in his voice before and 
 which caused the words to live long in her 
 memory. 
 
 "In war," he added presently, "the loss of a 
 life is an incident ; the subverting of discipline 
 is a catastrophe. ... I know not if it be 
 otherwise in life," he added slowly. 
 
 "Will you go to sleep now, Prosper?" Delme
 
 HEART S DEW 193 
 
 asked with sudden meekness. "I am afraid I 
 have tired you with talking. Forgive me." 
 
 Prosper smiled. 
 
 "Yes, if you will be a good girl and not say 
 such things again, nor think such thoughts. 
 It is honour not to, honour is obedience, 
 DelmeV 
 
 She went back to her place in the open 
 window, and leaned out, watching the noble 
 Abbey gateway leading to the ancient shrine 
 of Saint Edmund. Mystically beautiful in the 
 white moonlight she thought it. When she 
 turned back to the room some minutes later, 
 Prosper was asleep. His features, refined by 
 his sufferings, showed nobly calm and full 
 of peace. Something of the still, stern majesty 
 of a recumbent warrior s effigy rested upon 
 him as he lay. 
 
 As she looked, unconsciously tears fell from 
 Beimels eyes, tears of sweet subduing, not of 
 sorrow or of passion. Prosper was leal, noble, 
 knightlike; to-night something in his words 
 brought a new peace after the strong upheaval 
 of her nature of scarcely a week ago. "Honour 
 is obedience," he said, and, "What is one life
 
 194 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 compared with bringing misrule into an 
 army?" The question forced itself again and 
 yet again upon her. And Delink grew hot and 
 cold, for she was carried back against her will 
 with intense recollection to that breathless 
 moment when, with Milton s mighty music 
 crashing about her, she had heard the mysteri 
 ous inner voice saying: When this man asks 
 you to leave all and folloiv him, what will 
 you dof She did not know what the question 
 signified nor what her heart s secret answer, 
 yet she felt profoundly that in that whirlwind 
 of passion a temper like this had had no place. 
 
 The child spirit of single-minded submission 
 to duty regained sway within her. She knelt 
 by Prosper s bed, looked upon his solemn, 
 sleeping face, and said within herself : 
 
 "I will be strong and still like that also, and 
 I will be killed if need be, too. Oh, my God, 
 suffer me not for any pains of death to fall 
 away from Thee."
 
 XV 
 
 A FORGER OF THUNDERBOLTS 
 
 IN the fragrant, fair guest-chamber of the 
 Unwin house in Mercery Lane, its win 
 dows looking toward Christ Church gate 
 and the south porch of the great cathedral, 
 Prosper was laid. And there he was nursed 
 by his mother with such skill that in a fort 
 night his wound was well toward healing, and 
 he, though still weak from fever and loss of 
 blood, began to talk of going forward in a 
 month s time to his colours. 
 
 In spite of pain and languor the days which 
 followed were to the young major s mind the 
 pleasantest in his life a life which had no 
 doubt of late been harsh and rugged. For 
 Delme was all day long at his service, coming 
 and going on his errands with sweetest solici 
 tude. She seemed to have not a care now or a 
 thought beyond the walls of his father s house, 
 and the little, girlish ways of contradiction 
 
 195
 
 196 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 and disregard with which she used oftentimes 
 to meet him were changed to a quiet, womanly 
 devotion, through which ran always the bright 
 thread of her arch and playful humour. 
 
 "You have never told me what it was 
 brought you down to Canterbury, Delme , at 
 just the time we fought at Winceby," he com 
 mented, as she sat by his bed on an afternoon 
 toward the end of October. "You had no 
 thought of it, as I knew, that day when I was 
 with you in Trinity Court." 
 
 "I cannot tell, Prosper," said the girl, "un 
 less I was moved by a good Providence to be 
 here when you were wounded, and my aunt 
 really in need of me. Here I am, at least; so 
 make the best of it. Shall I read on?" With 
 which, as if not curious to pursue the subject, 
 she returned to the book she was reading to 
 him, a new volume of verses by Master George 
 Wither, the Puritan poet and soldier. 
 
 "Yes. Read, please, the song you read yes 
 terday, that one with the saucy refrain." 
 
 " Be she fairer than the Day 
 Or the flowry meads in May, 
 If she thinke not well of me 
 What care I how faire she be ? "
 
 FORGER OF THUNDERBOLTS 197 
 
 read Delme with a touch of gay defiance, well 
 fitting the words. 
 
 "All I have to say is that Wither is a lucky 
 fellow, or else lies!" broke in Prosper, look 
 ing wanly but with undisguised delight at the 
 girl s face, her transparent cap, the exquisite 
 freshness of the white lawn folds over her 
 breast, the soft blue woollen skirt draping her 
 firm girlish shape chastely. Everything about 
 Delme took on her virginal daintiness, with 
 the peculiar elegance and piquancy of the 
 Frenchwoman added. 
 
 "Not care!" he muttered, then stopped and 
 drew a long, expressive sigh. 
 
 "Be still, Major Unwin! Do not inter 
 rupt," said Delme with mock severity, and 
 read on rapidly over several perilous passages 
 to the final lilt : 
 
 " If she slight me when I woe, 
 I can scorne and let her goe ; 
 For if she be not for me 
 What care I for whom she be ? " 
 
 "Scorn and let her go !" cried Prosper scorn 
 fully; "much Wither knows about love! 
 Delme , do you think I could do that? Do you
 
 198 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 think I could ever cease to care, whomso 
 ever you should choose above me; do you 
 think " 
 
 "Hush !" admonished Delme , reddening and 
 rising; then patting one limp, bleached hand 
 in a soothing and most motherly manner; 
 "you forget, Prosper, what the doctor has said 
 about exciting yourself and bringing on fever 
 again. This will not do #t all. Will you be 
 good, or shall I go leave you?" 
 
 She bent and laid her cool little hand on his 
 head; tears filled the rugged soldier s eyes as 
 he looked up and saw the kindness of her 
 face. He knew that, save for that one dim 
 night at March, she had never been so near 
 him, for some reason, as just then. Some in 
 visible influence seemed working with her, he 
 fancied, in his behalf. A little more and he 
 would dare to think she might love him. 
 
 "I will do anything, Delme , to keep you 
 near," he said very low; then broke off and 
 seemed to listen. "Is some one coming in be 
 low with Philip? Do you hear voices?" He 
 spoke fretfully now, as if the distant sounds 
 annoyed him.
 
 "No matter for voices," said Delme in her 
 pacifying nurse s tone; "they do not concern 
 us, Prosper." 
 
 But why did the hand with which she 
 smoothed the pillow tremble suddenly? And 
 why did she walk away with quickened breath 
 to the chamber window, looking down into 
 the lane, her face turned from him? 
 
 "It is time for your sleeping draught," she 
 said presently, and prepared it at a table at 
 the foot of the bed. When she brought it to 
 him, Prosper s gaunt eyes searched her face 
 w T ith pathetic anxiety. In truth he was not 
 mistaken in his sick fancy that a sudden 
 frost had fallen on her heart s blossoming for 
 him. The chill, though she did not know it, 
 was in her voice, even in her kind, ministering 
 hands. 
 
 "Now are you very comfortable?" she asked, 
 having darkened the room. 
 
 The wounded man moved his head on the 
 pillow in assent ; his eyes were closed. Delme 
 did not dream that speech was impossible to 
 him just then ; that by some strange intuition 
 of his helplessness he divined that subtle with-
 
 200 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 drawing in her which she scarcely recognized 
 herself. Immediately she left the room with 
 noiseless steps, closing the door softly. For 
 some minutes Prosper lay, his eyes now wide 
 open, seeking in every corner of his conscious 
 ness for cause for the indefinable change he 
 had felt in her. Then, no clue being found 
 and the medicine working, he fell asleep. 
 
 At the head of the stair Delrne encountered 
 her Aunt Marie. 
 
 "I have just given him his afternoon 
 draught," she whispered. 
 
 "Trust you not to forget. You must come 
 down now and help me to entertain a guest." 
 
 "Who, then?" 
 
 "Mr. John Milton has come in but now with 
 Philip, being just off the London coach. He 
 will like to see you." 
 
 "I believe I will remain up here." 
 
 "Mr. Milton has some great thing, I under 
 stand, brought with him of his writing, just 
 published, that he is for reading to Philip." 
 
 "Then least of all will they want girls run 
 ning in to divert their serious discourse. No, 
 Aunt Marie, I would rather stay here, on the
 
 FORGER OF THUNDERBOLTS 201 
 
 landing with your roses, and listen for Pros 
 per than go below." 
 
 The busy housewife, plainly relieved, hur 
 ried down to her maids in the kitchen, while 
 Deline , in a window niche of the wide landing 
 where jars of roses stood at the foot of a tall 
 clock, cuddled down wearily on a cushion and 
 listened for sounds either from below or above. 
 
 She had known that Milton was in the 
 house, known it at the moment his foot crossed 
 the threshold, more by intuition than by 
 hearing. Prosper had guessed some mysteri 
 ous change in her, but he had not guessed that 
 her heart had all but stopped its beating and 
 that it had taken all the stiffness of her will 
 to steady her, while she stood out of sight pre 
 paring his medicine. She was thankful to be 
 alone for a while, and to be left in peace to 
 tutor her wild heart to calmness and to let her 
 reason get the mastery of this rebellious pas 
 sion. Why, oh, why could she not love Prosper 
 as he wished and everybody wished she her 
 self with the rest? She had thought it possible 
 just now up yonder, with his true eyes lifted 
 in their unfathomable loyalty and worship to
 
 202 POET, LAW y AND LADY 
 
 her own, and his true heart laid barer to her 
 inner vision by his weakness than ever it had 
 been in his strength. And then that step had 
 come below, that music of the voice with its 
 resistless power, and set all the tides of life 
 within her to highest flood and swept her away 
 far beyond Prosper s reach, beyond the reach 
 of reason or conscience or the control of 
 aught save ecstasy. 
 
 Was she glad that Milton had come? It 
 was madness rather than gladness, for it was 
 to flee from him she had left London. She 
 could not trust herself to meet, as chance 
 might make her at any turn, that appeal of his 
 stern and bitter loneliness, his humiliation, his 
 pain, above all of his need of a woman s gentle 
 ness. She had felt too keenly the wild tyranny 
 of passion which the man had power to rouse 
 within her. Only in flight, just then, was 
 safety. 
 
 And now he was near again. If she dared, 
 she might see him. Fragments of conversa 
 tion reached her from the room below; some 
 times it was Philip s voice, but oftener Mil 
 ton s. Delme trembled as in her childhood
 
 FORGER OF THUNDERBOLTS 203 
 
 once in the cathedral when he had sat at the 
 organ, and in that other breathless hour in 
 her own home when she had fainted beneath 
 his music. 
 
 "You have been working on, I judge," she 
 heard Philip say ; heard him reply that he was 
 minded not to "bate one jot of heart or hope, 
 but still bear up and steer right onward." 
 
 Milton s tone was perhaps graver than of old, 
 but a new note of something great and proud 
 beyond his wont rang through his words, and 
 made her glad. 
 
 Not long after he began reading aloud, and 
 this being hard to follow from the distance, 
 Delinks mind strayed to thoughts of the 
 reader rather, until called back by words and 
 phrases caught disjointedly but of startling 
 import. "A luckless and helpless matri 
 mony;" "a worse condition than the loneliest 
 single life;" "a mute and spiritless mate;" "a 
 powerful reluctance and recoil of nature on 
 either side ;" "enough to abase the mettle of a 
 generous spirit and sink him to a low and 
 vulgar pitch of endeavour in all his actions." 
 Such were a few of the phrases which made
 
 204 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 Delinks ears tingle. What, then, could this 
 great thing be, just published? 
 
 A half-hour passed as in a dream to the be 
 wildered girl, then the reading ceased and a 
 silence fell. Finally she heard Philip say, 
 
 "Superb if poetry, but incredible as argu 
 ment. You have actually published this 
 treatise?" 
 
 "Yes, albeit without the legal forms of li 
 cense and registration, which to my mind 
 fetter the liberty of thought and shall be, 
 please God, one day the subject of fearless 
 attack." 
 
 "By whom is it printed?" 
 
 "By T. P. and M. S. you know w r ho are 
 represented by those letters, in Goldsmith s 
 Alley, London. This is the motto: Every 
 Scribe instructed to the Kingdome of Heav n is 
 like the Maister of a house which bringeth out 
 of his treasurie things old and new. 
 
 "Faith, John, you have brought out some 
 thing new this time! At least it is anony 
 mous. Let us be glad of that." 
 
 "Even so, its authorship cannot be hid." 
 
 "Have you considered the attitude of Parlia-
 
 ment? Have you weighed the consequences 
 to yourself of such boldness?" 
 
 "Such has never been my habit, Philip, when 
 a blow was to be struck for liberty. You 
 yourself know that I have held myself conse 
 crate to freedom since our Cambridge days, 
 whether freedom of speech, of thought, action, 
 or worship. I am not like to act in this 
 matter with the calculation of a cautious 
 man." 
 
 "But all men" Philip hesitated here "all 
 men will say, John, that in this particular 
 matter you act under the smart of ... ." 
 
 "Of my own disaster of no-marriage," in 
 terrupted the other calmly. "Do not fear to 
 speak your thought ! Possibly most men may, 
 but I think there be those, and you one, old 
 friend, who can perceive here a man to whom 
 his private agony gives insight into public 
 wrong, and who acts in scorn of his own 
 proper advantage, not for sake of it, for the 
 general good." 
 
 "How do you style your pamphlet?" 
 
 " The Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce 
 Restored, to the good of both Sexes, from
 
 206 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 the Bondage of Canon Law to Christian 
 Freedom. " 
 
 "And it is your serious conviction and your 
 plea that unfitness of mind and contrariety of 
 temper are as great cause for dissolution of 
 marriage as adultery itself, in spite of our law 
 civil and ecclesiastic?" 
 
 "Yes, Philip," Milton burst out. "God com 
 mands not impossibilities, and all the ec 
 clesiastical glue that Liturgy or Laymen can 
 compound is not able to sodder up two incon 
 gruous natures into the one flesh of a true 
 beseeming marriage !" 
 
 "Such a tract will produce a violent sen 
 sation, a shock." 
 
 "Probably," was the answer, the speaker 
 now wholly composed and quiet. "It may be 
 somewhat of the nature of a thunderbolt." 
 
 "And what, in action, can possibly be ef 
 fected by such a manifesto?" 
 
 "A change from the superstition of Canon 
 Law, my friend. I aim at nothing less. If our 
 side wins in the present struggle for freedom, 
 new laws will soon be in the making, Philip, 
 for the new Commonwealth. It takes no bold
 
 FORGER OF THUNDERBOLTS 207 
 
 flight of fancy to conceive that, if such things 
 come to pass, my voice would be heard at West 
 minister; that Parliment would give me a 
 hearing in a matter of such large and immedi 
 ate human concern." 
 
 " Tis a great enterprise you undertake, and 
 a hazardous. You see only the ideal, spiritual 
 elements in it and so are, as ever, sanguine of 
 noble results. To my mind, if you could 
 change the present law, instead of performing 
 the great general service of which you dream, 
 John, you would let loose an unbridled law 
 lessness which yourself would be last to in 
 voke." 
 
 "Nay, Philip; w^hat I would do would be to 
 redeem marriage from being, as it now often 
 is by perverse accident, anarchy in effect, a 
 thwarting of the divine order in creation. 
 The cup which has been given me to drink has 
 opened my eyes to the sorrows of my fellows, 
 and though I fight alone, I purpose through 
 evil report or good report, to stand as advocate 
 for this thesis." 
 
 Philip Unwin groaned.
 
 XVI 
 
 "A WORLD OF DISESTEEM" 
 
 WHITE to the lips, with a sense of 
 swift, undreamed-of wonders hur 
 rying to meet her, Delink escaped with 
 light feet from the landing to the chamber 
 above. 
 
 She opened the door and saw that Prosper 
 slept quietly and that all needed things were 
 within his reach. To bury herself again in 
 the sick room seemed impossible; the need of 
 freedom, space, movement, solitude was strong 
 upon her. She found her Aunt Marie and left 
 Prosper to her care ; then, by the garden gate, 
 unseen, hastened as for refuge to the silence 
 of the cathedral, to which it was her frequent 
 habit to resort for her private devotion. 
 Here she entered the south transept, crossed 
 to the Martyrdom, and in the chapel hard by, 
 knelt and prayed, or less prayed than sought 
 to calm her heart and steady her thoughts, set 
 208
 
 "A WORLD OF DISESTEEM" 209 
 
 into fierce tumult by the things which she 
 had just heard. 
 
 Coming out a half-hour later into the clois 
 ters, it did not surprise Delme , grown quiet 
 now and assured, to see approaching in bodily 
 presence down the dim grey vista the man 
 whose image ruled her thoughts. 
 
 "Good-evening, Delme ." John Milton 
 greeted her with a firm, resonant voice and a 
 smile both grave and sweet and like her mas 
 ter in other days. "I have been waiting for 
 you to appear. They told me it was here one 
 might look to find you when you slip from 
 the house for a bit of rest." 
 
 "You are welcome to Canterbury, sir." 
 
 Milton felt some indefinable change in 
 Delme as she spoke, but made no comment. 
 They walked on together over the ancient, elo 
 quent cloister stones, above, the cragged grey 
 arches and the mighty mass of tow r er and but 
 tress rising, and still above, over the square 
 of green turf and the quiet graves, a violet 
 sky suffused with the flames of the October 
 sunset. 
 
 "Philip and I have been having a terrible
 
 210 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 wrangle and are now quite at swords points," 
 Milton said, as they walked on. "I was tired 
 of fighting and so wanted to see the little 
 friend who never tires me. Besides," he 
 added, with a touch of his natural humour, 
 "if I leave Philip alone he will the sooner come 
 to himself, which means, you see, coming to 
 agree with me." 
 
 "I think he never will," said Delme soberly. 
 
 Milton glanced quickly into her face and 
 saw some traces there of the shock she had 
 just experienced, saw a lovely seriousness and 
 dignity which he had not hitherto divined in 
 the spirited child, so long his favourite pupil 
 that he had missed the point when childhood 
 was left behind. Did she know, perhaps, of 
 this that he had just made known to Philip? 
 Was she woman enough to understand? If so, 
 was she one to faint and tremble and draw 
 away from him? 
 
 He hesitated to put into words these ques 
 tions, the answers to which might bring a 
 deeper hue to the melancholy of his life. 
 
 He found nothing to say, as they walked 
 on.
 
 "A WORLD OF DISESTEEM" 211 
 
 "Let us go home," said Delme shortly, un 
 able in those surroundings to conquer the 
 painful constraint which seemed falling upon 
 them both. They left the cloisters, and cross 
 ing the Green Court, took the grassy path by 
 the Stour s margin which brought them soon 
 to a garden wall in which was a small gate. 
 It was her Uncle Anthoine s garden, and the 
 gate, as Delme knew, unlocked. 
 
 "Do not go into the house yet," said Milton, 
 as he closed the gate upon their entrance, she 
 standing irresolute at the junction of two 
 paths, one leading to the garden door of the 
 house, the other to a shaded path under the 
 boundary wall. "I have something to say, 
 DelHid Let us take this path." 
 
 His voice rang with the imperative of strong, 
 suppressed feeling ; she yielded without hesita 
 tion as he took her hand, and he led her into 
 the green dusk of the long, flower-bordered 
 alley. Soon he paused in their walking, lay 
 ing a hand on her shoulder, so turning her to 
 face him. "Delm6, little friend, did you hear 
 me just now reading to Philip?" 
 
 The question came with a certain difficulty.
 
 212 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 "Yes, partly." 
 
 "Do you understand what I have done?" 
 
 "I think so. You have said, and publicly, 
 that when a husband and w r ife find each other 
 hopelessly unfit and unloving, marriage ought 
 to be by law dissolved." 
 
 Delme spoke succinctly, with that clear 
 composure which now and again startled 
 him. 
 
 "You speak as if this were no great thing. 
 All the world, how r ever, now holds that there 
 is but one cause for divorce, and that the 
 grossest." 
 
 There was no maiden blenching at these 
 plain words; rather the freedom and firmness 
 of an untainted purity in the look which met 
 him. 
 
 "Delme , there are plenty to denounce this 
 Tractate as profane, lawless, and licentious. 
 Do you agree with them?" 
 
 "Such it could not be. I understand noth 
 ing of law, but so much I know." 
 
 "There are others who will see in it a self 
 ish special plea for my own liberty. Is it so 
 to your thinking? Can you comprehend that
 
 "A WORLD OF DISESTEEM" 213 
 
 remarriage has never entered my own mind, 
 as for me possible; that a man may seek 
 for others what he does not seek for him 
 self?" 
 
 Delme bent her head, turned then, and 
 walked slowly forward, not speaking. 
 
 "But do you realize that nearly all men, 
 even of my own party, have fallen upon this 
 thing of mine with fury and execration? 
 That the divines at Westminster are even now 
 hurling anathemas at my head and calling 
 down vengeance upon me and my inventions?" 
 
 Delink held her head a thought higher and 
 smiled proudly. 
 
 "Yes," Milton went on, "I shall soon be 
 alone in a world of disesteem, Delme ; not a 
 merry place to dwell in, I promise you." 
 
 "Do all know the pamphlet to be yours, Mr. 
 Milton?" 
 
 "It is guessed by most and known by many, 
 though no name was signed. I am now prepar 
 ing a new and expanded version, which I shall 
 sign with my name and dedicate to Parlia 
 ment." 
 
 At the unexampled boldness with which he
 
 214 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 fingered his next thunderbolt Delme , instead 
 of gasping with dismay, laughed low with a 
 gay courage which thrilled him. 
 
 "You are laughing when all others groan, 
 Delm&" 
 
 "Yet will you find that it is your solemn 
 friends who forsake you sooner than your 
 merry ones." 
 
 "Then you are not minded to fall away with 
 the rest?" 
 
 She turned swiftly and bent upon him eyes 
 radiant with a splendour of unclouded faith. 
 
 "No," she said, loftily ; "I am not so minded. 
 It is not my way." 
 
 In the look and words the girl suddenly re 
 vealed herself fully to Milton. Not only was 
 she woman, not child, but a woman of noble 
 intelligence, heroic, impassioned, fearless like 
 himself, capable of daring all, doing and en 
 during all for love, if she loved. Then, and 
 for the first time, it broke upon him that the 
 doctrine for which he stood champion, and 
 which he had proclaimed, impartially and 
 without ulterior selfish end, might lead to an 
 issue not before dreamed of, might justify life
 
 "A WORLD OF DISESTEEM" 215 
 
 out of death even to himself. The light which 
 rose in his face, just now stern and haggard, 
 gave him a blinding beauty in Delme s sight. 
 Her eyes fell before it, her limbs trembled, her 
 breath came quick. 
 
 "DelmeV a sudden breath of passion made 
 his voice low, his utterance hasty, "Delme , 
 if I can break a path through this thick 
 tangled forest of convention, a path of honour 
 and of law, not of lawlessness, would you dare 
 to follow me?" 
 
 "I would dare anything you would ask me, 
 to follow you." 
 
 Beimels eyes were like stars, but before 
 them the pale autumn flowers in the garden 
 border swam dizzily. Was this the call which 
 had come to her heart once already with mys 
 terious power? No, for that had a darkness 
 of terror in its rapture, and here was fair 
 faith, and the light of right was shed abroad. 
 For was not her master whom she worshipped 
 almost, who seemed scarcely less to her imagi 
 nation than a demi-god, was he not to find a 
 way in which love and honour and incredible 
 joy might run together?
 
 216 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 John Milton bent, took her hand in his, and 
 lifted it reverently to his lips. 
 
 " Tis a great trust, dear Delmey he said, 
 solemnly. "God send I be worthy of it. I 
 could say much to you, if it were my right, of 
 love, for well I see at last how long I have 
 loved you, yet blundered darkly on not know 
 ing love w r hen it was mine, thinking it my 
 master s partiality for the favourite scholar, 
 mistaking the deep woman s heart for the 
 ardour of an eager child. We are scourged for 
 blunders harder, it may be, than for sins, my 
 girl." 
 
 "I never knew myself, perhaps I never was 
 myself, sir, until you were left alone." 
 
 The sadness in his smile pierced her heart. 
 There was silence for many moments, then 
 Milton spoke again, even more gravely than 
 before. 
 
 "It is not my right, Delme , to speak to you 
 of love. If another man did so in my place I 
 should be first to condemn him as dishonour 
 able. You are scarce seventeen; I am bound 
 fast in fetters which only my own convince- 
 ment, and not the general voice, declares can
 
 "A WORLD OF DISESTEEM" 217 
 
 ever be broken while I live. I should be very 
 coward were I to tinge the whiteness of your 
 innocence with the breath of a passion it is my 
 part to hold sternly in hand. And yet, I can 
 not altogether let you go, I must sometimes 
 see you, feel the keen joy of our intellectual 
 fellowship, watch over your studies 
 
 "Teach me how to play my virginals 
 better sometimes," broke in Delme , and in 
 speaking, laughed in her na ive fashion, feeling 
 the strain upon their spirits overgreat. 
 
 "Rogue!" he cried; "that you always were 
 and always will be. Behave and listen to 
 me respectfully. I must teach both our 
 hearts how we may live in all honour and 
 yet with such heart s ease as Heaven may 
 permit." 
 
 "I am listening, sir." 
 
 "Then I say this," proceeded Milton : "I will 
 take no advantage of your maiden gentleness, 
 or your compassion, or your love ; I leave you 
 free, wholly, completely; pledging myself to 
 trouble you in nothing until these clouds have 
 been dispelled, until I can in honour hope to 
 make you my wife. But until such time come,
 
 218 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 whether in one year or two, or even more, I 
 ask one thing of you, Delme , one only." 
 
 "And that is " 
 
 "And that is much for a man as lonely and 
 as hard bestead as I, it is your friendship 
 and, no matter what storms of denunciation 
 may burst upon my head, your faith in 
 me." 
 
 "I promise both," and she held her lovely 
 head up firmly and received as seal upon her 
 forehead his kiss. 
 
 "Never again until I have the right," he 
 said, solemnly. 
 
 " Mortals that would follow me, 
 Love Virtue ; she alone is free. 
 She can teach you how to climb 
 Higher than the sphery chime ; 
 Or, if Virtue feeble were, 
 Heaven itself would stoop to her." 
 
 So sang Delme with piercing sweetness, 
 and, thinking herself alone, her whole pent-up 
 passion for Milton thrilled along his lines. 
 But Uncle Anthoine had come into the house 
 unknown to her, with Prosper, who had
 
 "A WORLD OF DISESTEEM" 219 
 
 walked for the first time as far as the High 
 Street. Both men called "Brava! brava!" at 
 which she bit her lip and was silent. 
 
 A fortnight had passed and Delme was to 
 start for London the day following. Prosper 
 had found, after John Milton s brief visit, that 
 his cousin possessed some new and secret 
 spring of inner life of which it was not given 
 him to partake. She was more devoted in her 
 ministration to himself than before, but that 
 sweet hope of a stronger tie which had stirred 
 so mightily within him was dying, quenched, 
 he sometimes thought, by her very kindness. 
 But no word of complaining reached Delme . 
 He watched her now with eyes full of honest 
 devotion. 
 
 "Whose the madrigal, Delink?" he asked. 
 
 "Mr. John Milton s." 
 
 She could not control the vibration in her 
 voice as she spoke the name. 
 
 "I d rather you sang another man s verses 
 than his, my girl," said Uncle Anthoine, shak 
 ing his head heavily. "Mr. Milton has been 
 led away of late into strange and monstrous 
 error, we hear."
 
 220 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 "He has told me of that which he has writ, 
 Uncle," Delink answered. 
 
 "Has he told you that at Westminster they 
 preach against him and how many advise that 
 this pamphlet of his be burnt by the hangman 
 in the public square?" 
 
 "Then might Mr. Milton be almost joined 
 to the noble Army of Martyrs," said Deline", 
 with flashing eyes. 
 
 "Nay, child, talk not of martyrs," it was her 
 Aunt Marie coming in to join them who said 
 this; "a man is not martyred for holding to 
 immoral doctrine such as this of Divorce at 
 Pleasure." 
 
 "That is not what Mr. Milton teaches," 
 cried Delme indignantly. 
 
 "What does he teach, Deline"?" asked Pros 
 per quietly, entering the discussion for the 
 first time. 
 
 "That when marriage becomes worse than 
 no-marriage, stripped of all dignity and love, 
 a habit of wrath and abasement, it should be 
 annulled," she answered, with slow emphasis, 
 the colour burning vividly in her cheeks. 
 Her aunt and uncle listened and looked
 
 "A WORLD OF DISESTEEM" 221 
 
 on in amazement. Prosper said with fierce 
 irony : 
 
 "You seem to have learned it by heart. I 
 should think, however, that not even John 
 Milton could make you believe it." 
 
 "He might," replied Delme calmly, "but 
 he has not tried." 
 
 "He had better not. He would have me to 
 reckon with!" cried Prosper. 
 
 "As soon argue that black is white," 
 said honest and much troubled Anthoine 
 Unwin. 
 
 "If he said that, I should doubtless believe 
 it," said Delme , not flinching. 
 
 "Ask your stepfather what he thinks," said 
 Prosper, looking with stern, fixed gaze in her 
 face. "He told me, when here the other day, 
 that Mr. Milton is no longer welcome at his 
 hearth." 
 
 This being news Delme lost her colour, 
 though not her courage. 
 
 "The loss is ours," she said coldly ; "I shall 
 hope for the honour of going sometimes where 
 Mr. Milton is welcome." 
 
 "Oh, Delme !" cried her Aunt Marie, "shame
 
 222 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 upon you; you a maid and he a married man 
 with a wife now living!" 
 
 Hot tears filled Beimels eyes. Prosper, see 
 ing her brought to bay, came to her relief 
 chivalrously. 
 
 "Fair play!" he cried, forcing a smile. 
 "Delink is right to take up cudgels for the ab 
 sent. Keep on singing Mr. Milton s song, girl, 
 when I am gone, God knows whether to re 
 turn or how; our side is still running down 
 the brae. Forget the man s detestable doc 
 trine, dear, but sing his song; 
 
 " Love Virtue; she alone is free ! " 
 
 Early in that grim and bitter London 
 winter of 1643-44 Milton received a note from 
 his staunch friend, Lady Margaret Ley, urg 
 ing him to spend a certain evening in Villiers 
 Street. 
 
 "I protest, sir," wrote the lady, "that it is 
 robbery, suicide, and a crime against reason 
 for you, with those high gifts with which 
 Heaven has seen fit to endow you, to spend 
 tristful days of unbroken drudgery in that
 
 "^ WORLD OF DISESTEEM" 223 
 
 silent house of yours. Why lie close in hiding, 
 as if you scorned all us lesser spirits? Your 
 friends, nay, all who have ever met you, 
 clamour for your return and I herewith lay 
 my commands upon you for to-morrow 
 evening. 
 
 "Fearing lest all my persuasions will not 
 avail to draw you from your monastic seclu 
 sion, unless I hold up before you some 
 stronger magnet than the desire of two mid 
 dle-aged zvorthies, such as the Captain and 
 myself, I have invited to entertain you that 
 very handsome and -witty gentlewoman, Mis 
 tress Delme Davies, your neighbour in Trinity 
 Court. It has been brought to my notice that 
 the young lady s stepfather, being in some 
 awe of the Westminster Assembly, where you 
 are not just now high in favour by reason of 
 your recent astounding utterances on Divorce 
 (which, by the way, everybody reads, though 
 none dare to applaud), that the good Doctor, 
 for this reason, has asked you to bide away 
 from his house. The daughter the more de 
 sires speech of you to assure you of her con 
 fidence, which, like my own, is unalterable.
 
 224 POET, LAW, AND LADY 
 
 "Disregard the wishes of this charming 
 creature, my friend, if you dare!" 
 
 This urgency proved effectual, and through 
 out that rigorous season when Milton dwelt 
 as he said "in a world of disesteem," he and 
 this same "very handsome and witty gentle 
 woman" met frequently at the house of Lady 
 Margaret. Together they played and sang, 
 read and studied Italian, and had pleasant 
 literary intercourse under the approving eye 
 of their good and noble friend. 
 
 But while they met thus unhindered, the 
 terms laid down by Milton himself in the be 
 ginning, Were observed in strictness and hon 
 our. They held themselves hard in hand, and 
 only at long intervals an irrepressible gleam 
 of the eye or thrill of the voice conveyed the 
 smouldering fires within.
 
 BOOK IV 
 THE IMPERIAL VOICE
 
 XVII 
 THE FORTUNES OF WAR 
 
 < 4 A LETTER, sir, for Forest Hill. The 
 /"^ Rebels have let the post through 
 their lines, after long delays." 
 
 It was an Oxford sutler who intercepted Mr. 
 Richard Powell with these words, as he rode 
 out the east road on a morning late in May 
 toward Shotover. 
 
 The Squire took the letter, noting its post 
 mark, London, and its address to his wife. 
 Muttering that it was sure to be of no im 
 portance, else it would not have passed the 
 Roundhead spies, he rode slowly on his way. 
 The horse which Mr. Powell rode was a gaunt, 
 dejected roan, but not more gaunt and de 
 jected than its rider, for in his sunken, flabby 
 face and figure it was difficult to recognize 
 the bluff and hearty Royalist gentleman of 
 two years earlier. His buff coat, threadbare 
 and frayed at the sleeve, hung loosely upon 
 
 227
 
 228 The IMPERIAL VOICE 
 
 him, and there was a droop of his shoulders 
 which expressed a weight of discouragement 
 growing ever heavier. 
 
 The glory had departed from Oxford. Two 
 weeks earlier King Charles with his Artillery 
 train and all the gay Cavaliers of his immedi 
 ate following had left the city, joining the 
 main army under Prince Rupert in the Mid 
 lands. Meanwhile the Roundheads, under 
 Cromwell, had marched into Oxfordshire and 
 laid siege to the city. "Cromwell!" the King 
 had cried in feverish urgency: "Who will 
 bring me this Cromwell, alive or dead?" The 
 scorn and terror of the Royalists, Oliver, "Old 
 Noll," as his soldiers affectionately called 
 him, had become since his great victory of 
 Marston Moor, the idol of the Roundhead 
 Army, which found itself invincible when led 
 by him. Could the King rally from the suc 
 cession of swift blows this vulgar Rebel had 
 lately dealt him? This was the question 
 which Mr. Richard Powell was almost me 
 chanically revolving in his mind as he turned 
 in at his own gate that May morning. And if 
 not what next for a poor Royalist country
 
 The FORTUNES OF WAR 229 
 
 gentleman, whose estate had been shorn bare 
 for his King s cause until the pinch of poverty 
 showed itself in his children s faces? 
 
 As his lean horse trotted slowly into the 
 paddock the Squire looked over the palings 
 into the kitchen garden, seeing his daughter 
 bending there to pick shallops for the noon 
 dinner. The season of daffodils was past, but 
 it had come and gone this year unheeded. 
 
 "Here is a letter for your mother, Mary," 
 called the Squire. 
 
 Mary Milton straightened herself, hearing 
 his voice, then crossed to the paling and took 
 the letter from his hand. A touch of the 
 change which showed itself in the father was 
 visible in the daughter; her hair, grown 
 darker now and less carefully tended than in 
 her maiden days, was covered by a shapeless 
 cap; her face had lost its round and dimpled 
 contours, and had acquired a settled gloom. 
 Although the arrival of a letter was an almost 
 unknown event in these days, since Oxford 
 was in state of siege, and the Powell family, 
 sunk deeper than ever in their falling for 
 tunes, were lost to sight by the world outside,
 
 230 The IMPERIAL VOICE 
 
 Mary made no comment as she took this from 
 her father s hand. Laying it on the rim of 
 her basket, which stood in the grass, she re 
 turned to the shallop bed and went on with 
 her task. 
 
 "No good from that quarter," she murmured 
 under her breath, and her mouth became hard- 
 set and sullen. But in a few minutes her 
 mother came into the garden, saying she had 
 heard of some letter coming to her from Lon 
 don, and upbraiding Mary for her delay in the 
 delivery of it. 
 
 "It can be nothing of consequence," said 
 Mary curtly, leaning against a blossoming 
 apple tree and rubbing the earth-stains from 
 her hands. "It is from St. Martin s Lane. 
 What should they be writing for, who have 
 so long ceased to trouble themselves about 
 us?" 
 
 "You never can tell," retorted her mother. 
 "I have a choice to read my letters, at least," 
 and she broke the seal. 
 
 There was silence while they sat side by 
 side upon the garden bench in the spring 
 sunshine, as they had sat two years before, on
 
 The FORTUNES OF WAR 231 
 
 the eve of the eventful journey to London. 
 For all her show of indifference, Mary Milton 
 watched her mother s immobile face keenly 
 as she read the letter, and the changes in its 
 expression being strongly marked and rapid 
 stirred an almost insupportable curiosity in 
 her own mind. 
 
 "Well !" she cried impatiently ; "am I never 
 to hear what news from London? I should 
 think, considering all, it would be handsomer 
 if my Aunt Blackborough wrote to me. Never 
 a word since the news of that wicked divorce 
 pamphlet of Mr. Milton s!" 
 
 "Nothing strange in that," quoth Dame 
 Powell, "since you know our kinswoman has 
 ever sided with him in the matter of your leav 
 ing London." 
 
 "Whose doing was it that I stayed down 
 here beyond my time?" asked Mary, sharply. 
 
 Plainly this was a cause of war which her 
 mother had learned to avoid and from which 
 she now took prompt refuge by reading aloud 
 from the sheet in her hand. 
 
 " Some changes happen here, " she read, 
 " of which you may properly be informed, as
 
 232 The IMPERIAL VOICE 
 
 having for your daughter Mary some small 
 concern, or would have done once. I know not 
 now with what she is occupied, but have heard 
 months since that she found some pleasure 
 still in Officers Balls and the like, as when 
 she was a maid. 
 
 " Mr. John Milton, in nothing terrified by 
 the great stir which was raised upon his Di 
 vorce Doctrine, has gone on putting forth 
 other learned treatises, both upon that theme 
 and upon Freedom of the Press, etc., etc., 
 which make all men talk of his mighty intel 
 lect as well as freedom from fear of the favour 
 of man. In fact all approve his courage, and 
 since his life is blameless even to austerity in 
 his lonely house with his venerable father and 
 his scholars, the number of which greatly in 
 creases, men have ceased to speak ill of him 
 and he is looked up to more even than for 
 merly. I see him often pass by the Alders 
 Gate on his way to go by water to West 
 minster, as also to Villiers Street. He fre 
 quents much the drawing-room of Lady Mar 
 garet Ley, where many Parliament leaders, as 
 well as wits and scholars as of old, congregate
 
 The FORTUNES OF WAR 233 
 
 of evenings, and is deemed the Leading Light 
 among them. It is rumoured that he will 
 marry shortly a daughter of Dr. Davies, who 
 is quite the toast of the company at Lady 
 Margaret s, being both witty and, some think, 
 very handsome. 
 
 " This may be or may not be, but it is cer 
 tain Mr. Milton finds the Aldersgate Street 
 house too small for what he has in hand, and 
 has taken a better house and much larger in 
 the Barbican, into which it is his purpose to 
 remove in September, when all believe the War 
 must be over. Small doubt but Mr. Milton 
 will be elevated to some high post in the new 
 Government which men here foresee. " 
 
 "Is that all?" asked Mary, her mother hav 
 ing stopped reading. 
 
 "All, and enough, is it not? There is some 
 thing there to think of, for you at least. What 
 will your position be if Mr. Milton marries?" 
 
 "How can he marry?" cried Mary, trem 
 bling with excitement, "seeing he has a wife 
 living. What sort can that girl be who 
 would let him make her his light o love openly 
 like that!"
 
 "Davies," repeated her mother, referring to 
 the letter ; " a daughter of Dr. Davies. 
 Surely I have heard that name before. Did 
 we meet any of that name in London?" 
 
 "Have you forgot, then?" cried Mary. "Of 
 course you met her in Aldersgate Street, 
 this very girl. Oh, you must remember her, 
 a tall, lean, foreign-spoken hussy, doing les 
 sons with the lads to get liberty, even then, 
 for her coquetries with Mr. Milton, and up 
 to more deviltry and pranks than any decent 
 girl would dare to think of." 
 
 "What! she is not the hoyden who put on 
 men s clothes that day we were at Mr. Milton s 
 and made a fool of you?" 
 
 "Yes, that very same." 
 
 "It looks as if she was likely to make a fool 
 of you again, then." 
 
 "But tis impossible she can marry him 
 he is my husband." 
 
 "I m not so sure, Mary, not after two years 
 absence of your own choosing. No one knows 
 what loose laws those Rebels will make to fit 
 themselves if they do get the reins in their 
 hands. And here is that man Cromwell rout-
 
 The FORTUNES OF WAR 235 
 
 ing and slaughtering our men everywhere, and 
 camped now at our very doors. For my part 
 I don t know what will come next. It looks 
 as if we should be sleeping under the hedges 
 in a few months more," and Dame Powell s 
 anxious face witnessed to the sincerity of her 
 fears. 
 
 "And if it hadn t been for you, mother," 
 cried Mary bitterly, "I might have had a home 
 of my own, and a shelter for you and my 
 father! I might be this minute an honourable 
 wife, caring for my husband s house and even 
 nursing a child of my own instead of moping 
 here, a country trollop, neither maid, wife, nor 
 widow !" and she burst into a torrent of tears. 
 
 Keproach and recrimination had been com 
 mon enough between these two, but something 
 in the piercing reality of this complaint 
 struck home to Dame Powell s not over-sensi 
 tive conscience. She patted Mary s bowed 
 head soothingly with her large, competent 
 hand and said: 
 
 "There, there, poor child, mother will try to 
 manage a way out somehow. It may not be 
 too late yet."
 
 XVIII 
 
 CHALLENGED 
 
 ON June the fourteenth, 1645, was fought 
 the battle of Naseby, in which the 
 King lost all and the Civil War was virtu 
 ally ended. Charles fled, a fugitive, to the 
 Welsh Marshes, leaving everything, even his 
 private papers with full betrayal of his per 
 fidy, to the conqueror s hands. The conqueror 
 was Oliver Cromwell. 
 
 London was mad with fiery triumph, Bow 
 Bells and a score of others ringing out their 
 exultation. After sundry days of public re 
 joicing and blazing bonfires, sober citizens 
 turned to face the serious tasks before them. 
 
 In his study in the Aldersgate Street house, 
 on the fourth day after Naseby, John Milton 
 stood in the open window overlooking the gar 
 den, a sheet of manuscript in his hand. From 
 his face all scars of his own long spiritual 
 battle seemed to have faded ; it wore that day 
 
 236
 
 CHALLENGED 237 
 
 undimmed the noble beauty of his younger 
 manhood, and the light of a conqueror s joy. 
 A King had come to his own, though not the 
 Stuart King. For Milton had beaten down 
 the assaults of slander and detraction, and 
 weathered through the storm of denunciation 
 from pulpit and pen. To-day he stood un 
 scathed in the eyes of his fellows and assoiled 
 from all suspicion by the voice of his peers. 
 The Puritan conscience did not endorse offi 
 cially his daring doctrine of divorce, as he had 
 hoped, but the Puritan party said, the man 
 has a right to the freedom of his own opinion. 
 Sundry Puritans even murmured that Milton 
 was great enough to be a law unto himself, 
 and was justified in his position so far as con 
 cerned his own case. He knew to-day that his 
 countrymen trusted him, and that in the new 
 organization of government w r hich must fol 
 low the close of war they would demand his 
 public service. And he would give it, though 
 at the cost of still putting by that cherished 
 purpose of producing a great poem, which 
 "men would not willingly let die." He could 
 wait. Meanwhile, should he be frustrate of
 
 238 The IMPERIAL VOICE 
 
 his hope to be himself a true poem? This, the 
 most vital question of life to Milton, was now 
 upon him. 
 
 The sheet in his hand contained a sonnet, 
 written the night before, and this morning 
 copied. The opening lines were: 
 
 "Lady, that in the prime of earliest youth 
 Wisely hast shunned the broad way and the green." 
 
 Milton read the sonnet carefully through 
 to the closing words : "Virgin wise and pure" 
 and smiled as he read with happy tenderness. 
 Then he folded and sealed the sheet and ad 
 dressed it to Mistress Delme Davies, Trinity 
 Court; next called Hubert and despatched 
 him to deliver the letter to the lady. 
 
 Alone again, Milton sat down at his desk 
 and gave himself to close thought in which 
 past and future mingled with the thrilling 
 present. For to-day, if ever, the time had 
 come for the last telling blow. His house, 
 cheerless, servant-ruled, needed above all 
 things the gracious refining touch of a 
 woman s presence not such a woman as had 
 eat moping stupidly here for those brief weeks 
 of the summer of two years ago, but a being
 
 CHALLENGED 239 
 
 of courage and joy, of mind and will mated 
 in purpose to his own. Delme ! He could see 
 her in her old place, his bright particular star 
 among his scholars, brighter than they all, 
 bolder too to speak her thoughts, more fearless 
 to follow her own untamed will, yet with a 
 bent for submission when needful. He saw 
 her on that spring day when he had let loose 
 upon her his angry censure for her bold mock 
 ery of his guest from Oxfordshire; how 
 bravely yet meekly she had borne his chastise 
 ment ; how, at last, she had full-faced him, her 
 master, with a haughtiness matching his, de 
 claring she counted herself not inferior to his 
 guest, but as true woman, yes, truer. 
 
 Milton groaned at the thought of the agony 
 which might have been forborne if deeper in 
 sight had been granted him that day, if he 
 could have seen in the child Delme the woman 
 that should be, and in the blooming maiden 
 whose distress had appealed so strongly to his 
 chivalry, the "mute, spiritless mate," the 
 "image of earth" the faithless, heartless 
 traitor to bed and board that Mary Powell 
 was to prove herself.
 
 240 The IMPERIAL VOICE 
 
 His eyes grew dim with the poignant reflec 
 tion; he passed his hand over them again and 
 again, and still all objects in the room re 
 mained clouded to his vision. Impatiently he 
 rose and paced the floor. To-night at Lady 
 Margaret Ley s the London leaders of the day 
 were to be gathered in a brilliant assembly, 
 celebrating the victory of their cause. Delme 
 would be there, well he knew. Lady Margaret 
 depended on the girl s beauty and wit in all 
 her gatherings, and moreover, had conceived 
 for her an ardent, almost a mother s affection. 
 Sometime during the evening Delme must 
 grant him a moment alone, must bear to hear 
 him say that the time long delayed was at 
 hand when she must brave all and follow him. 
 Was he justified in asking of her the de 
 fiance of conventional standards? Could he 
 preserve intact his own ideal of perfect 
 rectitude in such a marriage? Could his 
 theory of divorce stand the strain of his own 
 very deed? 
 
 Gradually the mist cleared from before his 
 eyes. Again, as often before, he brought to 
 bear his chain of logic ; by the utter unfitness
 
 CHALLENGED 241 
 
 and the long obstinate desertion of his wife he 
 was furnished with adequate ground for di 
 vorce de facto; and by the countenance of cer 
 tain passages of Holy Scripture he was re 
 leased from the marriage bond de jure. The 
 marriage with Mary Powell should be pub 
 licly and fearlessly annulled; the marriage 
 with Delme as openly entered into. 
 
 "I am justified !" he cried aloud. "Let mine 
 be the test case for my theory. I shall do my 
 darling no wrong in the sight of God when I 
 bring her home my wife, and to the cavil of 
 men God has made us both indifferent by long 
 discipline." 
 
 There was a thunder of horse s hoofs down 
 the street outside an hour later. Milton stood 
 to listen. Hubert had returned from Trinity 
 Court; he heard his voice and another which 
 rang with imperious sharpness, a voice which 
 he did not recognize. In a moment the study 
 door was opened by Hubert, who announced : 
 
 "Major Unwin." 
 
 Prosper entered, in tarnished uniform, the 
 battle-stains of Naseby still grim upon his 
 face, a cloud was it of war? in his eyes.
 
 242 The IMPERIAL VOICE 
 
 Milton held out his hand with a word of eager 
 welcome. 
 
 "You come from Northamptonshire, from 
 Lieutenant-General Cromwell?" he cried. 
 "The smell of battle is yet on your garments." 
 
 "Yes," Prosper answered, with astounding 
 curtness, not giving his hand. "There is pub 
 lic war and there is also private war, Mr. Mil 
 ton. I have heard that said in my soldier s 
 tent by one who knows, which has brought me 
 riding hard from Rugby hither." 
 
 "And what is it you have heard?" demanded 
 Milton haughtily, the aristocrat in him 
 swiftly to the fore. 
 
 "That you have a purpose of dishonour to a 
 kinswoman of mine," replied Prosper hotly. 
 "I am here to defend my cousin, Mistress 
 Delme Davies, from the infamy of that intrigue 
 into which men say you seek to bring her." 
 
 Milton s lips curled in a coldly scornful 
 smile ; nevertheless, Prosper s words cut to the 
 heart. 
 
 "Can you answer?" cried the soldier. "Can 
 you deny that such is your purpose?" 
 
 "It is not my habit to quarrel with my de-
 
 CHALLENGED 243 
 
 famers, nor to explain my purposes to those 
 incapable of understanding them." 
 
 "Then, sir," said Prosper, forcing his voice 
 to calmness, "I demand of you the satisfaction 
 of a gentleman." Adding drily, "In this I take 
 no advantage, though a soldier and you 
 civilian, since your skill in swordsmanship is 
 acknowledged." 
 
 Milton bowed ceremoniously. 
 
 "I am glad that one excellence is left me 
 in your eyes, Major Unwin. Yes, I can use 
 my sword if you insist." 
 
 "I do." 
 
 "Will you be seated?" Milton himself took 
 a chair as he spoke. 
 
 "Not in your presence, sir," said Prosper 
 stiffly, and stood, harshly repellent, breathing 
 all the prose of battle, not its poetry, in the 
 fierceness of his mood. Milton smiled, sud 
 denly conscious how very much older he was 
 in years and in something beyond years than 
 the hot-blooded soldier. 
 
 "We might fight, Prosper," he said, after a 
 prolonged pause, lifting his head and showing 
 no agitation but a touch of whimsical irony
 
 244 The IMPERIAL VOICE 
 
 on his face; "beyond doubt one of us is handy 
 enough with the sword to kill the other, but 
 does it occur to you that it w r ould be a little 
 extravagant, at just this crisis of affairs?" 
 
 Prosper stared at him without reply. 
 
 "Without overweening conceit of our 
 selves," continued Milton gravely, "we may 
 acknowledge that each of us, in war or in 
 counsel, has a certain value at this hour to 
 England. Briefly, we are needed." 
 
 "Then you refuse my challenge?" 
 
 "Looking at the situation largely, Major 
 Unwin, I can do no other. Believe me, I 
 have never cherished purposes of infamy or 
 intrigue toward any woman, but have re 
 mained unblemished throughout my life, keep 
 ing myself pure in mind as well as deed." The 
 words came curtly. 
 
 "That I believe, sir," said Prosper, his rev 
 erence for Milton s lofty purity suddenly as 
 serting itself. 
 
 "As concerns your kinswoman, trust me, her 
 fair fame is as safe in my hands as in your 
 own. Allow me to say to you, as I have to 
 others, that in the past brave men and worthy
 
 CHALLENGED 245 
 
 patriots dear to God and famous to all ages, 
 have dared to show themselves above an op 
 pressive law. Where a law is a perversion of 
 instinct and reason, it rests with those who 
 dare to lift the ensign of a greater law." 
 
 "Then you do not deny, sir, that you pur 
 pose what you call marriage with my cousin?" 
 
 Milton saw suddenly through the rugged 
 offence and menace of Prosper s words and 
 bearing the agony of his jealous, thwarted pas 
 sion for Delme , and his heart softened towards 
 him. Rising, he held out his hand ; then, since 
 it was not taken, laid it with strange subdu 
 ing touch on Prosper s shoulder. 
 
 "Forgive me, old friend," he said, w r ith pecu 
 liar gentleness, "if I give you pain, yet trust 
 nae to pursue no selfish purpose towards her 
 we both reverence. Delme , and she alone, can 
 shape her future; you and I can rely upon 
 her invincible innocence to take no false 
 step." 
 
 Looking straight into Milton s face as he 
 said these words, Prosper s own eyes grew 
 dim, and the long habit of awe of this man 
 came again upon him.
 
 246 The IMPERIAL VOICE 
 
 "I am only a rough soldier," he said, and 
 his voice faltered ; "perhaps these nice distinc 
 tions and theories are overflne for me to un 
 derstand, who am taught to obey orders at 
 whatever cost. But we will not fight, Mr. Mil 
 ton; you are right, it were foolish waste of 
 life just now to die for aught but country. 
 . . . But. . . . Delme is very dear. . . ." 
 
 With these hard-wrung words the major 
 broke away and left the room and the house no 
 less precipitately than he had entered. 
 
 As he galloped into the city by the Alders 
 Gate, Prosper met a mounted servant hold 
 ing a led horse by the bridle, coming slowly 
 down St. Martin s-le-Grand Lane to the Bull 
 Tavern. Despite strong preoccupation, Pros 
 per noted as he passed that man and horse ap 
 peared jaded with long travel and that the led 
 horse, a decrepit roan, looked as if it might 
 fall to the ground for exhaustion. 
 
 As soon as he was alone, Milton received 
 from Hubert a note from Delme in token of 
 having his sonnet. It was but a single line: 
 "To-night, at Lady Margaret s, I will let you 
 know how proud I am and grateful." He read
 
 CHALLENGED 247 
 
 and reread the words with a lover s fondness, 
 yet found them powerless to exorcise the de 
 mons of doubt and dread which Prosper s visit 
 had called up. That for his sake Delinks 
 name could be lightly spoken in Cromwell s 
 camp bruised his very heart, while the stern 
 honesty of Prosper s challenge could not be 
 doubted, however he might reason away the 
 cause. All in all, the encounter had left him 
 with a soreness and heaviness of spirit which 
 he was unable to shake off throughout the 
 day. 
 
 The hour for the supper party at Lady Mar 
 garet s that evening was seven. It was Mil 
 ton s practice to go for a walk with his father 
 daily at five. The day was sultry, with some 
 mutterings of thunder, but they went out as 
 usual. On the way home they were overtaken, 
 as if by accident, in St. Paul s Churchyard 
 by their neighbour, Mr. Blackborough, who, 
 walking on in their company, observed that 
 the old man seemed feeble as if depressed by 
 the sultry air, so urged them to rest a little in 
 his house in St. Martin s Lane. Perceiving 
 that the suggestion was welcome to his father,
 
 248 The IMPERIAL VOICE 
 
 Milton, who had been silent and abstracted 
 throughout the walk, accepted it and they 
 entered the narrow dining-room of the house, 
 on a level with the street. 
 
 Mr. Blackborough left them to bring wine 
 and Milton was presently aware of some rus 
 tle as of women s garments on the stairs, 
 with loud and urgent whispering of Dame 
 Blackborough and footsteps to and fro 
 above. 
 
 Impatient of the delay and the small, busy 
 maneuvers of the worthy but to him weari 
 some Blackboroughs, Milton walked to the 
 window and stood tapping on the sash, watch 
 ing the thunder clouds gathering in the south 
 ern sky. A voice behind him spoke his name. 
 Turning he saw his host, a tray in his hand 
 with wine glasses which rattled noisily. The 
 man spoke with curious constraint and seemed 
 unable to look squarely in his face, as he 
 said: 
 
 "The good wife is above in her parlour, Mr. 
 Milton, and sends word to ask that if it tax 
 not your time overmuch, you will go up and 
 speak with her for a moment."
 
 CHALLENGED 249 
 
 Vexed at the renewed detention, and 
 haunted by a sense of vague uneasiness, Mil 
 ton looked at the clock and found it then 
 past six. 
 
 "I am somewhat in haste, truly," he said, 
 moving quickly to the door, "yet would I not 
 fail in obliging Mistress Blackborough if she 
 requires anything of nae." 
 
 As he left the room Milton noticed that 
 Blackborough let his tray fairly fall upon the 
 table, as if his hand were too unsteady to 
 hold it, and that he watched his movements 
 with restless and mysterious anxiety. 
 
 The door of the prim, close parlour above 
 stood open. Milton entered unannounced, op 
 pressed with a weight of painful memories. 
 The room was dark by reason of the gathering 
 storm without, and for an instant he thought 
 it empty. As he advanced, some one stirred 
 from the shadow of a tall escritoire and he 
 saw a woman, piteous, pallid, and trembling, 
 who took a step forward, then stopped, clasp 
 ing her hands tragically. Changed though she 
 was, Milton recognized Mary Powell in 
 stantly. He even felt in a benumbed half-con-
 
 250 The IMPERIAL VOICE 
 
 sciousness that this was what he had known 
 all day must happen ; some hideous familiarity 
 seemed to cling to all the scene. 
 
 Mary gathered strength to come nearer, and 
 throwing herself on the floor at his feet 
 in utter self-abasement, faltered forth one 
 word 
 
 "Your wife!" 
 
 With dull distaste and a sinking sense 
 as of physical repugnance Milton shrank 
 back involuntarily from her touch, saying 
 sternly : 
 
 "My wife? Not wife, but traitor ! You may 
 not come neap me." 
 
 "Your forgiveness," she wailed; "oh, for 
 give me if you can! I know I am unworthy 
 of it. I deserve nothing of you but hatred 
 and contempt. You may cast me out if you 
 will, condemn me if you will, for no one will 
 blame you but only me. But, oh, Mr. Milton, 
 remember before you turn me away how young 
 I was when I left your house, how little it was 
 my intent to desert or distress you! It was 
 my mother was chief promoter of my fro- 
 wardness and worked upon me to bide at
 
 CHALLENGED 251 
 
 home, for she would have it the war was soon 
 to be over and all who took sides against his 
 Majesty would come under condemnation and 
 punishment, which did affright me. My poor 
 father, too, had missed me sore. He begged 
 me not to leave him again, and I was the only 
 one of the children who could cheer him when 
 he got low in his mind. It did seem, sir, he 
 needed me." 
 
 "I beg of you to rise," said Milton ; "I can 
 not see you see a woman, at my feet. It 
 must not be." 
 
 By a strong self-compulsion he took her hand 
 and raised her. She stood before him, her 
 face pallid and tensely strained, but for 
 once in her life the girl was too frightened 
 for tears. With downcast eyes which she 
 dared not lift to his face she went on to plead 
 her cause in incoherent and yet not unconvinc 
 ing terms. She was by no means destitute of 
 shrewdness and calculation, and at this des 
 perate turn of her own and her family fortune 
 she found herself fired to sudden courage by 
 the elemental passions of remorse, fear, and 
 jealousy. No word from her husband came
 
 252 The IMPERIAL VOICE 
 
 to help or hinder. He now stood as if in a 
 dream from which some merciful voice must 
 speedily awaken him. 
 
 "It is not that I ever had cause of com 
 plaint, sir," stammered Mary, "for no woman 
 had ever better or gentler husband. It was 
 only my being simple and a country girl and 
 stupid-like with changing all my ways that 
 made me so misbehave, and be that burden 
 some I was to you. I was never untrue to 
 you, Mr. Milton, in word or thought as some 
 have said, and that you may not believe of 
 me. I lived with you but few weeks, but long 
 enough to learn what virtue was, and with all 
 my folly I have kept my faith and honour 
 as your wife. Many s the night I have cried 
 myself to sleep, or lain broad awake till morn 
 ing, wishing myself back to show you I could 
 do better and keep a house in comfort and 
 cheer for my master, though I might never be 
 so great at my books as some others. Then 
 I would tease my mother to let me return, but 
 always she would put me off and say twere 
 time enough when the war was over and 
 chance for settled life; the less a man had to
 
 CHALLENGED 253 
 
 worry about in such troublous times the better, 
 and no doubt you thought yourself lucky to 
 have no charge of wife and child in those days 
 when none knew whether King or Commons 
 would prevail. 
 
 "But twas no excuse for me, and there is 
 none, Mr. Milton, but I have suffered too and 
 more than can ever be known, till I am sick 
 in body through and through and my heart 
 broken with shame and sorrow. And since 
 two weeks now we have been forced to give 
 over the house at Forest Hill to the Round 
 heads, and we all that used to be so careless 
 and light-hearted there are turned out upon 
 the world to find shelter where we may, and 
 my mother not so strong as she once was, and 
 my dear father fallen away beyond belief with 
 his troubles. So I said to them, After all I 
 have one to turn to, though shamefully I ve 
 treated him, but he is a God-fearing and a 
 just man and knows how to forgive as he prays 
 to be forgiven. I will rise, I said to them, 
 and go to my husband, and confess my wrong 
 and plead with him to take me back, not as 
 wife, but as servant, for well I know I deserve
 
 254 The IMPERIAL VOICE 
 
 no better place." Here Mary s voice faltered 
 and failed her and once more she threw herself 
 at her husband s feet, now at last in a torrent 
 of tears. 
 
 This time he did not try to raise her, seemed 
 not indeed to see her, but turned away and 
 walked to the window in silence. At the mo 
 ment the thunder, which had been growing 
 nearer during the interview, broke with a fierce 
 and deafening crash. As if it had been a sum 
 mons Milton turned again and crossed the 
 room to the door. Looking back at the cower 
 ing woman s form with head bent upon a chair 
 and face covered, he said in a voice from which 
 all tone had fled and which possessed neither 
 softness nor yet severity : 
 
 "I will return and speak further of 
 this." 
 
 So saying he descended to the room below 
 where Dame Blackborough sat with the others, 
 and asked his father to set out at once for 
 their own house. A strange tensity pervaded 
 the place, for no word was spoken save this 
 one, and all faces bore the stamp of acute sus 
 pense. The two men w r ent out in silence into
 
 CHALLENGED 255 
 
 the storm. Blackborough, watching from the 
 window, observed that this time it was the 
 son who leaned upon his father s arm as they 
 walked slowly down the lane and disappeared 
 in the great arch of the Alders Gate.
 
 XIX 
 
 BROKEN MUSIC 
 
 IN a stately hall in the Villiers Street resi 
 dence of Lady Margaret Ley, a notable 
 company was gathered that night. The rain, 
 which had held off until after seven, now 
 poured in torrents and beat noisily by fits 
 upon the w T indow-panes, swept by sudden 
 gusts of wind. But amid the splendid festivi 
 ties of the banquet the storm passed unheeded ; 
 the cloth was drawn and speech and toast 
 were begun. 
 
 Lady Margaret at the head of the table, 
 seated at the right of her soldier husband, her 
 self presided over the toasts with character 
 istic fire, wit, and ingenuity. Superb in court 
 costume of black velvet and diamonds the 
 lady looked a queen, and in her commanding 
 presence and personality she dominated the 
 scene in queenly wise, in herself seeming to 
 
 256
 
 BROKEN MUSIC 257 
 
 embody the triumphant enthusiasm of the 
 hour. 
 
 Her ladyship called first upon Lord Howard 
 and Denzil Holies, who in turn toasted 
 Essex and Lord Fairfax. Lieutenant-General 
 Cromwell was the next toast, given with a 
 burst of impetuous ardour by Sir Harry Vane. 
 
 Among the bevy of women who looked and 
 listened with sympathetic response Delme 
 Davies was noticeable for her distinction of 
 person, manners, and wit. She wore a flowing 
 dress of white taffeta, sprinkled with rosebuds 
 over a satin petticoat of a delicate rose colour. 
 At her wrists were deep cuffs and at the neck 
 a wide falling collar of fine old Flemish lace, 
 heirlooms in her family; above the collar 
 a necklace of filigree gilt encircled the firm 
 young throat; the gold lights in her eyes 
 seemed fairly to scintillate, and the vivid red 
 of lips and cheeks gave token of the excitement 
 of her Gallic temperament in this hour of vic 
 tory for the cause she loved. 
 
 As Sir Harry Vane resumed his seat, Lady 
 Margaret, placing her hand upon a vacant 
 chair at her right, leaned forward to speak to
 
 258 The IMPERIAL VOICE 
 
 a clergyman, Dr. Edmund Calamy, Delinks 
 vis-a-vis, at some distance down the table. 
 
 "Dr. Calamy," she said, "I shall now ask 
 you to speak on the theme, Law and Liberty, 
 although I tell you, sir, plainly, I had ex 
 pected another to discourse upon it. My 
 friend, Mr. John Milton, who should be here 
 at my right hand, has not appeared among 
 us, nor have we received explanation of his 
 absence. Were he here, I should have given to 
 him a task so congenial. In Mr. Milton s ab 
 sence all will hear gladly from one who has 
 suffered many things for liberty and who de 
 voutly reverences law." 
 
 Dr. Calamy arose, all eyes fixed upon him. 
 Bowing to Lady Margaret, with a few words 
 of apology and deprecation, he continued 
 speaking, to the surprise of all, as follows : 
 
 "I ask your forbearance if instead of speak 
 ing of the subject intended for Mr. John Mil 
 ton, I take advantage of that gentleman s ab 
 sence to speak of John Milton himself. Our 
 great military leaders have been exalted, but 
 a word remains to be said of the man whose 
 genius gives lustre to our Puritan cause, and
 
 BROKEN MUSIC 259 
 
 whose free, unfettered spirit soars ever aloft 
 above all party factions or personal issues. 
 Lady Margaret, may I wrest from their origi 
 nal application and intent Milton s ow T n words 
 and say, as I contemplate this man : Methinks 
 I see in my mind a noble and puissant nature 
 rousing itself like a strong man after sleep 
 . . . shaking invincible locks and kindling un- 
 dazzled eyes at the full midday beam ! 
 
 Calamy was interrupted by an outbreak of 
 rapturous cheering at this unexpected turn 
 and application of Milton s recent utterance 
 on the freedom of the press, already famous 
 and familiar in that company. With ever 
 growing vigour he went on, closing with these 
 words : 
 
 "Your Ladyship, fellow-patriots: Coming 
 centuries shall judge better than we the man 
 who has put away silently and without com 
 plaint his most cherished purpose, the one to 
 which from his youth he was self-dedicated, 
 the composition of a great epic poem, the 
 first in the English language, that he might 
 give himself heart, soul, and pen to British 
 liberties. For liberty he has lived and writ-
 
 260 The IMPERIAL VOICE 
 
 ten. He has espoused with ardour the cause 
 which he believed just and followed it wher 
 ever it led him. Some of us may not agree 
 with his every conclusion, but none of us 
 doubts his high, untainted purpose. He has 
 lived down detraction and risen above 
 calumny. If a partisan we can at least, as we 
 think of the man s purity, his flaming genius, 
 his resistless eloquence like to a trumpet blast, 
 call John Milton the Seraphic Partisan." 
 
 As the applause which greeted Calamy s 
 conclusion subsided, Lady Margaret arose 
 and, with a half-quizzical smile, said: 
 
 "In spite of the devotion to polemics of him 
 whom the speaker styles the Seraphic Par 
 tisan and his habit to scorn delights and live 
 laborious days, it is my pleasure to prove that 
 Mr. Milton still courts his earlier Muse on oc 
 casion and even in these last days has hon 
 oured me, his old friend, with his genius. Sir 
 Harry Vane holds a copy of a sonnet which 
 Mr. Milton not very long ago addressed to 
 my humble self." 
 
 Sir Harry responded with reading the son 
 net, beginning :
 
 BROKEN MUSIC 261 
 
 " Daughter to that good Earl once President." 
 
 which was received with high delight. But 
 all the while, in the bosom of her gown, 
 Delme Davies carried a folded paper, on which 
 in Milton s writing was another sonnet, sent 
 to her that morning, of the existence of which 
 they two alone knew. Troubled though she 
 was by his unexplained absence, this amulet 
 on her breast gave to Delme with each breath 
 she drew a sense of proud possession, an assur 
 ance of Milton s long-controlled and reverent 
 love and of his imminent purpose. 
 
 All now rose from table and streamed into 
 the drawing-room. Here one of the company 
 seated at the harpsichord struck the keys, 
 and with one consent they joined voices in 
 Cromwell s stern and solemn war psalm: 
 "Let God arise; let His enemies be scat 
 tered." Lighter music followed, and pres 
 ently Lady Margaret, drawing Delme forward, 
 cried : 
 
 "Any one who looks as Mistress Delme does 
 to-night must have within her power to sing 
 like angels." 
 
 Warm response greeted this suggestion, and
 
 262 The IMPERIAL VOICE 
 
 Lady Margaret s hand ran over the keys as if 
 uncertain which way to stray. 
 
 "Ah, Delme , " she cried in another moment, 
 "you shall sing Mr. Milton s own sweetest 
 song that closing song from the Masque pre 
 sented at Ludlow Castle. Nothing do you sing 
 lovelier. Is this the accompaniment you 
 prefer?" 
 
 With deepening colour but without reluct 
 ance Delme moved to Lady Margaret s side, 
 suggesting some slight modification in the 
 melody as suited to her voice, when a liveried 
 servant touched her and whispered : 
 
 "There is some one below craves instant 
 speech of you, Mistress Delme . He is most 
 urgent." 
 
 Whispering Lady Margaret that she must 
 leave the room for a moment but would sing 
 the Comus song on her return, Delme slipped 
 quietly out and down the broad stair. At the 
 foot stood the servant who had summoned 
 her. He pointed to a small office near the 
 entrance of the house. The door stood ajar. 
 Delme pushed it open, entered, then closed it 
 behind her, for the one who waited for speech
 
 BROKEN MUSIC 263 
 
 with her was John Milton, and there was that 
 in his face which told her he must see her 
 alone. 
 
 He had come on foot and unprotected from 
 the driving storm ; his clothing was drenched, 
 his hair hung dark and dank with rain, w r hile 
 his face was grey and bore the stamp of sharp 
 mental torture. As Delme , in her delicately 
 triumphant beauty, a figure of radiant light 
 and charm, appeared before his eyes his face 
 was suddenly touched by a tremulous smile, 
 the pathos of which tore her heart. 
 
 "What is it? Oh, what is it?" she cried and 
 stretched both hands out, taking his. 
 
 "To-night, dear," he began, then broke off; 
 then again "to-night it was to have been 
 . . . Delme she is here." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 Beimels colour did not change. Her voice 
 was firm and musical. She had forgotten the 
 existence of Mary Powell. 
 
 "The w T oman ... I married." 
 
 "What does she desire?" Delme trembled 
 now and all light fled her face. 
 
 "That I receive her . . . forgive her. She
 
 264 The IMPERIAL VOICE 
 
 is homeless, sick, humbled in the dust, but, 
 Delme , neither God nor man can command 
 that I enter again into that bondage of dis 
 cordant minds, I, who could have you for 
 wife!" 
 
 For a moment Delink faced him speechless. 
 Then with quiet, deliberate movements she 
 drew a chair for herself to the large table 
 beside which Milton stood and seated herself, 
 her head turned slightly that she might not 
 see his face. She knew its look might be 
 more than she could bear, and besides there 
 seemed a compulsion upon her to listen closely 
 to a colloquy of two voices which, at the very 
 surface and edge of consciousness, seemed call 
 ing back and forth within her in a weird 
 antiphony during the interview which fol 
 lowed. The one voice cried : 
 
 "This man is kingly, Jove-like. The world 
 would be well lost for his sake." 
 
 The other replied : 
 
 "Honour is obedience. Honour is obedi 
 ence." 
 
 Again the first voice : 
 
 "Think what this man has suffered. It is
 
 BROKEN MUSIC 265 
 
 monstrous to fasten fetters again upon his 
 spirit. He is justified in defying law if he may 
 not create it. Leave all. Follow him." 
 
 And the response, stern and solemn, seemed 
 an echo of Prosper Unwin s word : 
 
 "What is one life compared to bringing mis 
 rule into an army?" 
 
 All the while she was listening to Milton s 
 audible voice or speaking aloud to him in a 
 tranquil, reflective tone which he found amaz 
 ing and yet clarifying to the burning chaos of 
 his brain. He began after his habit to pace 
 the floor, his manner growing calmer. 
 
 "This is Mary Powell, whom you mar 
 ried." 
 
 "Yes, even she." 
 
 "She failed in love and duty to you as 
 your wife." Still the girl maintained her 
 clear equable voice. 
 
 "Yes, verily." 
 
 "She forsook you." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "She remained away from you for how 
 long?" 
 
 "Two years now almost precisely, during
 
 266 The IMPERIAL VOICE 
 
 which time I sent messenger after messenger 
 
 to bring her back " Here Milton broke 
 
 off, his utterance failing in the stress of hate 
 ful memory. 
 
 "Yes," a soothing gentleness crept into 
 Delmd s tone, but she did not turn towards 
 him ; "yes, I remember. Your messengers were 
 repulsed, even ill-treated." 
 
 "Scornfully repulsed, violently threatened," 
 interjected Milton harshly. 
 
 "No promise was given that your wife 
 would return to you later." 
 
 "Nay, rather I was given to understand 
 that she purposed not to return." 
 
 "So far all seems clear. At that time, I 
 remember," Delme spoke musingly, "our side 
 was having the worst of it in the war. Victory 
 was with the King s army, and the end all 
 thought at hand." 
 
 "Even so." 
 
 His face was drawn by a smile of strange 
 cynical scorn which gave it an almost demo 
 niacal beauty. 
 
 "And now the King s side is in flat despair, 
 and the family of Mr. Richard Powell without
 
 BROKEN MUSIC 267 
 
 a roof over their heads/ he added. "Such con 
 ditions call aloud for penitence!" 
 
 "They break the proudest heart," said 
 Delme gently. "Your wife comes to you 
 again " she went on. "She is at this mo 
 ment in London?" 
 
 Yes/ he groaned ; "there, where I first saw 
 her." 
 
 "She does not come proudly, you say, seek 
 ing to justify her action?" 
 
 "Nay, she is a poor broken creature, crying 
 only for mercy and forgiveness, asking to be 
 made as one of my hired servants." 
 
 "She may have learned much in two 
 years," said Delme quietly; "she was very 
 young." 
 
 "But my God ! Come how she may, no man 
 can ask me to give you up, to take her back !" 
 And the strong man s frame shook as he spoke. 
 "Look at me, Delme !" he cried sternly, step 
 ping to the other side of the table and bending 
 to gaze into her face. But at the sight 
 of something in it he recoiled, and stood 
 clenching hard the table s edge with rigid 
 fingers.
 
 268 TAe IMPERIAL VOICE 
 
 "I ask you, dear master," she said very 
 simply, but rising to full face him now, the 
 solemnity of a sacrament in her eyes. 
 
 "There is nothing else. Mary Powell is 
 again your wife for better, for worse. Is it not 
 clear?" 
 
 "God teach me to live!" 
 
 The words came between Milton s set teeth 
 like an inarticulate groan. 
 
 "We have to forgive, we have to consent to 
 suffer," whispered Delme , her hand laid with 
 infinite tenderness upon his breast; "else have 
 we tasted the grace of God in vain." 
 
 Then, in the solemn silence, the mysterious 
 voice sounding within her breathed its burden 
 from her lips: 
 
 "Honour is obedience. Honour is obedi 
 ence." 
 
 The words exercised a strange power upon 
 the tumultuous struggle within the man. The 
 hero within him roused as at a trumpet blast. 
 He became august, imposing. 
 
 "Honour is obedience," he repeated slowly. 
 "Law abides eternal. Yes, it is true. Death, 
 the death of hope, is an incident."
 
 BROKEN MUSIC 269 
 
 Delme started. Prosper s very words upon 
 her master s lips! An inexplicable warmth 
 as of the touch of a mighty upholding ran 
 through her. 
 
 "Delme , you smile!" cried Milton, wonder 
 ing greatly. "Tell me, have you loved me?" 
 
 "I thought so," she said faintly, and for an 
 instant her lip quivered. "Will you go now?" 
 she said, having permitted him for a little to 
 kiss her hands, her dress, her hair in his 
 ecstasy of pain and final parting. "I am not 
 too strong, myself," and she laughed, a piteous 
 echo of her old blithe laughter. 
 
 "Yes, I will go." 
 
 "And to her? Please do not wait." 
 
 "Yes, to her, so help me God!" 
 
 "Help you God !" she whispered and smiled 
 bravely into his eyes. 
 
 When she entered the drawing-room, Delme 
 found some one, who it was she failed to per 
 ceive, watching for her return, urging that she 
 still sing the promised song. Her eyes being 
 brighter than before even, none noticed a 
 change in her save Lady Margaret, who would 
 have excused her, fearing she knew not what
 
 270 The IMPERIAL VOICE 
 
 from the mysterious tensity she felt to have 
 come upon her. But Beirut only smiled and 
 said: 
 
 "Why not, dear Lady Margaret? Why 
 should I not sing as I promised?" 
 
 Then Lady Margaret took her place at the 
 harpsichord and played the sweet preluding 
 notes of immortal Youth and Joy, while Delink 
 stood facing down the brilliant room wonder 
 ing if the bitterness of Death was passed, such 
 was her painless freedom of spirit. She even 
 touched her dress, her hand, to make sure of 
 their reality, so strong was her sense of being 
 sundered from her bodily self. 
 
 Then she sang: 
 
 " Mortals that would follow me, 
 Love Virtue ; she alone is free. 
 She can teach you how to climb 
 Higher than the sphery chime ; 
 Or if Virtue feeble were, 
 Heaven itself would stoop to her. " 
 
 There was awe while she sang, and after 
 wards a tumult of tender delight through the 
 room, and Lady Margaret, taking both Delm^ s 
 hands, said very low :
 
 BROKEN MUSIC 
 
 "I do not understand, dear child, what has 
 befallen you to turn you spirit rather than 
 woman. But you have sung as those words 
 were never sung before." 
 
 "Did I sing well?" cried the girl, the gold 
 lights in her eyes quenched on a sudden with 
 tears; "then send ine home if you will, Lady 
 Margaret, for I arn tired." 
 
 In the house in St. Martin s Lane candles 
 still burned as Milton reached it coming back 
 through a sullen mist from Villiers Street. 
 The rain fell languidly now, drop by drop, like 
 slow tears. The door opened instantly at his 
 knocking. He saw Blackborough, but neither 
 spoke as they passed on the stair. Mary Mil 
 ton rose as he entered the parlour and stood 
 humbly to receive him, not without a certain 
 dignity as of mute resignation to his will. The 
 desolation of his face, his drenched, neglected 
 clothing, his mortal weariness, smote the 
 woman s heart of her, and through all she dis 
 cerned the man s loftiness as she had failed to 
 do earlier.
 
 272 The IMPERIAL VOICE 
 
 "You come in spite of the rain," she said, 
 and trembled. 
 
 "Yes, I have come," he said slowly; 
 "you will pardon that I have taken some 
 hours for consideration. I am sorry to 
 have caused you need for waiting till so 
 late." 
 
 "That is nothing," she protested. "It but 
 serves me right to wait." 
 
 He smiled faintly at her humbleness. 
 
 "I have few words to say," he continued; 
 "while you chose to remain away I held myself 
 released before God from the marriage bond 
 and should presently have acted in all honour 
 upon being thus released. But this is changed. 
 You have returned, promising love and duty 
 as my wife ; you claim my protection and sup 
 port as your husband. I do not deny your 
 claim. I hold myself no longer free but law 
 fully bound to receive you." 
 
 This brief dictum, reversing the first wild 
 impulse with which he had sought Delme , con 
 travening the whole contention of his feverish 
 divorce theories when it came to action, re 
 vealed Milton s chastity of strict justice, the
 
 BROKEN MUSIC 273 
 
 implacable moral sense of the man, resurgent. 
 Blinded for a moment by passion and the re 
 coil of his spirit from the first shock of en 
 counter, a woman s touch had cleared his 
 vision and subdued the tumult within him. 
 Nevertheless, the struggle of triumph over love 
 on the one hand and loathing on the other had 
 changed him swiftly, even in Mary Milton s 
 sight, from youth to age. This change she 
 perceived as he stood, his arms resting upon 
 the back of a chair, confronting her with lus 
 treless eyes, but what lay below the surface 
 was wholly beyond the reach of her childish 
 plummet. 
 
 An exultant throb of her heart marked the 
 perception that it was she, the married wife, 
 not that other, who had won. Mistress Delm 
 Davies might go her ways now and cease her 
 designs on other women s husbands! Casting 
 down her eyes, lest they betray satisfaction, 
 she cried : 
 
 "Then, sir, surely I may come home to Al- 
 dersgate and care for you and your father. 
 You do look ill and in need of a woman s 
 nursing."
 
 274 The IMPERIAL VOICE 
 
 Something in his face checked her. She 
 saw that she was overbold with her forward 
 ness of wifely solicitude. 
 
 Milton bowed with formal courtesy, but he 
 did not smile. 
 
 "You are very kind. I am not ill; you can 
 be spared the burden of such cares at present," 
 he said coldly. 
 
 Her face showed her disappointment. In 
 wardly a sense of inferiority gnawed the last 
 shreds of her pride. 
 
 "It will not be to the Aldersgate you will re 
 turn. I have taken a house in the Barbican/ 
 Milton proceeded "a house you will perhaps 
 find cheerfuller than the old one, at least it is 
 larger. I am not able to take possession of 
 this new house until September." 
 
 Mary caught her breath with hasty impulse 
 to protest that the Aldersgate Street house 
 was quite large enough, then crowded back the 
 words lest for some reason they should sound 
 stupid when spoken. 
 
 "You will pardon me if I ask you until 
 September to put up with lodgings with 
 relatives of mine near St. Clement s. I shall
 
 BROKEN MUSIC 275 
 
 bid them do all in their power for your 
 comfort." 
 
 "You are very kind," murmured Mary ; "but 
 surely, sir, you will come there sometimes 
 yourself?" 
 
 Again her husband bowed, thanked her with 
 unconscious stateliness, and went on with the 
 matter in hand. 
 
 "I am much distressed for your father and 
 mother, in the loss of their home. If the Gov 
 ernment follows the policy of sequestration 
 of property of the Opposition they may be 
 presently in yet worse case." 
 
 "I know not how worse can be," said Mary 
 plaintively. 
 
 "Will you be so good as to write to Mr. 
 Richard Powell," Milton proceeded, "that in 
 September I shall have a roomier house at my 
 disposal, to which I invite him with your 
 mother, and any of your family whom it may 
 convenience. Pray, assure him that he will be 
 welcome to make my house his home so long as 
 it suits him." 
 
 Upon this wholly undreamed-of magnanim 
 ity, Mary impetuously grasped her husband s
 
 276 The IMPERIAL VOICE 
 
 hand and pressed it to her lips, looking hope 
 fully to his melting then and taking her in his 
 arms. 
 
 This, however, did not follow. As soon as 
 he could do so with gentleness Milton with 
 drew his hand, bade her good-night, and made 
 haste to leave the house.
 
 BOOK V 
 PROSPER
 
 XX 
 LADY MARGARET 
 
 IT was November, following the victory at 
 Naseby. London had shaken off her 
 fetters of fortification and her grinmess 
 of war, and was gay with the exhilaration of 
 a return to the pursuits of peace. Towards 
 noon of a sunny day two men engaged in ab 
 sorbing conversation came through Ave Maria 
 Lane and down St. Andrew s Hill, to the river 
 bank at Blackfriars Stairs. One of these, in 
 the garb of a French Huguenot minister, was 
 Philip Unwin ; the man w r ith him, in a major s 
 undress uniform, was his brother Prosper. 
 
 At their signalling a boatman rowed a small 
 wherry to the shore and the brothers entered 
 it, still continuing their eager conference, only 
 interrupted by a word to the boatman bidding 
 him take them to Westminster. As the wherry 
 passed swiftly on its way, threading dexter 
 ously between the craft of all kinds with 
 
 279
 
 280 PROSPER 
 
 which the river thronged, the boatman, listen 
 ing, found that no word of the conversation 
 was intelligible to him. The Unwins, as was 
 their habit when in their own family limits, 
 returned to the Walloon French, their 
 mother s native tongue. 
 
 At Villiers Street on the Strand, Major 
 Unwin left the boat, which w r as directed to 
 proceed to Westminster with the clerical pas 
 senger, wait upon his convenience there, and 
 return in an hour s time to the Villiers Street 
 wharf. 
 
 Knocking at the door of Lady Margaret 
 Ley s house, Prosper was promptly admitted, 
 and, as if expected, conducted upstairs and 
 ushered into the drawing-room, where the 
 Lady herself came forward to meet him with 
 a word of friendly welcome. 
 
 "Home from the wars?" she cried in her ab 
 rupt but kindly fashion. "What next, then?" 
 
 "That is the question," said Prosper. "At 
 least I have decided to lay down my commis 
 sion. The war drags slowly now, being as 
 good as off, and negotiations on, in which I 
 cut no figure."
 
 LADY MARGARET 281 
 
 "And you are uncertain what to turn to 
 next, like many another?" 
 
 "Even so. Yet have the last twenty-four 
 hours brought me such news as may shape 
 things all anew and over suddenly." 
 
 "Your brother, the Parson, is up from Can 
 terbury?" 
 
 "Yes, he came yesterday." 
 
 "So I learned through Calamy, his good 
 friend and mine. Hence I sent for you, not 
 knowing your brother." 
 
 Prosper bowed with his soldier s preciseness 
 of gallantry, and Lady Margaret, who, above 
 all things, liked what she called a proper man, 
 smiled, observing his firm, well-knit figure and 
 his handsome face with its present touch of 
 perplexity. 
 
 "Can you not guess what I want of 
 you? What but tidings from that child, 
 Delme , dear to God and also, in particular, 
 to me." 
 
 "To me also, madam," said Prosper gravely, 
 a certain firm compression of his mouth for 
 bidding light rejoinder. 
 
 "That I have divined. So we are both badly
 
 282 PROSPER 
 
 treated and can conspire without scruple 
 against a common enemy." 
 
 "Badly wounded, if I may make bold to cor 
 rect your Ladyship, not badly treated." 
 
 "I have not seen Delme since midsummer." 
 
 "Nor I since just after Naseby. She left for 
 Canterbury, they told me, about the time we 
 fought at Lamport, at the fag-end of the war." 
 
 "You can easily see why she thought fit to 
 leave London, Major." 
 
 "I suppose she will not care much for meet 
 ing with Mistress Milton," Prosper rejoined 
 reluctantly. 
 
 "Far less for meeting with Milton himself," 
 said Lady Margaret abruptly. "I think, to say 
 truly, she did not dare after the wife s return. 
 At least she has never seen him, never laid 
 eyes on him once, since that night here when 
 we celebrated Naseby." 
 
 Prosper looked into Lady Margaret s face 
 with pride and pain in his eyes. 
 
 "I had ever thought, your Ladyship, that 
 my cousin could have made a soldier." 
 
 "Had thought, man! Has she failed in 
 aught, then, of courage? Ask John Milton."
 
 LADY MARGARET 288 
 
 "I care to ask John Milton nothing, Madam. 
 He has blighted the sweetest life God ever 
 made! Your pardon, my Lady," for a fierce 
 anathema trembled on Prosper s lips, bitten 
 back by force. 
 
 "Nay, you need not fear to speak out in my 
 presence, Major Unwin, who am myself a 
 soldier s wife. Yet denounce not my friend 
 Milton, since he has now e en enough to bear, 
 a mindless mate and the whole Powell fam 
 ily on his hands, Avho weary him almost to 
 death, as I chance to know full well." 
 
 Prosper was silent, yet his face showed a 
 touch of softening. 
 
 "You would forgive the man everything, my 
 friend, if you should see him now," continued 
 the Lady. "It is not that he is not seemingly 
 in fair health and spirits and harder at work 
 than ever, but that the glory, the lustre, of his 
 youth is so palpably fled. I cannot describe 
 the change in him. It is subtle, unconscious 
 I believe to himself, and yet it leaves him, I 
 know not how, nobler and stronger than be 
 fore. And he has bowed himself bravely to 
 his burden. No man can say otherwise."
 
 284 PROSPER 
 
 "That I can believe," Prosper made answer 
 slowly, "being, take him for all in all, the 
 greatest man among us, next to my Lord Gen 
 eral Cromwell." 
 
 "Gallantly spoken. You please me better 
 now, since fair play for one s foes is the thing 
 I like best in a soldier. But it is not of John 
 Milton I care most now to speak, but of little 
 Mistress Delme . What says your brother con 
 cerning her?" 
 
 "That she is no longer herself, but a pale, 
 pining thing, with hollow cheeks and eyes, a 
 smile that means nothing, thoughts that are 
 never present." 
 
 "She is fretting herself to death then over 
 what cannot be changed, and she not twenty 
 yet the foolish child. Alack, the pity of it !" 
 
 "Yes, I judge that all about her fear she 
 will wither away soon and die, yet can no one 
 help her, nor she herself." 
 
 "Why do you not help her, Prosper Unwin? 
 You love her. She is weak; you are strong. 
 Shame upon you if you stand and see her sink 
 like a bird with broken wings, and do not lift 
 a hand to aid."
 
 LADY MARGARET 285 
 
 His cheeks flushed hotly. 
 
 "What can a man whom she has so often re 
 pulsed do for a maid in case like hers?" he 
 cried bitterly. 
 
 "Do? Why, everything anything! Snatch 
 her out of this foolish dream, this world of 
 shadows and memories. Tis but a sick imag 
 ination keeps her dwelling among them. If 
 she were stronger, she would rouse and shake 
 them off; since she is not, some one must for 
 her. She is a gallant girl, my Delme , and no 
 coward to dwine with moping melancholy 
 because the greatest genius in England has 
 done her the grace of loving her, and the 
 greater grace of leaving her when honour must 
 have it so." 
 
 "Go down to Canterbury, Madam, and tell 
 her this." 
 
 "Go yourself! Tis a man she needs now, 
 not a woman. You strike me, sir, as a master 
 ful sort of man. You might put a maid s 
 vagaries to rout with one bold dash if you 
 chose, and she would like you the better that 
 you dared." 
 
 Without knowing what he did Prosper rose
 
 286 PROSPER 
 
 and strode the length of the great drawing- 
 room, his brows knit, then turned and stand 
 ing before the lady, said curtly, 
 
 "Your meaning is not clear to me. But it 
 is best in any case that I explain to your Lady 
 ship that I am about leaving England." 
 
 "For long?" 
 
 "For good." 
 
 "Gracious, man, if that is so do not leave 
 your cousin here to die. Faith, I believe you 
 are the only person can save her. What takes 
 you then from England, in such hot haste?" 
 
 "I said, your Ladyship may recall, when 
 first we began this conversation, that news had 
 come within a day which bids fair to shape 
 things over for me beyond the common." 
 
 "May I know this news?" 
 
 "Yes, although no one besides in England 
 knows it, save my father and mother and 
 Philip." 
 
 "Does Delrne know?" 
 
 "Oh, no," and Prosper sighed; "it is long 
 since they gave over seeking to talk with her 
 of things present. She cares nothing for what 
 happens to me to any of us."
 
 LADY MARGARET 287 
 
 "Then the girl is not herself and so I said. 
 Heroic measures must restore her. Proceed, 
 sir, if you please." 
 
 "I shall be obliged to ask your patience, and 
 go back to relate a bit of my family history. 
 My father, Anthoine Unwin, belongs to the 
 house of the Onwhyns of Bersele, lords of 
 the Seigniory of Bersele, on the Island of Wal- 
 cheren, at the mouth of the Scheldt." 
 
 "So much I remember once to have heard." 
 
 "The Van Berseles have been Catholic from 
 the beginning, and thus my father s conversion 
 to Protestantism and his marriage with a 
 Huguenot made an estrangement between him 
 and his older brother, the present head of the 
 house. This uncle, much older than my father, 
 has sometime since lost his wife, who it was, 
 we now understand, that inspired him in the 
 feud with my father. The young Heer van 
 Bersele, his heir apparent, was killed three 
 months ago by a fall from his horse, and 
 leaves no issue." 
 
 "Most interesting," murmured Lady Mar 
 garet, all attention. 
 
 "The old Lord, now advanced in years and
 
 288 PROSPER 
 
 in feeble health, wrote to my father some time 
 since, asking him to send one of his sons to 
 abide with him in his castle, looking to suc 
 ceed him in his title and estates." 
 "Is not your father heir apparent?" 
 "Yes, but my father will never go back to 
 the Netherlands. He is immovable. He 
 waives his right." 
 
 "Ah, I see. Then your brother ?" 
 
 "My brother is pastor, as you know, of the 
 Undercrofters and has no interest outside his 
 learning and his religion. He is of the same 
 mind in this as my father. I, being rather a 
 reprobate in comparison, a soldier, with 
 naught left to fight for, and a hopeless lover, 
 would as lief seek my fortune in the home of 
 my forbears as to bide longer on British soil. 
 Philip has but yesterday come to London to 
 acquaint me with all the facts. It is deter 
 mined now between us that I set out to-mor 
 row to cross to Walcheren, and try my hand 
 at pleasing the old Lord." 
 
 "Excellent. I approve this purpose, Major 
 Unwin. May you succeed, as you deserve, to 
 the Seigniory of Bersele, and there serve your
 
 LADY MARGARET 289 
 
 fellows no less gallantly than you have here. 
 Now then, let us return to the proposition 
 which I made when you first entered here." 
 
 "I do not recall a proposition, of what do 
 you speak?" asked Prosper, perplexed. 
 
 "That we conspire together without scruple 
 against a common enemy!" 
 
 The sun was shining brilliantly on the grey 
 water of the Thames when Major Unwin 
 leaped into the wherry drawn up alongside 
 the shore. Philip sat in the stern, his fine 
 grave face lifted with an unspoken question. 
 
 "Ask me nothing !" cried Prosper in French. 
 "Off to Holland to-morrow, but if all goes 
 well between me and the old Lord of Bersele 
 you may see me back for an hour or two by 
 Christmas. I have this day pledged myself to 
 a madder venture than any you ever knew me 
 put my hand to, Philip. Mad, mad, mad!" 
 he muttered under breath; removed his hat, 
 then, as if glad to feel the cold wind on his 
 head. Yet in his eyes was a formidable and 
 threatening fire.
 
 XXI 
 
 A GALLOP OVER HARBLEDOWN 
 
 CHRISTMAS-TIDE again in Canterbury, 
 and five years since John Milton came 
 down in the London coach and found his 
 young pupil, Delme Davies, on her knees 
 in the Undercroft, at the solemn service. It 
 was two days before Christmas, and eleven in 
 the morning ; again the Strangers were gather 
 ing for worship in their ancient sanctuary. 
 This time Delme was not among them, but sit 
 ting alone in her uncle s house in Mercery 
 Lane. 
 
 Good Dame Unwin had not pressed the girl 
 to go with her, as she often did, and Deline", 
 watching her and Anthoine walking slowly 
 down to Christ Church Gate, breathed a sigh 
 of relief at being left alone, and dropping the 
 wreaths of holly she had offered to wind, 
 turned again to her favourite nook in the 
 chimney corner. 
 
 290
 
 OVER HARBLEDOWN 291 
 
 Prosper Unwin, a month earlier, had given 
 an over-true description of the girl to Lady 
 Margaret Ley, for the spirit of her seemed 
 broken, and from her face all brightness fled. 
 As she sat with her head resting against the 
 tall back of the settle, a pathetic languor 
 lurked in every line, and there was a weary 
 droop to eyelids and lips. It was as if in the 
 hour of self-conquest, when she had inspired . 
 Milton to go back to his wife and his duty, the 
 girl had gathered up all her reserves of spirit, 
 soul and body in a tremendous effort which 
 had left her clean forspent. 
 
 But to-day Delink had that in mind which 
 called for an act of energy, though no one 
 might witness it. Rousing herself and looking 
 around to make sure that she was alone, the 
 girl drew from her breast a paper, worn al 
 most to shreds with much unfolding. This 
 she opened and read, while her colour came 
 and went: 
 
 " Lady, that in the prime of earliest youth 
 
 Wisely hast shunn d the broad way and the green, 
 And with those few art eminently seen, 
 
 That labour up the hill of heavenly truth ;
 
 292 PROSPER 
 
 The better part with Mary and with Ruth 
 Chosen thou hast; and they that overween, 
 And at thy growing virtues fret their spleen, 
 No anger find in thee but pity and ruth. 
 
 Thy care is fix d and zealously attends 
 To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light 
 And hope that reaps not shame. Therefore be sure 
 
 Thou, when the Bridegroom, with his feastful friends, 
 Passes to bliss, at the mid hour of night, 
 Hast gain d thy entrance, Virgin wise and pure. " 
 
 The sonnet, addressed to herself, was dated 
 in June of that year; it was signed, John 
 Milton. 
 
 Beneath her apparent apathy Delme had 
 been undergoing through these months a spir 
 itual struggle in which no person was per 
 mitted to share. It was her religious purpose 
 to crush out from her heart her love for John 
 Milton, a love which she conceived of now 
 as sin. This continued conflict it was, waged 
 unseen even by those who loved her most ten 
 derly, which was wearing away her strength. 
 To-day she had resolved to sacrifice the one 
 last visible link between him and herself, the 
 one only tangible token of his love which he 
 had given her the precious sonnet. She had 
 no right to cherish it, and she had in her mo-
 
 OVER HARBLEDOWN 293 
 
 notony of morbid brooding conceived a super 
 stitious fancy that if this were destroyed she 
 might at last forget and learn again to live 
 her life. 
 
 Rising, pressing the paper with simple girl 
 ish solemnity to her lips, she laid it in orderly 
 fashion now on the red embers in the deep 
 chimney and w r atched it burn, her living sac 
 rifice. With clasped hands and closed eyes 
 she lifted her heart in prayer that in God s 
 sight the sacrifice might be holy, acceptable, 
 availing. 
 
 Through her praying Delme was startled to 
 hear the door opened from the street and a 
 firm and by no means soft footstep approach 
 ing down the room. Two hands were upon 
 her shoulders before she could turn and Pros 
 per Unwin bent to print a kiss frankly and 
 without to-do upon her forehead. 
 
 "Merry Christmas, little sweetheart!" he 
 cried, his voice ringing with joyous vigour, as 
 if there never had been and never could be on 
 earth cause for aught but gladness. Delme , 
 accustomed of late to anxious looks and sub 
 dued constraint in all who addressed her, was
 
 294 PROSPER 
 
 startled into a shadowy smile, which strove 
 to be gay. 
 
 "Pray no more, Delme !" cried Prosper 
 boldly ; "there is a time for praying and a time 
 for galloping over Harbledown, and that s 
 now with the great frost. The ground is crisp 
 w T ith a cover of snow, the air as keen as a 
 rapier, and my nag pawing the earth up to 
 be off." 
 
 "But, Prosper!" cried Delme , fingering un 
 consciously the great steel buckle of his riding 
 cloak and looking up with something of her 
 old affectionate eagerness into his face, "how 
 is it you are here? Nobody said you were 
 coming for Christmas. Where are you come 
 from? Where is your regiment now? I have 
 forgot," she added suddenly, a little ashamed 
 at her negligence. 
 
 "In Devonshire," he answered, glad she had 
 asked him nothing harder; he having, in fact, 
 crossed but the day before from Holland. "On 
 with your cloak and hood, Mistress, and 
 furred shoes for your little feet, for the air is 
 sharp with frost. Boots and saddles and 
 away is the order! We ll see if we can t put
 
 OVER HARBLEDOWN 295 
 
 some red into your cheeks for Christinas 
 yet." 
 
 Delme , no time to lapse into disinclination 
 being given her, ran upstairs for shoes and 
 cloak and came down in a trice, tying her 
 quilted hood of black velvet, lined with coney, 
 under her chin. 
 
 "Gad, but you are bonny in that hood, little 
 coz," cried Prosper gallantly, striding then to 
 open the door. A groom held a big bay cavalry 
 horse in the lane before the house, and Prosper 
 stopped short Beimels sudden misgivings as to 
 how she was to ride with but one horse be 
 tween them, by taking one foot in his hand, 
 swinging her up to the well-padded pillion, 
 and himself into the saddle before her. Before 
 she caught breath they had dashed into the 
 High Street and in short order were out 
 through the Westgate and galloping by the old 
 Pilgrims Way over Harbledown. 
 
 "Oh, but this air is glorious!" cried Delmd, 
 when she had breath enough for words. Pros 
 per did not turn his head, but a certain tension 
 in his face relaxed. 
 
 "You ve been too much shut in, DelmeY he
 
 296 PROSPER 
 
 said in matter-of-fact fashion; "it s high time 
 you took to riding. What has Phil been think 
 ing of not to get a saddle horse and put you 
 on it long ago?" 
 
 "Don t blame Phil," cried Delme with sud 
 den compunction; "to say the truth, Prosper, 
 I ve been horrid to him and everybody so long 
 that they ve learned to let me alone." 
 
 "Then it s time I took a hand and straight 
 ened you out a bit, eh?" 
 
 Delme laughed with so much of her nat 
 ural gaiety that Prosper s military moustachio 
 fairly curled with glee. There was silence 
 then for a long stretch as they galloped on 
 past the thick dark line of Bigbury Wood at 
 a good speed, fairly skimming through the air, 
 it seemed to Delme , while her blood ran warm 
 and quick, and her spirits rose with every 
 mile. This close contact with Prosper gave 
 her sundry small sensations by no means dis 
 agreeable. She could not fail to note the sol 
 dierly grace of his figure, supple and slender, 
 though with muscles like iron; she liked his 
 close-cropped hair, fair and fitting neatly the 
 nape of his neck ; also the outline of his firm,
 
 OVER HARELEDOWN 297 
 
 clean-shaven cheek and chin. She began to 
 wish he would turn oftener in the saddle to 
 look at her ; that look in his eyes set her pulses 
 to throbbing in a way she had never thought 
 to know again. Was ever faithfuller lover? 
 How hard it must be to care so long without 
 return ! She understood now what love meant 
 and was all at once scandalized in reflecting 
 on her own hardness of heart. Again and 
 again she saw in her mind s eye the burning 
 sonnet, and the superstition of a release from 
 the old hopeless passion through that sacrifice 
 gained upon her. 
 
 After one o clock they slackened pace, trot 
 ting into Faversham and drawing rein before 
 the Ship Inn. 
 
 "What!" cried Delme , when Prosper, dis 
 mounting, held up his hands to lift her from 
 the pillion, "surely we are not to stop here? 
 Tis most unusual, I fear, Prosper. What 
 would people say if we go into this inn to 
 gether? They might think " Here she 
 
 broke off, blushing high, and holding 
 back. 
 
 "They might think me the luckiest man in
 
 298 PROSPER 
 
 the world instead of the most unlucky, for a 
 fact," said Prosper composedly, and with the 
 words he clasped her round the waist and 
 lifted her to the ground, then turned as if her 
 scruples were of no smallest account and 
 directed an hostler, who now appeared, what 
 fodder to give his horse. 
 
 The door of the inn was thrown open and 
 Delm was drawn into the cosey parlour, 
 where a bright fire glowed and the air was 
 pungent with rosemary and cedar hanging in 
 ropes from the smoky beams of the ceiling. 
 The best of cheer was provided them at a table 
 drawn to the fireside, and covered with linen 
 coarse in thread but bleached to a gleaming 
 white. They had the room to themselves, 
 which quieted Delme s uneasiness, and the 
 fresh cleanness and homely comfort in these 
 novel surroundings gave her a sudden vivid 
 sense of physical well-being to which she had 
 been long a stranger. 
 
 Prosper watched furtively every bite and 
 sup she took, though feigning interest in his 
 own food alone, which he was careful to take 
 with an appetite which should give her good
 
 OVER HARBLEDOWN 299 
 
 example. He exulted to see her follow it with 
 some success. 
 
 "Now we must hasten home," Delme said, 
 as they rose from table; "what will my aunt 
 think when she finds me gone? She does not 
 even know that you have come." 
 
 They put on their heavy cloaks again and 
 came out to the inn yard where the horse was 
 waiting. 
 
 "She will not be uneasy," said Prosper care 
 lessly, as he swung her up to her place, then, 
 mounting after her, added, "I left word with 
 the maids that I was back and that we d gone 
 for a long ride," with which he turned the 
 horse s head away from Canterbury and gal- 
 lopped on towards Sittingbourne. 
 
 "Nay, Prosper," Delme cried then in sur 
 prise and even dismay, knowing well that soon 
 the early December dusk would be upon them ; 
 "there can be too much of even a good thing. 
 If you please, I would rather turn homeward 
 now." 
 
 There was no answer, but Prosper let the 
 horse feel a prick of his spur and they sped on 
 toward the west, the sun dropping round and
 
 300 PROSPER 
 
 red before them behind orchard trees. The 
 wind was rising and whistled shrilly past 
 them. 
 
 "Prosper!" cried Delme insistently; "Pros 
 per ! You must not go on further. I protest, 
 Prosper." 
 
 There was no reply. Did he not hear? Had 
 he lost his senses? Delinks heart throbbed 
 violently with anger and something like fear. 
 
 "Major Unwin!" she shouted next, but 
 could not give the shout the cold reproach she 
 wished it to convey at his wild disregard of 
 her wishes. Presently, when she had become 
 silent for sheer helplessness he turned and 
 she saw his face full of good-tempered amuse 
 ment, and an easy mastery that piqued and 
 yet mysteriously pleased her, as he said: 
 
 "Keep still now, Delme". Though the ride 
 be a bit long it is for the good of your health, 
 my dear, and well you know you can trust me 
 to take you safely the world round, were it 
 needful." 
 
 "It not being needful that I start just now 
 to go the world round," Delme" answered in 
 dignantly, "I must ask you, sir, this very
 
 OVER HARBLEDOWN 301 
 
 moment to turn back to Canterbury. Twill 
 be dark now before we get there." 
 
 " Faith, I think you re right in that," was 
 the imperturbable answer, "so we d best go 
 forward a while longer." 
 
 And forward they went, Prosper paying no 
 farther heed to her remonstrances than he 
 did to the noise of the wind, until the girl s 
 mettle was up and fiercely, and her mind kept 
 busy w r ith thoughts of hot vengeance upon her 
 cousin for his deeds. He, guessing what went 
 forward in her little head under its furred 
 hood behind him, seemed to find a pleasurable 
 incitement in the thought to plunge on and on, 
 always with that masterful smile when she 
 caught sight of his face, through the gathering 
 twilight. 
 
 They dashed through Sittingbourne still at 
 a gallop. Delme saw lights in the houses as 
 they passed, for night by now had fallen, and 
 was much inclined to shout to men in the 
 streets to stop the horse and set her free, yet 
 could not bring herself to do it for something 
 of interdict and warning in Prosper s very 
 silence. After Sittingbourne they turned due
 
 302 PROSPER 
 
 north and towards the sea, as Delme knew by 
 the damp and the salt on her lips, but still 
 they galloped on through the gathering dark 
 ness, over frozen swale and reedy fen until 
 lights pricked through the gloom again and 
 they rode down the narrow street of a small 
 town, whose name Delme could not even guess. 
 
 Stiffened and benumbed by the cold and 
 long riding, bewildered and furious with Pros 
 per, whose purpose she could not guess, Delme 
 yet felt a strange, excited thrill of daring, a 
 sense of mystery and adventure mounting high 
 and higher, and dispelling the last remnants 
 of her long, listless heart-sick apathy. 
 
 The horse s hoofs sounded hollow on a floor 
 ing of timber, but through the darkness Delme 
 could discern nothing save what looked like 
 the masts of a large brig, close at hand, with 
 a lantern slung here and there in the rigging. 
 Abruptly Prosper reined in his horse, leaped 
 from the saddle, lifted Delme to the ground, 
 then, just as she was about to break into 
 heated demands as to his purpose and his ex 
 cuse, she felt some one clasp her hand firmly 
 and saw beside her the dim figure of a woman
 
 OVER HARBLEDOWN 303 
 
 in travelling cloak and hood, who appeared 
 to be waiting for her. 
 
 Delme turned quickly back to address Pros 
 per, but went half-faint with surprise to find 
 him nowhere in sight. The place seemed 
 deserted, so far as she could discover in the 
 dark. Where could Prosper be? What was 
 she to do next? 
 
 "Come, come," cried the woman, who still 
 held her hard by the wrist, speaking with a 
 foreign accent. "Quick ! quick, Mist ess 
 Davies! Lady Marg it, Lady Marg it Ley!" 
 
 Repeating this name rapidly over and over 
 the woman drew Delme , too bewildered now 
 to object, across a narrow plank and over the 
 side of the brig, whose lights she had perceived 
 a moment earlier. 
 
 "What do you mean?" cried the girl, stand 
 ing on a narrow strip of deck and looking with 
 piercing anxiety into the woman s face. "I 
 know who you are now. Oh, I have seen you 
 in Villiers Street!" a sudden sense of safety 
 and relief warming her heart; "you are the 
 Brabantine lace woman Lady Margaret keeps 
 ever at work at her wardrobe."
 
 304 PROSPER 
 
 "Ess, ess," responded the woman, laughing 
 and clapping her hands, delighted at Beimels 
 recognition. "Lady Marg it, Lady Marg it Ley." 
 
 "Is the Lady Margaret here?" cried Delme . 
 
 "Ess, ess," repeated the woman reassur 
 ingly, at the same time handing her a note. 
 
 Looking about Delrne discovered a red lan 
 tern standing on the poop, and bending, she 
 held the paper to its smoky light and read as 
 follows : 
 
 "Fear nothing. I give you God-speed and 
 Berthe, my Brabantine lace woman, for escort. 
 She is faithful though speechless. Trust your 
 friends. No harm can befall you. M. L." 
 
 "Then Lady Margaret is not here!" cried 
 Delme in keen disappointment; then seeing 
 that the brig was slipping slowly down the 
 channel to the sea and the sailors busy letting 
 out full sail, she burst into a passion of tears. 
 
 Berthe, the Brabant lace worker, a kind, 
 careful creature, led her without further 
 speech to a small cabin, cheerfully lighted, 
 cosily furnished, and provided with two sleep-
 
 OVER HARBLEDOWN 305 
 
 ing berths of immaculate cleanliness. Berthe 
 instantly set out on a small table a tray bear 
 ing food and wine of the most delicate sort and 
 pressed Delme to refresh herself. She was 
 met with a storm of impetuous questions, none 
 of which she was able to understand or answer, 
 as Delme had the sense quickly to perceive. 
 The girl darted up the steep companionway to 
 the deck, where she found a sailor to whom 
 she spoke. He only shook his head and mur 
 mured a few words in a language strange to 
 her, which she recognized as Dutch, however. 
 He pointed to a seaman buttoned up in oil 
 skins, who stood by the pilot, and indicated 
 that he was the brig s captain. With strong 
 self-control Delme steadied her voice and ad 
 dressed him with her questions, Where were 
 they bound? Where was Major Unwin? What 
 did it all mean? 
 
 The Captain bowed with utmost respect, a 
 hearty smile on his honest weather-beaten 
 face for the pretty, distressed lady, but could 
 neither understand nor speak a word of Eng 
 lish or French. The wind was rising now to 
 a small gale, bringing cutting sleet, and flout-
 
 306 PROSPER 
 
 ing Beimels clothes in such fashion that there 
 was nothing for it but to go below to her cabin, 
 which struck her on second view as mightily 
 bright, warm, and inviting. 
 
 Berthe now removed her hood and cloak 
 with light dexterous fingers, then unfastened 
 and slipped off her gown, bringing forth from 
 a small travelling chest a luxurious dressing- 
 robe of quilted crimson satin, which Delme in 
 stantly recognized as belonging to her beloved 
 Lady Margaret Ley. This discovery, combined 
 with the caressing contact of the glowing 
 satin, produced a swift, indescribable change 
 in the girl s mood. It was like the touch of 
 her noble old friend s hand upon her. From 
 terrified protest and fierce, baffled fury she 
 surrendered to a sense of a child s enjoyment 
 of a scene in a pantomime or of a fairy tale, in 
 which, by some strange jugglery, she had chief 
 part to play. Though all was mystery, it w r as 
 plainly a genial and a kindly mystery. Why 
 not yield herself then to a situation she could 
 not control, and gain what pleasure it held 
 for her? 
 
 Berthe was quick to feel the change in
 
 OVER HARBLEDOWN 307 
 
 Delink, and responded with infectious gaiety. 
 Having stripped her icy little feet of their 
 damp coverings she warmed them in her soft 
 hands, then dressed them in red silk stock 
 ings and slippers adorned with big red roses, 
 which she brought out from the travelling 
 chest. 
 
 Thus luxuriously fitted forth, Delme turned 
 with quickening appetite to the tray awaiting 
 her, and ate and drank with a will ; which over 
 she allowed Berthe to undress her and tuck 
 her neatly into one of the berths. All the 
 while the small waves under the brig s keel 
 seemed growing larger with a rising rhythm of 
 motion. Delme fell asleep with a sense that 
 they were passing into the open sea, a sense 
 which brought no terror now but a mysterious 
 satisfaction. Was she destined to break the 
 narrow bounds which had hemmed life in for 
 her of late and come into some strange new 
 power and freedom? And Prosper what was 
 his part in it all, and where was he? and could 
 she ever forgive him? 
 
 All night, as the brig plunged up and down 
 the waves, Delink fancied herself galloping
 
 308 PROSPER 
 
 madly over Harbledown, with Prosper in the 
 saddle before her. But he would not turn his 
 head or speak to her, which, on her frequent 
 waking, disturbed her more than did the un 
 certainty of her mysterious journey.
 
 XXII 
 "MONSIEUR MY NEPHEW 
 
 A 1 sunset, of the day following, Delme , 
 leaning on the brig s bulwark, saw 
 through a curtain of fog a sea wall rising 
 abruptly and beyond a row of curious crenel 
 ated gables and sugar-loaf towers. 
 
 "What is the town?" she asked of the Cap 
 tain, her pointed finger and inflection indicat 
 ing her meaning. 
 
 "Vlissingen," was the reply. 
 
 Delme sighed. This did not fit her notion; 
 she had hoped for Calais or Ostend, having 
 it now contrived in her imagination that Lady 
 Margaret Ley was in France for reasons un 
 known and had sent for her to keep her com 
 pany. 
 
 It was dark when they landed. Delme 
 awaited developments with intensely eager 
 curiosity, but no longer with terror. If Pros 
 per had only come on the boat and were by 
 
 309
 
 310 PROSPER 
 
 her side, she felt that this whole adventure 
 would be full of zest. But Prosper had for 
 saken her. Several liveried servants took 
 courteous but positive possession of her and 
 Berthe the moment they set foot on land ; they 
 were placed in a handsome coach with the 
 travelling chest, and driven off at a rapid 
 pace, an unseen mounted attendant closely 
 following. 
 
 Whither? Delme had no faintest guess. 
 There was a small window in the side of the 
 coach through which she gazed greedily, but 
 the dark, low-lying fields through which they 
 passed gave no sign, only the frequent wind 
 mills suggested the Fen country and the ques 
 tion, Was it English soil or Dutch on which 
 they were landed? 
 
 After an hour s fast driving the coach 
 turned in at a tall iron gateway, where mas 
 sive stone posts rising high were crowned by 
 heraldic griffins, as Delme could make out by 
 the light from the lodge windows. Here the 
 sound of horse s hoofs following ceased sud 
 denly. They rolled down a long avenue be 
 tween rows of tall Lombardy poplars and
 
 "MONSIEUR MY NEPHEW 311 
 
 drew up before an imposing facade, brightly 
 lighted. Doors were flung open into a stately 
 hall, whence broad shallow marble stairs cov 
 ered over with an Oriental tapestry led to re 
 gions above. Delink had a confused impres 
 sion of many liveried servants, all in black, 
 going before and after, and of a matronly 
 woman who met them with mute welcome at 
 the stairhead ; then of an endless labyrinth of 
 galleries hung with portraits. At last all the 
 bewildering turns came to an end. She and 
 Berthe faced each other, breathless and won- 
 derstruck, in a spacious tapestried chamber, 
 and the door was shut. Berthe broke out into 
 a succession of rapid guttural notes of admira 
 tion and excitement, while Delme sank into a 
 low cushioned chair drawn up before a cheer 
 ful fire. The room was luxurious in the ex 
 treme, with a certain festal, even bridal ex 
 pression; all the toilette appointments were 
 fit for a princess, the inlaid bedstead was 
 draped with costly lace, while jars of Provence 
 roses on either side of the white marble chim 
 ney-piece added their fragrance to a scene of 
 appealing charm.
 
 312 PROSPER 
 
 Delmd studied her surroundings, marvelling 
 much. Soon she rose and threw open a case 
 ment to search for some clue from without by 
 which to interpret her situation. She could 
 dimly distinguish, stretching away from the 
 house, an ancient, formal garden of large ex 
 tent with strange shapes of clipped shrubbery, 
 and successive pleasances and terraces capped 
 by marble balustrades. Beyond rose great 
 forest trees, as if the garden were encircled by 
 a park. While she stood at the window a 
 knock was heard at the door, and on Berthe s 
 opening it a lackey announced in French with 
 no small formality that his Lordship would 
 receive Mademoiselle at nine o clock. 
 
 "His Lordship!" cried Delme when the door 
 was shut. "And who in Heaven s name may 
 his Lordship be? If it had been her Ladyship, 
 my heart at last would be at rest. But at least 
 it is something to hear French spoken and to 
 have reason to think the hour of cclaircisse- 
 ment draws nigh." 
 
 By signs she conveyed to Berthe the neces 
 sity for some change from the blue woollen 
 gown in which she had made her journey.
 
 "MONSIEUR MY NEPHEW 313 
 
 It became clear to Delink that Lady Margaret 
 must have prepared definitely for an event like 
 this when Berthe now brought out from the 
 chest an exquisite girlish costume of white 
 satin, bearing the imprint of a house of the 
 highest fashion in London and fitting her per 
 fectly. A small detail, which gave her a 
 haunting perplexity where all was baffling, 
 was added when Berthe laid upon the dressing 
 table Delinks own modest jewel-box. This 
 could have come into the woman s hands only 
 by the connivance with Lady Margaret of her 
 Aunt Marie Unwin. What could it all mean? 
 she sighed despairingly as she clasped the fili 
 gree necklace in its place. 
 
 ^Refreshment having been served them by 
 servants speechless, but otherwise irreproach 
 able, Delmd proceeded to the serious business 
 of her toilette. Nine o clock struck in the hall 
 below and found her pacing the floor of her 
 chamber with restless steps, clad in the lus 
 trous satin, her hair brushed up from her low 
 forehead and falling in small curls on her 
 temples after the latest fashion, her eyes bril 
 liant with almost uncontrollable excitement.
 
 314 PROSPER 
 
 The French-speaking lackey appeared 
 promptly and conducted her through devious 
 ways to a closed door where a man in deep 
 mourning, apparently a kind of major-domo, 
 stood, evidently awaiting her coining. This 
 personage saluted her in French with utmost 
 respect, addressing her to her intense surprise 
 as Mademoiselle Delon. As he opened the 
 door, he said in an undertone: 
 
 "Have no fear. You will find his Lordship 
 easy to talk with. One does not ask him ques 
 tions," he added significantly; "that is all. 
 
 Otherwise " and he smiled as needing to 
 
 say no more. 
 
 Delme now found herself at the foot of a 
 room of impressive dimensions. Midway the 
 length of it rose an enormous chimney. From 
 the wall just beyond the chimney there ex 
 tended, at right angles, a tall Gothic screen 
 of carved oak of magnificent workmanship. 
 Enclosed by this screen and thus shielded 
 from the draughts which might reach other 
 parts of the room, stood an armchair in which 
 sat an old man, clad in deepest black, with a 
 face as white as marble. On one side of him
 
 "MONSIEUR MY NEPHEW 315 
 
 stood an attendant in the garb of a Spanish 
 Jesuit; on the other a physician, as Delme 
 judged by the solicitous attention he bestowed 
 upon the lord of the castle. 
 
 That the old man was her host and lord of 
 the castle Delme did not for a moment doubt, 
 and that he was an almost helpless invalid she 
 immediately perceived. 
 
 The sense strong upon her that she was be 
 ing presented at some small species of court 
 in which strict etiquette prevailed, Delm6, 
 standing before his Lordship, swept her deep 
 est courtesy, her eyes full of grave wonder. 
 There was reverence in them for his age, but 
 no fear for himself or his station. 
 
 Evidently her composure pleased the master 
 of the house, for he smiled slightly as he ex 
 tended his hand, which Delme kissed. He said 
 in French kindly, "So this is Mademoiselle 
 Delrne Delon." 
 
 Again her father s name, which she had not 
 heard in many years! Were they then in 
 Lille perchance, whence Vital Delon had fled 
 to England? If she but dared to ask! 
 
 "At your service, my lord."
 
 316 PROSPER 
 
 "Be seated, I beg. I hope your voyage has 
 been comfortable." 
 
 "Thank you. Entirely so." 
 
 Delme took the offered chair. 
 
 "Was the cabin all that it should have been? 
 the food? the wine?" The old man s eyes, 
 which seemed the only living thing about him, 
 searched her face as if with keenest solicitude. 
 Delme answered respectfully in the affirma 
 tive, whereupon a long series of similar ques 
 tions followed, covering every stage of the 
 journey, save the ride from Canterbury to the 
 unknown port of departure. Delme wished 
 chance might be given her to touch upon the 
 astounding features of that episode, but it was 
 not. 
 
 At length, with a slight wave of his slender, 
 bloodless fingers, his Lordship remarked with 
 stately courtesy: 
 
 "I regret extremely that Mademoiselle 
 should have been put to the inconvenience of 
 such a journey at this inclement season, but 
 it is the custom of our family which made it 
 necessary. Our brides always come to us. 
 You will learn our customs easily with a little
 
 "MONSIEUR MY NEPHEW" 317 
 
 time ; our language you will find more difficult, 
 but you will be expected to learn it. Thank 
 Heaven, your French is perfect!" 
 
 "Our language!" thought Delrne . "What 
 then may it be?" but dared not ask aloud, nor 
 yet what connection the family custom as re 
 garded brides had with her. Perhaps he fan 
 cied a shade of demur in her expression, for 
 he said further: 
 
 "Monsieur s bride should by all means speak 
 the language of his people." 
 
 The physician, from his place behind the old 
 man s chair, observed the swift paling of 
 Delinks cheeks. The Jesuit was busy with his 
 breviary, his eyes downcast. 
 
 "The wedding will take place at noon to 
 morrow," the old lord continued, "If it suit 
 Mademoiselle. It is a matter of importance 
 to me that it occur on Christmas Day. Despite 
 the unfortunate circumstance that you are 
 both Huguenot, the marriage will be cele 
 brated in the family chapel. Upon this I 
 must insist. I have sent, unwillingly enough 
 as you may believe, for a Dominie from 
 Middleburg."
 
 318 PROSPER 
 
 At this point the physician leaned over and 
 spoke to his Lordship in an undertone at some 
 length. The old man tapped his chair arm 
 nervously, winked rapidly, then turning again 
 to Delrne , who was now astonished beyond 
 power of speech, he remarked : 
 
 "I am reminded by my doctor that the last 
 touch has not been laid to the preliminary 
 formalities. Perhaps I move forward too 
 rapidly for Mademoiselle. Monsieur has not 
 yet received your final yes. That is true. 
 My memory has grown a trifle weak as con 
 cerns small details. I suppose there can be 
 no obstacle," he added with a touch of impa 
 tience, and again his eyes searched Delinks 
 agitated face imperiously. "You have seen my 
 nephew, and could hardly ask a finer husband. 
 He is my heir, you perceive, not a bad 
 parti" 
 
 "There is some mistake, my lord," cried 
 Delme , far beyond scruples of etiquette now; 
 "I have been brought here under some strange 
 delusion I have never seen your nephew. It 
 will be impossible for me to marry him." 
 
 "Are you not the daughter of Vital Delon,
 
 "MONSIEUR MY NEPHEW 319 
 
 a Huguenot preacher of Lille? Is not An- 
 thoine Unwin of Canterbury your uncle?" 
 
 "Yes, my lord," and Delme stared at him 
 as if transfixed. 
 
 "Very well," he commented serenely. "It 
 is as I supposed. There is no mistake. Now, 
 as regards the wedding to-morrow : I suggest 
 your wearing the gown you wear to-night, 
 Mademoiselle Delrne ; it suits you excellently. 
 Monsieur really has good taste. You are quite 
 the patrician." 
 
 "But, my lord," said Delme , rising and 
 stepping nearer to his chair, fixing upon him 
 her eyes, which fairly blazed now with excite 
 ment, "I cannot marry Monsieur your 
 nephew to-morrow, I beg you to understand. 
 It is impossible!" and she stamped her foot 
 in unconscious emphasis. 
 
 "And why?" asked the old lord, plainly 
 amused rather than displeased by her 
 defiance. "Do you wish to marry another 
 man?" 
 
 "Yes, my lord," she answered firmly, her 
 cheeks growing scarlet, "it is true. I wish to 
 marry "
 
 320 PROSPER 
 
 "Whom, then?" 
 
 "My cousin, Prosper Unwin." 
 
 "Has Prosper Unwin asked you to marry 
 him?" His Lordship was growing downright 
 merry over Beimels blushing confusion. 
 
 "Not of late, but " 
 
 "But you think he will if properly en- 
 eouraged?" 
 
 "I hope so, although I am very angry with 
 him at this moment 
 
 A sound of knocking on the panels of the 
 screen behind the armchair startled Delme , 
 and the words died upon her lips. 
 
 "Ah! Monsieur my nephew," commented, 
 or rather announced, the old lord coolly, 
 "Entrez, Monsieur." 
 
 Upon this, Prosper Unwin, in court cos 
 tume of black, advanced from cover of the 
 screen, bowed ceremoniously to his Lordship, 
 then sank on one knee at Beimels feet. 
 
 The sudden revulsion of feeling was too 
 great for the girl s composure, for, as Prosper 
 rose and held out his arms, her head dropped 
 upon his shoulder and she burst into tears, 
 heedless of the gently satirical yet sympa-
 
 "MONSIEUR MY NEPHEW" 321 
 
 thetic gaze of the Master of the house and his 
 attendants. 
 
 The first question Delme could articulate, 
 Prosper wiping away her tears the while with 
 anxious tenderness, was: 
 
 "Where is Lady Margaret?" 
 
 "In London, Deline", but it is by her advice 
 and help that you are here and with her bless 
 ing and that of both our families that you 
 marry me to-morrow, an so you will." 
 
 "Prosper, why did you leave me to come 
 alone from England? Why did you desert 
 me?" and Delme held him off, her eyes dark 
 with reproach. 
 
 "Because you were too angry with me when 
 we reached Queenborough, lady-love. I feared 
 you would say things you could never unsay 
 after, for you had a right to be angry. You 
 were horribly ill-treated." 
 
 "Oh, I was! How can I ever forgive you?" 
 
 "I will show you. But you are wrong in 
 thinking I deserted you. I watched over every 
 breath you drew on the sea last night." 
 
 "But, Prosper " 
 
 "I took care you did not see me. Berthe
 
 322 PROSPER 
 
 knows whether I stood guard at your door till 
 daylight." 
 
 "It must have been weary work." 
 
 "Oh, no. I got my pay on the spot. Do you 
 remember that sometime in the small hours 
 you drew a long, long sigh and said quite dis 
 tinctly, Oh, Prosper, I could bear anything if 
 you had but stayed ?" 
 
 "I must have spoken in my sleep ! But tell 
 me, dear, if you can, why you took such a wild, 
 wild way to woo me?" 
 
 "Because I had set out to win this time and 
 had no mind to be defeated. As all gentle 
 means had failed, stern ones alone were left 
 me. Remember, Delme , that you were fret 
 ting your very life away in a sick dream. I 
 dared to hope that if I had power to rouse you 
 from that dream you would not longer have 
 power to resist my love. Was I right?" 
 
 "Yes," she said musingly; "you were right 
 since I had burned the sonnet." 
 
 A puzzled question on Prosper s lips was 
 interrupted by the voice of the Master of the 
 house. The lovers, who had forgotten that 
 they were not alone, turned reverentially to
 
 "MONSIEUR MY NEPHEW 323 
 
 the old man, in whom Deluxe" now discerned a 
 slight resemblance to the sturdy, ruddy An- 
 thoine Unwin. 
 
 "To-morrow, at high noon," his Lordship an 
 nounced with some show of courtly formality, 
 "the marriage of Jonkheer Prosper Onwhyn, 
 nephew and heir of the Heer van Bersele, with 
 Mademoiselle Delme Delon, will be solem 
 nized in the Chapel of the Seigniory of Ber 
 sele, on the Island of Walcheren, in the Dutch 
 Province of Zeeland!" 
 
 "At last I know where I am," murmured 
 Delm to Prosper, "and who you are!" 
 
 Across the midwinter welter of the North 
 Sea, in the narrow London house sat Eng 
 land s lordliest Commoner, an alien among 
 those of his ow r n household that Christmas eve. 
 
 In brooding solitude of spirit, though forced 
 to company closely and continually with those 
 most wearisome to him, conjoined by accident 
 or the tie of law, John Milton was set to learn 
 to quench his soul s thirst at unseen springs 
 and to feed his heart s hunger on things and
 
 324 PROSPER 
 
 thoughts divine, earthly joy and love being 
 denied him. For his was the mind not to be 
 changed by place or time, the mind which is 
 its own place and in itself can make a heaven 
 of hell.
 
 BOOK VI 
 SIX YEARS AFTER
 
 " Seasons return, but not to me returns 
 Day, or the sweet approach of ev n or morn, 
 Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer s rose, 
 Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine ; 
 But cloud instead and ever-during dai k 
 Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men 
 
 Cutoff 
 
 So much the rather thou, celestial Light, 
 
 Shine inward, and the mind through all her pow rs 
 
 Irradiate, there plant eyes, all mist from thence 
 
 Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell 
 
 Of things invisible to mortal sight."
 
 XXIII 
 
 THE LATIN SECRETARY 
 
 ON Tuesday, January the thirtieth, in 
 the year 1649, Charles Stuart, accom 
 panied by his chaplain, made sad proces 
 sion from St. James s to Whitehall through 
 the Park. Arrived at the Palace he was led 
 through various galleries to the royal bed 
 chamber and there suffered to rest for a space 
 for private devotion and for the strengthening 
 of his soul for that which was to come. This 
 was in the morning. At noon, a signal being 
 heard outside, the King met the guard of sol 
 diers awaiting him and passed to the grand 
 Banqueting Hall, many men and women 
 crowding into the galleries to w r atch his prog 
 ress with grave and piteous faces. 
 
 A passage having been broken through one 
 of the Banqueting Hall windows for the pur 
 pose the King emerged on a scaffold in the 
 open street and, after addressing the mass of 
 
 327
 
 S28 SIX YEARS AFTER 
 
 people gathered on the housetops and in the 
 spaces below, laid his head upon the block 
 with much dignity, composure, and fortitude 
 and so met his death, according to the sentence 
 of the High Court of Commissioners. 
 
 In the afternoon of that same Tuesday, the 
 House of Commons, by the Sergeant-at-Arms, 
 accompanied by pursuivants, announced at 
 Cheapside that whoever caused "the proclaim 
 ing of any person to be King of England" 
 would be deemed a traitor, thus declaring 
 England to be no longer a Kingdom but a 
 Commonwealth. A week later it was re 
 solved: "That the House of Peers in Parlia 
 ment is useless and dangerous, and ought to 
 be abolished, and that an Act be brought in to 
 that purpose." After long debate it was fur 
 ther found that "The office of a King in this 
 realm ... is unnecessary, burdensome, and 
 dangerous to the liberty, safety, and public in 
 terest of the People of this nation, and there 
 fore ought to be abolished, and that an Act 
 be brought in to that purpose." 
 
 For the time being authority was vested in 
 the fragment which remained of the Long
 
 The LATIN SECRETARY 329 
 
 Parliament, but the real centre of power 
 was the Council of State that very day 
 created. 
 
 On the seventh day of February, 1649, Eng 
 land became a Republic. 
 
 Ten days passed and the new republican 
 Council, consisting of forty-one lords and 
 commoners, held its first meeting in 
 Derby House, Westminster, Lieutenant-Gen- 
 eral Oliver Cromwell in the chair. Soon after 
 the meetings of the Council were transferred 
 to Whitehall and instructions were given that 
 members who desired it should have lodging 
 in the Palace. 
 
 On Tuesday, the thirteenth of March, John 
 Bradshaw, Head of the Court of Commission 
 ers, having been chosen permanent chairman 
 of the Council under the designation "Lord 
 President Bradshaw," as items of business re 
 corded in the Order Book were the following 
 resolutions : 
 
 First, "That Mr. Whitlocke, Sir Harry Vane 
 and (four others) be appointed a Committee 
 to consider what alliances this Crown hath 
 formerly had with Foreign States and what
 
 330 SIX YEARS AFTER 
 
 those States are. . . . Second, That it be re 
 ferred to the former Committee to speak with 
 Mr. John Milton, to know whether he will 
 be employed as Secretary for the Foreign 
 Tongues and to report at the Council." 
 
 On Thursday, John Milton was formally ap 
 pointed Secretary for Foreign Tongues to the 
 Council, and on the same day Oliver Cromwell 
 was made Commander-in-Chief of the Army. 
 His immediate work would lie in Ireland and 
 thither he departed shortly after, leaving Lon 
 don with great magnificence of state, his coach 
 drawn by six horses, and he bearing the par 
 ticular title of Lord-General and Governor of 
 Ireland. 
 
 On March twentieth, John Milton took the 
 oath of secrecy administered to such as acted 
 as secretaries, was introduced to the Council 
 of State, and given his seat. His first work 
 was the translation into Latin of certain let 
 ters to the Senate of Hamburg. Latin, here 
 tofore in use to some extent in the intercourse 
 of England with foreign nations, was adopted 
 by the new Commonwealth as the medium of 
 diplomatic correspondence, and Milton was
 
 The LATIN SECRETARY 331 
 
 usually known as "the Latin Secretary." His 
 nephew Edward Phillips wrote of the Coun 
 cil in this regard that they "stuck to this noble 
 and generous resolution, not to write to any 
 or receive answers from them, but in a lan 
 guage the most proper to maintain a corre 
 spondence among the learned of all nations in 
 this part of the world, scorning to carry on 
 their affairs in the wheedling, lisping jargon 
 of the cringing French, especially having a; 
 Minister of State able to cope with the ablest 
 any Prince or State could employ for the 
 Latin tongue." 
 
 Not only were the new Secretary s un 
 equalled qualifications employed in State cor 
 respondence, but literary tasks of highest im 
 portance in the interests of the Common 
 wealth were from the day of his induction into 
 office heaped upon him. As soon as circum 
 stances permitted chambers for residence for 
 himself and his family were assigned Milton 
 in Whitehall Palace. Thus the poet found him 
 self transported from the obscure scholastic 
 retirement of his previous life in London to 
 the very centre of highest political activity at
 
 332 SIX YEARS AFTER 
 
 Westminster, in the crucial hour of founding 
 a new state. 
 
 It was a spring morning in the year 1651. 
 
 Into the north court of Whitehall, known 
 as Scotland Yard, through the gateway upon 
 the open thoroughfare which ran through the 
 Palace precincts from Charing Cross to W T est- 
 minster, a coach was driven. The coachman 
 and footman wore mulberry-coloured livery, 
 and above the blazon on the doors of the coach 
 appeared a small coronet. 
 
 The court in which the coach now drew up 
 was one of the lesser in the intricate series of 
 courts belonging to the vast labyrinth of 
 Whitehall. It w r as surrounded by gabled 
 brick buildings with connecting galleries, pas 
 sages, and staircases indicating the endless, 
 tortuous succession of snug chambers in which 
 the Government and Palace officials with their 
 families were transiently or permanently ac 
 commodated. 
 
 At the opposite side of the court from its 
 entrance, at the foot of a broad and shallow
 
 The LATIN SECRETARY 333 
 
 stair, a newel-post bore, framed, a small 
 placard on which was printed "Sir John Hip- 
 pesley, knt., M.P." This inscription had been 
 crossed out with a pen and below was writ 
 ten, "Mr. John Milton, Secretary for the 
 Foreign Tongues." Above this staircase, in a 
 second-story window stood a woman in 
 widow s cap and homely gown of duffle grey, 
 looking through the small leaded panes down 
 into the court. It was Mistress Powell, 
 widow of Kichard Powell, Esquire, late of 
 Forest Hill, Oxford, deceased in London in 
 the year 1647. The dame s once comely face 
 and active figure showed painfully the ravages 
 of poverty, loss, and ceaseless anxiety; her 
 countenance was unpleasantly sharpened and 
 her florid skin thick sown with lines of care, so 
 that she appeared far beyond her fifty years. 
 In her arms, with the easy carelessness of long 
 practice, Dame Powell held a new-born infant 
 wrapped closely in folds of soft flannel. The 
 room in which she stood was furnished as a 
 handsome parlour ; its lofty ceiling and richly- 
 carved chimney gave an impression of stately 
 dignity with which the dame s rustic and un-
 
 334 SIX YEARS AFTER 
 
 graceful figure ill accorded. Beside the chim 
 ney a door stood open into a silent and closely- 
 darkened room. 
 
 Suddenly Dame Powell, whose acute curi 
 osity indicated that she was unaccustomed to 
 her present surroundings, spoke in a sharp, 
 unmodulated voice from her place by the win 
 dow. 
 
 "Mary," she called, "has my lady Margaret 
 Ley mulberry-coloured livery now, do you 
 know, to her coachmen?" 
 
 An indistinct murmur from beyond the open 
 door was the only response. 
 
 "Sure it used to be green if I m not mis 
 taken, yet do the horses look familiar, and 
 I m bound that coachman is the one used to 
 come so oft to the Barbican." 
 
 The dame broke off speaking to gaze more 
 intently through the diamond-shaped window 
 panes, then ran on again in monologue 
 fashion, albeit her comments were intended 
 for her daughter s ears. 
 
 "But there s no sign of Lady Margaret her 
 self, now they re getting out, nor the Captain, 
 and on my honour they re looking this way,
 
 The LATIN SECRETARY 335 
 
 and the yeoman of the guard is pointing 
 straight to the stair below." 
 
 "Do come away from the window, mother, I 
 want no visitors, Heaven knows !" 
 
 It was Mary Milton s voice, faint and fret 
 ful, from the inner room. 
 
 "Be quiet. I know enough to keep myself 
 out of sight. Upon my word I wish you could 
 have a look at this lady! She s just out of 
 the coach and for all the world like a queen 
 or some of the great Court ladies that used 
 to be getting out of their coaches no doubt, 
 Molly, on that very spot when his blessed 
 Majesty was alive, and such gentry as we 
 knew better than to take the place of the no 
 bility in Whitehall. A beauty she is, I declare, 
 though I have to guess at her features, her 
 veil being down. All in a sea-blue satin, most 
 gallant, coat and bonnet alike with the gown 
 and sleeves of lace such as I never set eyes 
 on!" 
 
 "It must be Lady Margaret." The voice 
 from the inner room betrayed a touch of lan 
 guid, half-impatient interest. 
 
 "Lady Margaret! I wish you could see for
 
 336 SIX YEARS AFTER 
 
 yourself! Tis a young, graceful creature, as 
 slim and pliant-like as a fawn, and the way 
 she carries herself, really, say what you will, 
 it s but once in a long while you see the qual 
 ity with that true high-born air! There s a 
 child with her, a little lad of five or six, and 
 a nurse or some such person. The child is of 
 a prince-like shape, but dressed oddly, quite 
 the foreigner seemingly by his look." 
 
 "Do tell me they re not coming here, mother, 
 whoever they are. What do I care how grand 
 they may be!" 
 
 "Nay, I think not, though the lady is for a 
 certainty walking this way and has her eyes 
 on the name-card at the stair. But, good 
 lack! the Council must be done its meeting, 
 for there comes Mr. Milton in from the great 
 Court this minute and Sir Harry Vane with 
 him, and the lady has left off looking this way. 
 Now she is turning to right-about and moving 
 across the pavement towards the two of them. 
 They notice her no\v and they re in a great 
 taking! Tis hats off and great homage they 
 pay her, you can believe me, whoever she be! 
 Now his little lordship is brought up and
 
 The LATIN SECRETARY 337 
 
 gives his hand very prettily, and your hus 
 band bends low and searches the child s face, 
 poor man, not being well able to discern it 
 otherwise." 
 
 "Who can it be?" 
 
 Piercing curiosity gave a sudden shrillness 
 to Mary Milton s voice. 
 
 Glancing back through the open door, her 
 mother saw that she lifted herself on one el 
 bow, then sank back weakly on her pillows. 
 There was silence for a moment; then, in a 
 faint voice, came the words : 
 
 "My own little son is fine enough for me. 
 Do, granny, bring the baby and lay him where 
 I can see his little face. You make my head 
 ache never so with all this tiresome chatter." 
 
 "Wait a bit ; wait a bit," was the dame s re 
 sponse to her daughter s petition. "I must 
 stop just a minute longer and see what be 
 comes of these great folk; belike they ll be 
 for coming up here next, after all. Dear me 
 no! they re breaking up and Sir Harry Vane, 
 (he is looking a great beau this morning in 
 black velvet coat and scarlet waistcoat), he 
 has the child by the hand now, the nurse fol-
 
 338 SIX YEARS AFTER 
 
 lo\ving, and is leading him out the way the 
 coach drove in." 
 
 "He ll be taking him to the Park no doubt, 
 to feed the swans. Sir Harry will have his 
 own key." 
 
 This comment came with a shade of con 
 scious superior knowledge of the affairs of the 
 Palace. "What about the others, then?" 
 
 "Well, the lady has sent her coach off with 
 out her. Tis driven out after Sir Harry and 
 turns in the direction of the King s Gate." 
 
 "Then this great personage you tell so much 
 about and my husband are left alone, I should 
 judge. What next?" 
 
 "Mr. Milton is leading the lady now back 
 the way he came to the great Court. Yes, he 
 is going with her. I"ll wager he is for showing 
 her the Banqueting Hall and all those strange 
 outlandish pictures of improper women on 
 the ceiling the London folk make so much of." 
 
 "More likely she has come on some matter 
 of business with one of the great lords of the 
 Council, and Mr. Milton is helping her find 
 him." 
 
 "That may be or may not be," replied Dame
 
 The LATIN SECRETARY 339 
 
 Powell, with a falling inflection as of disap 
 pointment. "One guess is as good as another. 
 They re all gone, that s sure. Mr. Milton 
 seems not to be returning." 
 
 She left the window reluctantly, crossed the 
 room, and said: 
 
 "Here, you can have your baby."
 
 XXIV 
 
 THE LIGHT EXCELLING 
 
 BY the side of the long Stone Gallery, at 
 the far south end of the Palace, John 
 Milton led the Lady of Bersele, for it was she 
 who had aroused the curiosity of the Widow 
 Powell in so great a degree, and so into the 
 quiet paths of the beautiful Privy Garden. 
 They hardly spoke as they passed on through 
 the broad parterres gay with tulips and hya 
 cinths in brilliant bloom and came to a rustic 
 bench facing the sun-dial. Here at Milton s 
 desire the lady was seated, while he leaning 
 against the dial s pedestal looked for a mo 
 ment silently down upon her. 
 
 Something in the searching gaze of the eyes 
 gave a mysterious pathos to his face which 
 moved his visitor beyond the agitation natu 
 rally attending a meeting after long years of 
 separation. Altogether the change in her old 
 master. Lady Unwin felt to be profound, al- 
 
 340
 
 The LIGHT EXCELLING 341 
 
 though his face remained nobly beautiful. 
 The blithe buoyancy, the sweet, engaging grace 
 of his young years was gone and with it the 
 subtle emanation of the man s confidence in 
 his own power to make possible the impos 
 sible. The lines of thought and care were 
 graven deep ; the look was no longer free and 
 unfettered but gravely musing; word and mo 
 tion had lost something of impetuous fire, yet 
 the man was all in all greater, more imposing 
 than she had remembered him. He spoke with 
 an unconscious authority furthermore beyond 
 his early habit, and in all things showed him 
 self as one weighed upon by affairs of state 
 and moving among the large and liberal con 
 cerns of human life. 
 
 The Secretary, on the other hand, was re 
 flecting, that the changes in his former scholar 
 at first so striking, were all to the good, since 
 in face she appeared little older but only to 
 wear a softer and more thoughtful gentleness, 
 while in bearing she had gained an indefinable 
 distinction. She seemed to him not less spir 
 ited than of old but to be possessed of a 
 sweeter harmony of being.
 
 342 SIX YEARS AFTER 
 
 They discussed for some moments the ob 
 vious interests of their respective lives, and 
 the leading events which most concerned them. 
 Milton spoke with delicate reserve and with 
 much kindness withal of his wife, and how 
 but four days since a son had been born to 
 them. He regretted with a certain formality 
 that Mistress Milton must lose the oppor 
 tunity of renewing old friendship with so dis 
 tinguished a visitor, and yet Delnie knew per 
 fectly that in both their minds lay a very pal 
 pable relief that the necessity of a meeting be 
 tween herself and Mary Milton was obviated. 
 That his wife was subdued and humbled in 
 spirit, anxious to do her duty, yet as incapable 
 as of yore of comprehending the world in 
 which his interests dwelt, Delink knew intui 
 tively by the very kindness and carefulness of 
 his mention of her. Next they spoke of the 
 causes which had brought Delme to England 
 for the first time since her marriage. Her 
 mother was in failing health; Dr. Davies had 
 died in the year previous and at the wish of 
 her husband, the Lord of Bersele, Delink had 
 come to take her mother home to his castle in
 
 The LIGHT EXCELLING 343 
 
 Walcheren, there to live for the rest of her 
 life. They were leaving on the day following. 
 Milton had not heard of Beimels presence in 
 London; this the first sight of her therefore 
 stirred him strongly. 
 
 "The lines have fallen unto you in pleasant 
 places, Lady Unwin; you have a goodly heri 
 tage, a noble husband, a fair son. All good 
 things are yours. I do not ask if you are 
 happy, it needs not that I should. The grace 
 of sweet content is in your looks." 
 
 Thus Milton concluded their swift exchange 
 of personal tidings, a thrill of profound feel 
 ing in his voice. 
 
 "And you?" she returned, forcing her own 
 to steadiness; "yours is a state exceeding far 
 the happiness of fair possession. You have 
 achieved! All England recognizes in you a 
 champion. Indeed the Netherlands are ring 
 ing, and my husband says it is the same 
 throughout Northern Europe, with the fame 
 of the Defence of John Milton, Englishman, 
 of the People of England against Salmasius." 
 
 "Is it so? This is beyond my own surmise." 
 
 "Oh, yes. Every one at The Hague is ask-
 
 344 SIX YEARS AFTER 
 
 ing: Who is this John Milton, Englishman, 
 who wields such a mighty pen and speaks with 
 such a voice of thunder? Can you imagine 
 Prosper s pride and mine when we can say, He 
 is our friend!" 
 
 A courtly bow and Milton s own brilliant 
 smile greeted this. 
 
 "I have at least my charter and freehold 
 of rejoicing," he commented presently, "that 
 I have not shunned to declare the whole coun 
 sel of my own convincement." 
 
 "This is the third great utterance of de 
 fence which the nation owes you in its present 
 crisis, Mr. Secretary. It is my earnest hope 
 that the State rewards you in proportion to 
 the service you render it, yet such is not, I 
 think, the belief of Lady Margaret Ley, whose 
 guest I am in house and equipage during a 
 day or two." 
 
 " Tis long since I have seen Lady Mar 
 garet," replied Milton. "Hers is a quick, in 
 genious, and piercing spirit, and a somewhat 
 overhasty one as regards her requirements for 
 her friends. I have all I can ask, your Lady 
 ship: a goodly lodging here in Whitehall for
 
 The LIGHT EXCELLING 345 
 
 my family ; a sufficient compensation in money 
 for my labour ; daily intercourse with the fore 
 most spirits of the time and the men of liberal 
 learning of every nation ; a position of honour 
 and influence among my peers. Is not this 
 enough?" 
 
 "Lady Margaret has told me that the en 
 thusiasm for your Defensio on the part of the 
 Council did take the form of official thanks 
 and of an appropriation of a hundred pounds." 
 
 "I accepted the former." 
 
 "But if Lady Margaret is rightly informed, 
 not the latter." 
 
 "To have done so were palpably impossible, 
 Delme " here Milton broke off, confused at 
 the inadvertent lapse into his old habitual 
 form of address. 
 
 "If you please, Mr. Milton, do not go back 
 to calling me otherwise than as you used," 
 cried Delme , colouring high and looking as she 
 spoke no older than in the days when Milton 
 was her master. "It can do no harm, and my 
 lady on your lips chills me with a sense of 
 rebuff. Hardly can I hope to see you again, 
 perhaps ever in this life. May we not for
 
 346 SIX YEARS AFTER 
 
 this little hour be on our own line, be our 
 selves?" 
 
 "We may." 
 
 Milton spoke with imperious brevity. 
 
 "Tell me, then, if you will, this labour for 
 the State, is it to your mind? does it give 
 scope for those greater powers which for years 
 during the War time you curbed for sake of 
 serving the cause of liberty in divers ways?" 
 
 "To say so much as that is impossible," re 
 plied Milton gravely, and took the seat as he 
 spoke by DelmeVs side. "Much of my work is 
 rugged and difficult, harsh even, by the neces 
 sities of controversy and far removed from the 
 gentler practice of poetry to which my mind 
 has from my youth turned with profound de 
 sire, still held at a distance, and from time 
 to time put by." 
 
 "Must it be so ever, to the very end?" 
 
 "Be not so tristful, dear DelmeY and Mil 
 ton smiled gently at her tone of passionate 
 protest, although the seriousness of his face 
 deepened perceptibly. "The time cannot be 
 far off," he continued, "when the State will 
 cease to crave my service and I shall have all
 
 The LIGHT EXCELLING 347 
 
 the retirement a man can need to follow the 
 devices and desires of his own heart. I pre 
 pare and compose myself accordingly." 
 
 "But how may this be?" 
 
 "Do you not guess, dear Lady, that it is only 
 with difficulty even in this broad noonday sun 
 that I discern your features? Those flowers 
 yonder seem all, as I look, to swim now to the 
 left, now to the right. If I look at a lit candle, 
 a kind of iris seems to snatch it from me. In 
 veterate mists seem often to settle on my fore 
 head and temples like a purple thickness, and 
 the earth seems whirling beneath my feet. 
 Judge yourself what all these things fore 
 shadow." 
 
 "But surely this calamity can yet be 
 averted! It cannot be too late." 
 
 "It is too late," he said quietly. "I may 
 have yet a year, hardly longer, before I give my 
 eyes their long holiday. It was determined, 
 and with knowledge prepense at the time when 
 I was called upon by the Council to prepare 
 the Defence of the English People." 
 
 "Determined by yourself, Mr. Milton, de 
 liberately?"
 
 348 SIX YEARS AFTER 
 
 "Yes, deliberately. The choice lay before 
 me between dereliction of a supreme duty and 
 loss of eyesight ; in such a case I could not lis 
 ten to the physician, not if ^Esculapius him 
 self had spoken from his sanctuary; I could 
 not but obey that inward monitor, I know not 
 what, that spake to me from Heaven. I con 
 sidered with myself that many had purchased 
 less good with worse ill, as they who give 
 their lives to reap only glory. I thereupon 
 concluded to employ the little remaining eye 
 sight I was to enjoy in doing this, the greatest 
 service to the Commonwealth it was in my 
 power to render." 
 
 As Milton talked on with utmost compos 
 ure although with quiet sadness, Delme felt 
 as she looked and listened a most poignant 
 emotion, and something of her native girlish 
 frankness of rebellion rose within her. The 
 man beside her caught a sob that forced its 
 way from her lips and turned quickly, for an 
 instant laying his hand upon hers. 
 
 "Nay, Delme , tis not miserable to be blind ; 
 the misery would be in not being able to bear 
 blindness. You and I, remember, learned long
 
 The LIGHT EXCELLING 349 
 
 ago, did we not? that hard things can be 
 borne and cheerfully if the heart be lowly 
 wise." 
 
 Still Delme could not trust her voice to 
 reply. 
 
 "Man doth not live by bread alone, we know, 
 but by every word that proceedeth out of the 
 mouth of God. What shall prevent me from be 
 lieving that eyesight lies not in eyes alone, but 
 that to the inner eye, so much the more 
 when the outer eye is darkened, the beatific 
 vision may be vouchsafed; that the darkness 
 may be illuminated again by a more excelling 
 light?" 
 
 Beimels tears were checked; she was over 
 awed by the spiritual greatness of the man, 
 and yet the vehement protest of her heart 
 would not be silenced. 
 
 "But when I think of your life-long pur 
 pose," she murmured passionately, "of the 
 great and deathless poem which it was in you 
 to write and to leave as the heritage of the 
 ages " 
 
 "That hope is not dead, dear Delme . 
 Kather Heaven s light shining inward does
 
 350 SIX YEARS AFTER 
 
 sometimes give me promise that, though I 
 must sing darkling, I yet shall sing of things 
 invisible to mortal sight." 
 
 The lady rose from her seat, her face white 
 and solemn, a sense upon her that the place 
 where she stood was holy ground. 
 
 No word broke the silence as they together 
 retraced their steps to the great Court, from 
 which Milton then led the way through the 
 lower halls of the Palladian Banqueting 
 House out upon the Palace Street. Here be 
 fore Holbein s noble King s Gate the coach 
 which had brought Delme was waiting. They 
 stood together for a little space, the lady s 
 eyes lifted to the mullioned windows of the 
 Gate rising range above range and to the soar 
 ing battlements of the octagonal towers. The 
 stress of her emotion crowded down, she 
 forced herself back for the parting moment 
 upon her natural gaiety. 
 
 " Tis a brave portal," she cried and laughed 
 a little, "and I can but think, Mr. Secretary, 
 that it far exceeds in its royal symmetry and 
 proportions the bourgeois Alders Gate down 
 in the City. Here are you, dwelling in White-
 
 The LIGHT EXCELLING 351 
 
 hall Palace, by no means too lordly to fit you, 
 sir, and I myself in what men are pleased to 
 call a castle, over the sea ; yet do I wonder if 
 either of us is housed better to our mind than 
 when we lived down there by the dear old 
 Alders Gate, riding gallantly into town with 
 poor King James as we entered, and, once 
 within, sitting most majestical with him on 
 his throne!" 
 
 John Milton laughed at her whimsical 
 recollection. 
 
 " Twas a goodly gate, and I would gladly be 
 back this minute in the old garden house just 
 beyond it. Would your Ladyship like to read 
 Tasso once more, sitting on the garden bench 
 under the plane tree? 
 
 The lady laughed, but tears were again dan 
 gerously near the surface. 
 
 "Had Heaven so willed it I might," she 
 said, forcing herself still to lightness, "but on 
 the contrary Heaven wills that I shall at this 
 moment enter Lady Margaret s carriage and 
 be driven through the Park to find my little 
 son." 
 
 "Vane said you were to find them by the
 
 352 SIX YEARS AFTER 
 
 margin of Rosamond s Pond, if you re 
 member." 
 
 "Yes, and I fear Sir Harry will be ready 
 to throw himself into Rosamond s Pond for 
 sheer weariness if I keep him waiting longer. 
 Dear Mr. Milton, dear master, good-bye." 
 
 The Secretary took her outstretched hand 
 and held it, studying her face with careful 
 scrutiny. 
 
 "I wish every line of your face to be en 
 graven on my memory, Delme , for the coming 
 years in which I shall not see you again." 
 
 "You can see me now, sir, quite plainly of 
 a surety?" she asked, a slight tremor in her 
 voice, her eyes fixed upon his, never more 
 lucid or unblemished to her sight. 
 
 "Through a glass, darkly," he made answer 
 very gently, "now." 
 
 There was a moment s silence, after which 
 he added : 
 
 "But then, face to face." 
 
 FINIS
 
 tue 
 were