When Robin entered, there was no one in the room but the Lord Broghill, Manasseh Ben Israel, and a little girl. My Lord Broghill, who was one of the Protector's cabinet counsellors, had been sent for from Ireland to go to Scotland, and be President of the Council there, but soon wearying of the place, had just returned to London, and posted down immediately to Hampton Court:—he was bidding the Protector good night, and that with much servility. The presence of Robin was yet unnoticed save by the Jew. Before his Lordship had left the chamber, even as his foot was on the threshold, Cromwell called him back.

"My Lord Broghill."

The cabinet counsellor bowed and returned.

"I forgot to mention, there is a great friend of yours in London."

"Indeed! Please your Highness, who is it?"

"My Lord of Ormond," replied the Protector. "He came to town on Wednesday last, about three of the clock, upon a small grey mule, and wearing a brown but ill-made and shabby doublet. He lodges at White Friars, number—something or other; but you, my Lord," he added, pointedly, "will have no difficulty in finding him out."

"I call the Lord to witness," said Broghill, casting up his eyes after the most approved Puritan fashion—"I call the Lord to witness, I know nothing of it!"

Cromwell gathered his eyebrows and looked upon him for a moment with a look which made the proud lord tremble; then sending forth a species of hissing noise from between his teeth, sounding like a prolonged hish—h—h—h. "Nevertheless, I think you may as well tell him that I know it. Good night, my Lord, good night!"

"He's had his night-cap put on, and now for mine," thought little Robin, who, as he advanced, bowing all the way up the room, could not avoid observing, (even under such circumstances, there was something singularly touching in the fact,) that a little girl, a child of about six or seven years old, sat on a stool at the Protector's feet, her fair arms twined around his knee; and her plain, but expressive face, looking up to his, and watching every movement of his features with more than childish earnestness. As Robin drew near, she stood up, and contemplated him with very natural curiosity.

"Closer, young man—still closer," said the Protector; "our sight grows dim; and yet we will see distinctly, and with our own eyes too—for the eyes of others serve us not."

Robin did as he was commanded, bowing and shaking all the time like the figure of a mandarin. The Protector advanced one step towards him; and then plucked at the Ranger's beard with so strong a hand, that it deserted his chin, and dangled between Cromwell's fingers. At this, the child set up a loud and merry shout of laughter; but not so did the incident affect the Protector, to whose mind treachery was ever present; he instantly exclaimed,—

"Guards! what ho! without there!" Five or six rushed into the room and laid hands upon Robin, who offered no resistance, submitting to their mercy.

"Your Highness has mistaken," said Ben Israel; "there is no treachery in the young man. I have told your Highness how he came to me, and what he knows. Your servant has not spoken words of falsehood, but of truth."

"But you did not tell me he was not a Jew: you know him not as I do," was the Protector's reply: "he consorts with——" then suddenly checking himself, he continued, addressing the soldiers: "But search him gently withal—peradventure he has no secret weapons—we would not deal unjustly; but, of late, there has been so much evil intended us by all classes of Malignants, that it behoves us to be careful. Methinks, friend Manasseh, there was no need of this disguise?"

"It was to avoid the scandal of my own people, please your Highness, who would marvel to see any other than one of our tribe about my person."

The little girl, who was no other than Bridget, a great favourite of Cromwell's, and one of the youngest children of Ireton, the Protector's son-in-law, seemed much amused at the search, and the extraordinary materials it brought to light. There was a whistle, a string of bells, a small black mask, quantities of paint and patches, and various other things; but no arms of any kind, save the small Spanish dagger which Robin so lately exchanged with the sailor at Greenwich. The Protector took this up, examined it attentively, placed it in a small drawer, then briefly dismissed the attendants, and seating himself, apologised to Ben Israel for the delay.

"This person will not wonder at it," he continued, looking at Robin; "for he knows what excellent reason I have to believe him an adept in falsehood."

"No one ever heard me speak a lie, please your Highness," said Robin, in a hesitating and tremulous voice.

"I cannot call to mind your speaking lies; but you are famous for acting them: however, I desire you speak none here."

"Please your Highness," returned Robin Hays, regaining his self-possession, "I do not intend it, for it would be useless."

"How mean ye?"

"Because your Highness can always tell truth from falsehood; and say who is the speaker, no matter how hidden from others."

A smile relaxed for a moment the full, firm, but flexible mouth of Oliver Cromwell, at this well-timed compliment to that on which he so much prided himself—his penetration. He then commenced questioning the Ranger upon his knowledge of Sir Willmott Burrell and the Rabbi's daughter. Robin did not in the least degree equivocate; but related every particular as minutely and distinctly as he had done to Ben Israel; not omitting his knowledge that Sir Willmott meditated the destruction of Walter De Guerre. Cromwell listened to the details with much attention; but it was not until this portion of his story was concluded, that, with his usual wiliness, he told the Ranger, that, as it had nothing to do with Manasseh Ben Israel, it need not have been mentioned.

The Protector then commanded Sir John Berkstead to his presence, and directed that a troop of horse should be had in immediate readiness, and that, in a few minutes, he would name to Colonel Jones the officer who was to accompany them, and the place of their destination.

"And now let us to bed. Will my little Bridget bid her grandfather good night?" and he kissed the child with much tenderness.—"People wonder why I trust thee in my councils; but God hath given thee a soul of truth and a secret tongue; thou growest pale with late sitting, and that must not be." The Protector clasped his hands, and said a few words of prayer over the girl, who knelt at his feet.

"Good Manasseh, I would recommend your resting here to-night; you need repose, but I must detain your serving-man. Without there!"

An attendant entered.

"Conduct this person to——" A whisper told the remainder of the sentence, and Robin was led from the apartment.

Very few lingered in the great hall; the pages were sleeping soundly; and, though they encountered Colonel John Jones, he did not recognise Robin, who, despoiled of his beard and black hair, looked so much like the servant of Sir Willmott Burrell, as to be thought such by more than one of the attendants. As he passed through the second court, his guide suddenly turned into a small arched door-way, and directed Robin to proceed up a narrow flight of winding stairs, that appeared to have no termination. Robin once halted for breath, but was obliged to proceed, and at length found himself in a small, cell-like apartment, with a narrow sky-light, opening, as he conjectured, on the palace roof.

Here his attendant left him, without so much as "good night," and he had the satisfaction of hearing the key turn within the rusty lock.

The mistiness of the night had passed away, and the moon looked down in unclouded majesty upon the courts and turrets of "the House at Hampton."

Robin seated himself on his truckle bedstead, upon which merely a rude straw mattress, covered with a blanket, was thrown, and which, for aught he knew, had been occupied by a thousand prisoners before him; but, however bitter and sarcastic his mind might be, it was not given to despond; and he soon began to reflect on what had passed. Although it was not by any means the first time he had been face to face with the Protector, yet it was the first time he had ever seen him with any of the indications of human feeling. "He has made many children fatherless," thought the Ranger, "and yet see how fond he is of that ill-favoured girl, who is the very picture of himself! Poor Walter! Well, I wonder what has been done with him; I had a great mind to ask, but there is something about him, that, were he never a Protector, one would just as soon not make free with." As Robin thought thus, his eyes were fixed on the light and flitting clouds, and he was longing to be free and abroad in the moonbeams, that entered his cell only to smile on his captivity; when some opaque body stood between him and the light, so that he was for a moment almost in darkness. About three minutes after, the same effect occurred; and presently a man's face was placed close to the glass, evidently with the design of seeing into the room.

"A-hoy there!" shouted the Ranger. The face was withdrawn, and no answer returned, but immediately afterwards the key grated in the lock, and the Protector himself entered the chamber.



CHAPTER XIV.

Grundo. And what did they there talk about?

Julia. I'faith, I hardly know, but was advised 'Twas a most cunning parley.

Grundo. I do well credit it.

Old Play.

"I would rather talk to him in that old tapestried hall," thought Robin, "than in this narrow chamber. There I could have a run for my life; but here, Heaven help me! I am fairly in for it."

"The room is passing close, the air is heavy," were the Protector's first words: "follow me to the palace-roof, where there can be no listeners, save the pale stars, and they prate not of man's doings."

Robin followed Cromwell up a narrow flight of steps, so narrow that the Protector could hardly climb them. They were terminated by a trap-door leading to the roof; and there these two men, so different in station and in stature, stood together on a species of leaden platform, which by day commands a most beautiful and extensive view of the surrounding country;—at night there was nothing to be seen but the dim outline of the distant hills, and the dark woods that formed the foreground.

Scarce a sound was heard, save of the breeze wailing among the many turrets of the proud palace, and now and then the tramp or challenge of the sentries at the different outposts, as they passed to and fro upon their ever-watchful guard.

"I believe your real name is Robin Hays?" said the Protector.

"Your Highness—it is so."

"And you are the son of one Mary or Margery, proprietor of an hostelry, called the Gulls Nest?"

"The son of Margery Hays, as your Highness has said, who, God be thanked! still lives in a quiet corner of the Isle of Shepey, and of her good husband Michael, who has now been dead many years."

"I take it for granted that you know your own mother; but it is a wise son who knows his own father. Impurities are, praised be the Lord! fast fleeing from the land; but they were rife once, rife as blackberries that grow by the roadside. Yet this is nought; what business brought you here?"

"Your Highness knows: I came with the Rabbi Ben Israel."

"Parry not with me," exclaimed the readily-irritated Cromwell.—"I repeat, why came ye here?"

"Your Highness is acquainted with the reason of my coming."

"I do know; but I also choose to know it from yourself. Why came ye here?"

"Just then to seek out one who has fallen into your Highness's clutches; with favour, I would say, under your Highness's care," replied Robin, who felt himself not over comfortably situated.

"His name sir—his name?"

"Walter De Guerre."

"And who advised you he was here?"

"I found it out; I and another of his friends."

"You mean Hugh Dalton?"

"I do, please your Highness."

"You have some secret communication for this Walter?"

"Your Highness, I have not; yet, if he is here, I humbly entreat permission to see him; for, as it is your pleasure that we be detained, I am sure it would be a comfort to him to meet some one who has his interest firmly, humbly at heart."

"Why came he to England?"

"I believe, that is known only to Hugh Dalton."

"Where got ye that Spanish dagger?"

"Please your Highness, from a sailor at Greenwich, a pensioner."

"You had other business in London than seeking out this Walter?"

"Please your Highness, I had."

"What was its nature?"

"Your Highness must pardon me—I cannot say."

Cromwell, during this examination, had walked backward and forward on a portion of the roof, bounded at either end by a double range of turreted chimneys: at the last reply of Robin Hays he suddenly stopped and turned short upon him, paused as if in anger, and then said,—

"Know you to whom you speak? Know you that the Lord hath made me a judge and a ruler in Israel? and yet you dare refuse an answer to my question!"

"Your Highness must judge for me in a righteous cause. From infancy I have been cherished by Hugh Dalton: if my lowly mind has become at all superior to the miserable and deformed tenement in which it dwells, I owe it to Hugh Dalton—if I have grown familiar with deeds of blood, still I owe it to Hugh Dalton that I saw deeds of bravery; and to Hugh Dalton I owe the knowledge, that whatever is secret, is sacred."

"Honour among thieves, and rogues, and pirates!" exclaimed the Protector, chafed, but not angry. "Your Dalton had a purpose of his own to serve in bringing over this scatter-pate Cavalier, who has too much blood and too little brains for aught but a cock-throw. Young man, I know the doings at your Gull's Nest Crag—I have been advised thereupon. Listen! there has been hardly a malecontent for months in the country who has not there found shelter. Were I inclined to pardon vagabonds, I might bestow the mercy with which the Lord has intrusted me upon poor misguided wretches; but Dalton has been a misguider himself. With my own good steed, and aided by only three on whom I could depend, I traced two of those leagued with Miles Syndercomb to their earth, at the very time when Hugh Dalton was lying in his Fire-fly off the coast.—What waited he for there? That Buccaneer has imported Malignants by dozens, scores, hundreds, into the Commonwealth; and now the reever expects pardon! for I have been solicited thereon. Mark me! the Lord's hand is stretched out, and will not be withdrawn until his nest be turned up, even as the plough uprooteth and scattereth the nest of the field-mouse and the blind mole; and mark yet farther, Robin Hays—there is a book, in which is written the name of every one concerned in those base practices; and opposite to each name is a red cross—a red cross, I say—which signifieth the shedding of blood; and as surely as the stars above us know their secret course along the pathway of the resplendent heavens, so surely shall all those traitors, reevers, buccaneers, upsetters, perish by the Lord's hand—unless it pleaseth the Spirit to infuse its moving power into some of their hearts, so that one or more of them may point the secret entrance into this cavern, where there is great treasure, and whereby blood-shedding and much trouble may be spared. If such an influence was happily exercised—was, I say, happily exercised over the minds or mind of any one of this accursed crew, he might not only be spared, but rewarded with much that the heart of man longeth after." Cromwell paused, and fixed his eyes on the Ranger, who spoke no word, and made no gesture of reply.

"Could not such be found?" he continued, addressing Robin more pointedly than before.

"A person found, did your Highness ask, who would betray his comrades unto death, and give up his master's property to destruction?"

"No, I meant not that: but think ye, is there not one, who, convinced of the wickedness of his past ways, would lead blind Justice on the right track, insomuch that plundered property might be restored to its rightful owners, and the cause of the Lord and his people be forwarded many steps?"

"May I speak to your Highness as a man, or as a servant?" inquired Robin.

"Even as a man—I am neither a king nor a tyrant."

"Then, with all respect, I say that such men may be found; but they would be unworthy pardon, much less reward. May it please your Highness, a Buccaneer is, to my mind, only one who takes advantage of troubled times to secure unto himself the most power and the most property that he can. The sea is as free to him as the land to—to—to any other man. His is no coward's trade, for he risks his all, and is neither an assassin, nor a traitor, nor a rebel, nor a——"

"Peace, atom, peace!" interrupted Cromwell; "I did not want to hear your reasons on the legality, and justice, and mercy of the Buccaneer; I only gave you to understand (and I know ye to be quick of comprehension) that I wished for information touching this retreat—this maze—this labyrinth—this embowelling of nature, formed in the cliffs—ay, and that in more than one place, along the Kentish coast—that so I might erase one red cross at the least. Mark ye, knave—your own name is in the list, though I may regret it, seeing that there is a mixture of honest blood in your veins, and a sprinkling of wit in your head, which might lead to some distinction. Worse men than you have risen to high places."

"Your Highness mocks me! Wit!—high place! With this mis-shapen body tackled to a world of wit—a place as high as any of those turrets that cut the midnight air, still should I be a thing for men to scorn! Your Highness bitterly mocks me!"

"I mock no one; it is ill Christian sport. But at your own pleasure—within the space of fifteen minutes you may go forth from this our house, conduct a chosen few to the Gull's Nest Crag—point out its ways—give us the necessary information as to the other smuggling stations—telegraph the Fire-fly into smooth water, and the next sun will rise on a rich, ay, and a well-favoured gentleman!"

"With a damned black heart!" exclaimed Robin, whose faithful spirit beat so warmly in his bosom that he forgot for an instant in whose presence he stood, and gave full vent to his feelings, which doubtless he would not have done had he seen the expression of Cromwell's countenance—that awe-inspiring countenance which had full often sent back the unspoken words from the open lips of bolder men who looked upon him.

"With that I have nothing to do," said the Protector calmly, after taking another turn along the platform: "but you mistake the case—it is only justice, simple justice."

"My Lord Protector of England," said Robin, whose thin, disproportioned figure, as it moved in the dim light, might have been taken for a dark spirit summoned to some incantation—"My Lord, with you it may be justice: you believe the Buccaneer deals not only in the free trade, but imports persons who endanger your Highness's life and the peace of your protectorate. I believe, from my soul, that he never bore off or brought over one of the Syndercomb gang, or any that had evil intent against your person. There are others who deal in that way; and now, when he is soliciting your mercy, it would speak but little for his wisdom if he went on provoking your vengeance. My Lord, Hugh Dalton has a daughter, and it is to save her name from ever-continuing disgrace, that he pants for honest employment. And may it not offend your Highness, for one so ill-read as myself in aught that is good or godly, to remind you that the Bible somewhere tells of those who were received into pardon and glory at the eleventh hour. As to myself, could your Highness make me what my heart has so panted after, but as vainly as the carrion-crow might seek to be the gallant falcon of the chase—could you give me a well-proportioned figure—make me one who could repel an injury or protect a friend—stretch out this dwarfish body to a proper length—contract these arms, and place the head right well upon a goodly pedestal—then give me wealth—rank—all a man's heart covets in this most covetous world—weigh these advantages against a portion of Hugh Dalton's life;—the scale turns in the air, my Lord—there's nothing in't!"

Cromwell folded his arms in silence, while Robin, who had been much excited, wiped the night-dew from his brow, and sighed heavily, as having rid himself of that which weighed upon his conscience.

"One word more, young man—those who hear the Protector's wishes, and in some degree can draw conclusions as to his projects—if—mark ye well—if they act not upon them, if they agree not with them, they are seldom of long life."

"I understand your Highness."

"To your cell——"

Overpowered and heart-stricken, for he hoped to have been granted speech of the Cavalier, Robin obeyed the mandate, and the Protector of England passed alone along his palace-roof.

"Ever in the ascendant!" he said, casting his eyes on the star of his nativity, that shone brightest among the countless multitudes of night. "High, high, highest, and most powerful," he repeated, gazing upon his favourite planet with that extraordinary mixture of superstition and enthusiasm which formed so prominent a part of his most singular character. "I never saw thee brighter" (he continued) "save upon Naseby-field, when I watched thy pathway in the heavens, while hundreds of devoted soldiers couched around me, waiting the morrow's fight. I prayed beneath thy beam, which, as the Lord permitted, fell right upon my breast, glistening upon the bright and sturdy iron that openly, and in the sight of all men, covered it then—pouring into my heart courage, and confidence into my soul! Would that I might sleep the sleep of death upon that same field, that you might again watch over this poor body which now panteth for repose! Yea, there, under the turf of Naseby, shall my grave be made; there shall I sleep quietly—quietly—quietly—with thee to keep watch above the bed in which this poor body shall be at peace, when the ever-restless spirit is with Him whose right hand led me through the furnace, and made me what I am. Shine on still, bright star, even to the fulness of thy splendour; yea, the fulness of thy splendour, which is not yet come. Ah! well do I remember how you lingered in the grey dawn of morning, eager to behold my glory—my exceeding triumph upon that eventful field; and thou hast seen me greater than I dreamed of, great as I can be—or if I can be greater, to thee all is known, yea, all of the future as well as of the past is known to thee."

And as he walked along, and again and again traversed the leaded space, his step was as the step of war and victory; but suddenly it lingered, and came more heavily, and his foot was more slowly raised, and his eyes, that so lately drank in the rays of his own star with so much exultation, fell upon the spot where the little deformed prisoner, even Robin Hays, of the Gull's Nest Crag, was incarcerated. Again he spoke: "Complimented by the subtle Frenchman, feared by the cunning Spaniard, caressed by the temperate Dutch, knelt to by the debased Portuguese, honoured by the bigoted Pope, holding the reins of England—of Europe—of the world, in these hands—the father of many children—have I so true-hearted a friend, as to suffer the scale of his own interests to turn in the air, my life weighing so much the more in the balance? Truly my heart warmed at his fidelity; it is worth all price, yet no price that I can offer will purchase it. In my youth a vision said I should be greatest in this kingdom. Greatest I am, and yet I may be greater; but will a name, the name at which I scorned, increase my power? He from whom I took that name was more beloved than I. Oh, 'tis a fearful game, this game of kingdoms! crowns, ay, and bloody ones, bloody crowns for foot-balls! while treachery, dark, cunning, slippery treachery, stands by with many a mask to mock and foil our finest sporting! God to my aid! Now that success has broken down all opposition, I am in the face, the very teeth of my strongest temptations; forbid, O Lord! that they should conquer me, when I have conquered all things else! God to my aid! One foot upon the very throne from which I—not I alone—praise Heaven for that—not I alone, but many dragged him——!" Again for a brief time he stood with folded arms, his back leaning against a turret; and afterwards his step was quick and agitated, and much he doubtless meditated upon the crown which he well knew a strong party of the parliament would tender for his acceptance; and then he paused and muttered as before. "My children princes! May be wedded to the mightiest! But will they? Stiff-necked and stubborn! There is but one who loves me—only one on whom I doat, and she, like all things loved and lovely, fading from before mine eyes, as the soft mist fades from the brow of some harsh and rugged mountain, which is shrouded, and softened, and fertilised before the proud sun climbed the highest arch of heaven!—Ah! the sentry at the outward gate is sleeping. Let him rest on, poor wretch. I cannot sleep. And there's a light in the apartment of my Lord Broghill: perhaps he writes to his friend Ormond. I had him there; how pale he grew! I have them—know them all! could crush them in this hand; yet God knows I would not; it has had enough to do with that already."

And then sobs, sobs that came from the Protector's heart, burst from his lips, and he fell into one of those passions of tears and prayers to which of late he had been often subject. It soon subsided, and the man so extolled and admired by the one party—so abused and vilified by the other—so feared by all—retired in silence and in sorrow to his couch.



CHAPTER XV.

What is the existence of man's life?

It is a weary solitude Which doth short joys, long woes include; The world the stage, the prologue tears, The acts, vain hope and varied fears; The scene shuts up with loss of breath, And leaves no epilogue but death.

HENRY KING.

"And it's come to this, is it?" exclaimed Solomon Grundy, who sat enthroned like a monarch of good cheer among the beings of his own creation in the buttery at Cecil Place—"And it's come to this, is it? and there's to be no feasting; a wedding-fast in lieu of a wedding-feast! No banquet in the hall—no merry-making in the kitchen! I might have let that poor shrivelled preacher cut into the centre of my pasty, and ravish the heart of my deer; stuffed, as it is, with tomatoes and golden pippins! he might have taken the doves unto his bosom, and carried the frosted antlers on his head; they would have been missed by no one, save thee, Solomon Grundy. And those larded fowl! that look like things of snow and not of flesh; even my wife praised them, and said,—'Grundy,' said she—'Solomon, my spouse,' said she, 'you have outdone yourself:'—that was praise. But what signifies praise to me now? My master wo'n't eat—my mistress wo'n't eat—Barbara, she wo'n't eat! I offered her a pigeon-pie; she said, 'No, I thank ye, Solomon,' and passed away. That I should ever live to see any one pass away from a pigeon-pie of my making! Sir Willmott Burrell, he wo'n't eat, but calls for wine and strong waters in his dressing-room: it's a queer bridal! Ah! there's one of the Lady Cromwell's women, perhaps she will eat; it is heart-breaking to think that such food as this"—and he cast his eye over a huge assemblage of sundries, that

"Coldly furnish'd forth the marriage tables"—

"such food as this should be consumed by vulgar brutes, who would better relish a baron of beef and a measure of double-dub, than a trussed turkey and a flagon of canary."

Solomon, however, succeeded in prevailing upon Mistress Maud to enter, and then had but little difficulty in forcing upon her some of the confections, though all his efforts could not extort a compliment to his culinary accomplishments.

"They are wonderful, considering they are country made," she said, after discussing a third tartlet; "but there must be great allowance for your want of skill; and you ought to esteem yourself fortunate (I'll take another jelly) that there is to be no banquet; for—though it is evil to give one's mind to fleshly tastes or creature comforts—these things would hardly be deemed fit for a second-table wedding at Whitehall!"

Solomon was deeply mortified. He had great veneration for court, but he had greater for his own talent, and he loved not to hear it called in question: he therefore scanned the waiting-maid after his peculiar mode, and then drawing himself up, stroked his chin, and replied, "That great men had sat at his master's table, and had, he was well assured, praised his skill in words which could not be repeated—that Lady Frances herself had condescended to ask his method of blanching almonds, and lauded his white chicken soup; and that he should not dread being commanded to serve a banquet unto the Lord Protector himself."

Mistress Maud sneered, and examined a third jelly, which she was reluctantly compelled to quit by a summons from her lady.

"What robe would your ladyship desire?" she inquired of Lady Frances, whose eyes were red with weeping, and who appeared astonishingly careless upon a point that usually occupied much of her attention. "Would your ladyship like the white and silver, with the pearl loopings and diamond stomacher?"

"What need to trouble me as to the robe?" at length she replied with an irritability of manner to which she too often yielded. "Why do I entertain two lazy hussies, but to see after my robings, and save me the trouble of thinking thereon?—Go to!—you have no brain."

Maud and her assistant laid out the dress and the jewels, yet Lady Frances was ill satisfied.

"Said I not that the stomacher needed lengthening?—The point is not a point, but a round!—Saw one ever the like?—It is as square as a dove's tail, instead of tapering off like a parroquet's!"

"Did your ladyship mean," said the elder of the bewildered girls, "that the stomacher was square or round?"

She perfectly agreed with her mistress in thinking a stomacher a matter of great importance, but was most sadly perplexed that Lady Frances should so markedly object to that which she had so warmly praised on a former occasion.

"Square or round!" repeated Lady Frances impetuously—"neither:—it is to be peaked—thus!"

The poor maid, in her eagerness to hold the stomacher for her lady's inspection, let it fall—the principal jewel-band caught in a hook, and was scattered in fragments upon the ground. This was more than Lady Frances could bear, and she turned both women out of the room, commanding them to send Barbara in their stead. The little Puritan had been weeping plentifully, but when she came, Lady Frances appeared to have forgotten her wrath, and greeted her with much gentleness.

"Your mistress, my pretty maid—is she dressed?"

"No, my lady."

"See what havoc these girls have wrought with my stomacher! Pick me up the jewels, Barbara, if your mistress can spare you such brief time."

"I was not with her, my lady: she said she would call when I was wanted. I can hear her in this chamber."

While Barbara was gathering the jewels, her tears fell fast upon them. Lady Frances observed it, and smiling said,—

"You are gemming my ornaments, setting them in crystal instead of gold."

"I can't help my tears, dear lady, when I think how she weeps. Oh, it is a mournful thing to see an oak bend like a willow, or a stately rose low as a little wild flower! Something has crushed her heart, and I cannot help her. I would lay down my life to make her happy, if I knew but how! The very dogs hang their tails, and steal across the rooms they used to gambol in! Ah, madam, she has wealth, and rank, and all that a poor girl would call great glory. Yet her step is like the step of an aged woman, and her head is bent, though not with the weight of years. I think of a little poem I knew when I was a child. I believe I heard it before I could speak the words thereof, yet it is so perfect on my mind. Did you ever hear it, madam? it is called 'The Lady of Castile.'"

"Never; but I should like to hear it, Barbara, while you hook on the diamonds those careless minxes scattered so heedlessly. What tune is it to?"

"I know not the tune, madam; nor could I sing it now if I did. I often wonder how the birds can sing when they lose their mates; though their notes are not, as at other times, cheery; and no wonder. It's very cruel to kill poor innocent birds."

"Let me hear the ballad, Barbara."

"I fear me, it has gone out of my head; but, madam, it began thus, something after a popish fashion; but no harm, no great harm in it:—

"'The lady was of noble birth, And fairest in Castile, And many suitors came to her——'

And many suitors came to her," repeated Barbara. "I forget the last line, but it ended with 'feel.' I am sorry, madam, that I have lost the words, quite lost them to-day, though I could have said them all yesterday. But the lady had many sweethearts, as my lady had, and like my lady sent them all away; only she was over nice. And she made up her mind at last to marry one whose name was ill thought of, and her wedding day was fixed; and the night before, as she was sleeping, who should visit her (it is here comes the Popery) but the Virgin? And the Virgin gave her her hand, and led her to a beautiful grove; and this grove was filled with the most beautiful birds in the world; and the Virgin said to her, take any one of these birds that you choose, and keep it as your own; and you may walk to the end of the grove and take any one you meet; but you must choose it before you come back, and not come back without one; you must not have the power to take one after you begin to return. And the bird you take will be lord of your estates, and of yourself, and the eyes of all Castile will be upon him. And the lady was very beautiful, as beautiful as my lady, only not good or well-taught like her. If she had been, she would not have believed in the Virgin. So the lady walked on and on, and the sweet birds were singing to her, and courting her, and striving to win her favour all the way. They were such birds as I never heard of but in that song—with diamond eyes, and ruby wings, and feet of pearl; but she found some fault with every one she met, and fancied she might find a better before her walk was done. And, behold! at last she got to the end of the grove without having made any choice; and what think you, my lady, sat there? why a black vulture, a wicked, deceitful, cruel bird. And she was forced to take him. She had passed by many good and beautiful, and their sweet songs still sounded in her ears; yet she was forced to take that hideous and cruel bird. Only think, my lady, how horrid! The poor lady of Castile awoke, and began thinking what the dream could mean; and after praying awhile, she remembered how much she wished in her sleep that she had taken the first bird she saw. And it brought back to her mind the companion of her youth, who had loved her long, and she likened this gallant gentleman to the sweet bird of her dream. So she put away him whose name was ill thought of, and wedded the knight who had loved her long. And so the song finishes with

"'Happy lady of Castile!'"

"And a good ending too," said Lady Frances; "I wish our wedding was likely to terminate so favourably."

"Amen to that prayer!" said Barbara, earnestly, and added, shuddering as she spoke, "It is very odd, madam, but one of your ladies, who was arraying the communion-table, scared away a great toad, whose bloated sides were leaning on the step, and, she says, on the very spot where Sir Willmott Burrell must kneel to-night.—Hush! that was his door which shut at the end of the corridor—the very sound of his foot-fall makes me shudder—the Lord preserve us! It is astonishing, my lady, the wisdom of some dumb animals: Crisp can't bear the sight of him; but Crisp is very knowledgeable!"

"There will be another miserable match," thought Lady Frances; "that pretty modest creature will sacrifice herself to that deformed piece of nature's workmanship; even his nasty cur, long-backed and bandy, shares her favour: I will beg her of Constantia, take her to court, and get her a proper husband.—Crisp is an ill-favoured puppy, Barbara," she said aloud, "and the sooner you get rid of him the better. You must come to court with me, and be one of my bower-girls for a season; it will polish you, and cure your Shepey prejudices. I shall ask Mistress Cecil to let you come."

Barbara thought first of Robin, then of her father; and was about to speak of the latter, when she remembered her promise of secrecy.

"Thank your ladyship; a poor girl, like me had better remain where—where—she is likely to bide. A field-mouse cannot climb a tree like a gay squirrel, my lady, though the poor thing is as happy on the earth as the fine squirrel among the branches, and, mayhap, a deal safer: and as to Crisp! beauty is deceitful—but honesty is a thing to lean upon—the creature's heart is one great lump of faithfulness."

"You must get a courtly husband, Barbara."

"Your ladyship jests; and so would a courtly husband, at one like me. Mayhap I may never live to marry; but if I did, I should not like my husband to be ashamed of me.—The jewels are all on, my lady!"

"Should you not like to be as my maidens are?"

"Thank you, madam, no: for they have too little to do, and that begets sorrow. Were my lady happy, and—and—— But that is my lady's call. Shall I send your women, madam?"

"I have often thought and often said," murmured Lady Frances, as Barbara meekly closed the door, "that nothing is so perplexing to the worldly as straight forward honesty and truth. It is not to be intimidated, nor bribed nor flattered, nor destroyed—not destroyed even by death. I would give half my dowry—alas! do I talk of dowry?—great as my father is, he may be low as others, who have been as great. And now I must accompany my sweet friend to the altar on which she is to be sacrificed. Alas! better would be for her if death were to meet and claim her upon the threshold of the chapel she is about to enter!"



CHAPTER XVI.

Nought is there under heaven's wide hollownesse That moves more dear compassion of mind, Than beautie brought t'unworthie wretchednesse Through envious snares or fortune's freaks unkinde. * * * * * * * To think how causeless of her own accord This gentle damzell, whom I write upon, Should plonged be in such affliction, Without all hope of comfort or reliefe.

SPENSER.

"I am driven to it, I am driven to it!" repeated Sir Willmott Burrell, as he attired himself in his gayest robes, while his eyes wandered restlessly over the dial of a small clock that stood upon the dressing-table. "No one has seen her—and I have forced Constantia to wed at six, instead of seven. Once wed—why, there's an end of it; and if the worst should come, and Zillah persecutes me still, I can but swear her mad, and this will terminate her fitful fever." He placed a small pistol within his embroidered dress, and girded his jewelled sword more tightly than before. "The minutes linger more tardily than ever," he continued: "full fifteen to the time.—Would it were over! I am certain Cromwell would not interfere, if once she was my wife; he loves her honour better than the Jew's."

Again he drew forth the pistol and examined it, and then replaced it as before—again girded his sword; and having drunk copiously of some ardent spirit, a flask of which had been placed near him, he descended to the library.

The only person in the apartment was Sir Robert Cecil: he was leaning, in the very attitude in which we first met him, against the high and dark chimney-piece of marble; but, oh, how altered! His hand trembled with emotion as he held it to Sir Willmott, who took it with that air of easy politeness and cordiality of manner he could so well assume.

"The hour is nearly arrived," said the old man, "and you will become the husband of my only child. Treat her kindly—oh, as you ever hope to have children of your own, treat her kindly: be to her what I ought to have been—a protector! Sir Willmott, I cannot live very long; say only that you will treat her kindly. Whatever I have shall be yours: you will be kind, will you not?" And he looked at Sir Willmott with an air of such perfect childishness, that the knight imagined his mind had given way.

"Sit down, my good sir; compose yourself—you are much agitated—I pray you be composed."

"Broad lands are a great temptation," continued Sir Robert, with the same appearance of wavering intellect—"Broad lands and gold are great temptations, and yet they do not make one happy. Stoop your head—closer—closer—there:—now I will tell you a secret, but you must not tell it to Constantia, because it would give her pain—I have never been happy since I possessed them! Stop, I will tell you all, from beginning to end. My brother, Sir Herbert—I was not Sir Robert then—my brother, I say——"

"Some other time, my dear sir," interrupted Burrell, whose apprehension was confirmed; "you must cheer up, and not think of these matters: you must take some wine." He filled a goblet from a silver flagon that stood with refreshments on the table; but the baronet's hand was so unsteady, that Sir Willmott was obliged to hold the cup to his lips. "Now, my dear sir, collect your thoughts; you know all things are safe and secret: there is no possibility of your ever being otherwise than beloved and respected."

"Not by my child," said the unhappy man two or three times, twisting his hands convulsively—"Not by my child, my pride, my Constantia! Her kiss is as cold as ice upon my brow; and I thought—perhaps 'twas but a dream, for I have been sleeping a little—I thought she wiped her lips after she kissed me. Do you think she would destroy the taste of her father's kiss?"

"Most certainly not: she loves you as well and as dearly as ever."

"I cannot believe it, Sir Willmott, I cannot believe it;—besides, there's no safety for me till Hugh Dalton's pardon is granted."

"Damn him!" growled Burrell, and the curse grated through his closed teeth—"Damn him, deeply, doubly, everlastingly!"

"Ay, so he will be damned," replied Sir Robert, in a calm, quiet tone, "and we shall all be damned, except Constantia; but he must be pardoned—on earth I mean—for all that."

Burrell looked daggers at Sir Robert Cecil, but he heeded them not, saw them not. Sir Willmott's first suspicion was right—the injured were avenged! The unhappy man retained his memory, though his words and actions were no longer under the control of reason: his conscience lived on—his intellect had expired. "It is even so," thought Sir Willmott the next moment: "and now, Constantia, despite your scorn, your hatred, your contempt, I do pity you."

Burrell understood not how superior was Constance in every respect, either to his pity or his praise.

Exactly as the clock struck six, the doors at the bottom of the room were thrown open, and Lady Frances Cromwell entered with her friend; Barbara and the waiting-maidens of Lady Frances followed; but nothing could exceed Burrell's displeasure and mortification, when he perceived that his bride was habited in the deepest mourning. Her hair, braided from her brow, hung in long and luxuriant tresses down her back, and were only confined by a fillet of jet. Upon her head was a veil of black gauze, that fell over her entire figure; and her dress was of black Lucca silk, hemmed and bordered with crape. She advanced steadily to her father, without noticing her bridegroom, and, throwing up her veil, said, in a low voice,—

"Father, I am ready."

Burrell, who feared that even in the very brief space which now remained, Sir Robert would betray the weakness of his mind, stepped forward, and would have taken her hand; but she put him from her, with a single gesture, saying,—

"Not yet, sir, I am still all my father's.—Father, I am ready."

It was pitiable to see the vacant eye which Sir Robert fixed upon her pale, fine face, and most painful to observe the look of anxious inquiry with which she regarded him.

"Dear father," she exclaimed at length, sinking on her knees, "dear father, speak to me."

The gesture and the voice recalled him for a little to himself. He kissed her cheek affectionately, and, rising with much of the dignity of former years, pressed her to his bosom.

"Forgive me, child;—my Lady Frances, I crave your pardon—I am myself again—I was a trifle indisposed, but it is over. Fill me some wine," he commanded to the attendants, who gathered in the doorway—"Yes—up—full—more full; I drink—" he continued, with a gaiety of manner suiting ill with his grey hairs and pallid face—"I drink to the happiness and prosperity of my daughter and her bridegroom!" He quaffed to the bottom of the cup, then flung it from him.

"Now go we to the bridal," he said, leading Constantia forward, while Sir Willmott conducted Lady Frances, who hardly condescended to touch the hand he presented to her. As they passed an open court, leading to the little chapel, Sir Robert stopped abruptly, and addressing his daughter, said,—

"But I have not blessed you yet; you would not like to die without my blessing."

"Die, my father!" repeated Constance.

"I pray your pardon, child," he replied, in a half muttering, half speaking voice—"I was thinking of your mother: but now I quite remember me, this is a bridal," and he hurried her forward to the altar where the clergyman stood ready to receive them.

"Sir Willmott Burrell," said Constantia to the knight, as he placed himself at her side, "my father is ill, and I cannot think upon what his malady may be with any thing like calmness; if what I dread is true, you will not force me from him."

"Let the ceremony proceed, and, villain as I know you think me, I will not oppose any plan you may form for him," was Burrell's reply. Lady Frances stood close beside her friend; and Barbara, in her white robes and simple beauty, headed the group of servants who crowded round the steps.

The clergyman commenced the service according to the form of the Established Church, and concluded the opening address without any interruption. He then proceeded to the solemn and beautiful appeal made as to the liberty of those who present themselves at the altar.

"I require and charge you both, (as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed,) that if either of you know any impediment why ye may not lawfully be joined together in matrimony, ye do now confess it?"

At this point Sir Robert Cecil, his enfeebled mind still more relaxed after the strong effort made at self-possession, and weakened and heated by the wine he had taken, exclaimed,—

"Those two joined together in matrimony! It is impossible—she has not on a wedding-garment! What does she here?" Then looking round, he left his daughter's side, and seizing Barbara's hand, dragged her to the altar, saying, "This must be our bride—our lady bride—no one would wed in sables."

It is impossible to describe the consternation which this circumstance occasioned; but the baronet had hardly uttered the words, when the window that Barbara had taken so much pains in adorning, was darkened by a figure springing into and standing on the open casement, and the shrill voice of the Jewess Zillah shouted, in a tone that was heard most audibly over the murmurs of the little crowd, and echoed fearfully along the chancel, "Justice—vengeance!" and, suiting the action to her words, she discharged a pistol with but too steady an aim at the innocent Barbara, whom on this occasion, as before, she had mistaken for her rival, Constantia Cecil.



END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.



VOLUME THE THIRD.



CHAPTER I.

Behold! What blessings ancient prophesie foretold, Bestow'd on her in death. She past away So sweetly from the world, as if her clay Laid onely downe to slumber. Then forbeare To let on her blest ashes fall a teare. But, if th'art too much woman, softly weepe Lest grief disturbe the silence of her sleepe.

HABINGTON.

Barbara, the young, the beautiful, the innocent Barbara, fell, as the bullet struck her, upon the arm of the imbecile Sir Robert Cecil. It is impossible adequately to describe the scene that followed. Constantia caught the maiden from her father, who shrank at the sight of blood, and drew himself gradually away, like a terrified child from a frightful object, while his daughter, kneeling, supported the stricken girl upon her bosom. After the deed was done, the Jewess stood for a moment with an air of exultation upon the ledge of the oriel window, and then disappeared; but Sir Willmott, who saw that the time was come when, if ever, his prey was to be secured, rushed to the open door, with a view to seize her as she descended, and at once rid himself of all danger by her destruction. At the instant his evil purpose was about to be accomplished, his course was arrested, as he reached the postern, by a powerful arm, which grappled at his throat. The stentorian voice of Dalton shouted "Villain!" so loudly, that many, who had crowded round the dying Barbara, turned in alarm to ascertain who spoke.

"Hinder me not," said Sir Willmott, gasping for breath, "but help me to secure the murderer—the girl is slain!"

"God of Heaven!—what girl?—Who was it fired?" exclaimed the Skipper.—"What means this?" he continued, relaxing his grasp, and advancing up the chancel with a beating heart and a rapid step. Burrell took advantage of the momentary reprieve, and was hastily proceeding round to the window, when the tramp of many horses came upon his ear. The steel caps and polished blades of a detachment of Cromwell's own Ironsides glittered amid the ruins and trees that surrounded the chapel, and his progress was again stayed by no other than Colonel John Jones.

"Sir Willmott Burrell," said the Puritan soldier, in a slow and deliberate tone, "his Highness commands your immediate presence at the house of Hampton, profanely denominated Hampton Court; and I have his Highness's commands also to prevent the taking place of any union between you and Mistress Constantia Cecil."

"It has taken place," interrupted Burrell, turning pale, and trembling.

"It has not taken place," interrupted in her turn Lady Frances, whose habitual and active kindness had prompted her to seek assistance for Barbara, so that she encountered the troop under the command of her step-uncle—"I say it has not taken place—half a ceremony is no marriage. But have you any with you skilled in surgery? for here has been a most foul murder: come with me into the chapel, and behold!" Lady Frances returned, followed by Colonel Jones, Sir Willmott as a prisoner, and the greater number of the soldiery.

Constantia Cecil, still kneeling, supported Barbara, whose life was ebbing fast, as the blood trickled from a small wound, where the ball had entered a little above her right shoulder. Her eyes, gentle and expressive as ever, were fixed upon her father, who stood speechless and powerless by her side. The women gathered, weeping, around. The good clergyman approached to offer spiritual consolation to the departing girl. Hugh Dalton had heard the story of the fatal act repeated by at least a dozen persons, who were ignorant that they spoke in the presence of the poor maiden's parent; but he heeded not their words; he did not even ask how or by whom the dreadful deed was done. Enough to him was the certainty that his daughter was dying, dying before him—that she, to whom his heart had clung through evil report and good report, in sorrow and in sin, but always with confidence and hope, as the star that would at length guide him into a haven of peace and joy, which had been rapidly growing out of repentance; that she, his only, his beloved, his most excellent, and most unspotted child, would, within an hour, become as the clay on which he trod—that her mild, cheerful, and patient spirit, was passing to the God who gave it—unrepiningly passing; for no groan, no murmur came from her lips—lips that had never been stained by deceit or falsehood. Still her eyes rested on her parent, and once she endeavoured to stretch forth her weak arms towards him, but they fell powerless at her side; while he, still mute and motionless as a statue, seemed rooted to the earth. The clergyman spoke a few words of an approaching eternity. It was only then the Buccaneer replied; without a tear, without a sob; or any outward demonstration of sorrow: though all who heard him felt that the words came from a man whose sole sensation was despair.

"No need, sir, to speak so to her. She knows about these things far more than we do. Hush! for the sake of God, and let me hear her breathing."

"Some ten of you look out for the murderer," commanded the stern voice of Colonel Jones, who had by this time received the whole account from the Lady Frances.

"You will not be able to find her," exclaimed the alarmed Burrell, dreading that, if she were secured, she might communicate the secret she still retained. "You will not, I assure you, be able to find her," he repeated, as the sturdy soldiers prepared to obey their officer's command.

"You know the person, then, Sir Willmott," said Colonel Jones, coldly. Burrell looked abashed. "Mistress Constantia will, I hope, forgive me," added the rough soldier, walking towards the steps of the altar, where the lady of Cecil Place still supported the fading form of the poor faithful maiden she had so truly loved—"Mistress Constantia will forgive one of her father's oldest friends for thus breaking in upon and disturbing a most solemn ceremony. His Highness has commanded her bridegroom to be brought before him, and the marriage to be stayed, inasmuch as he charges Sir Willmott Burrell with being already wedded!"

The maiden to whom he spoke looked up, and gazed into the countenance of the speaker; but it would have been difficult to determine the nature of her feelings, save by the cold shudder that seemed to pass over her whole frame.

On Sir Robert Cecil the information made no impression, for he understood it not, though he smiled and bowed several times to his old companion in arms. But the Buccaneer started, roused for a moment from the one absorbing sorrow of his whole soul, but still heedless of the danger he encountered in thus standing face to face with a troop of the hardiest soldiers of the Commonwealth. Turning eagerly towards their officer, he exclaimed,—

"Ha! it is known!—then the papers were received."

"Traitor! double traitor! I have ye now!" shouted Burrell, presenting his pistol at the head of the Buccaneer. Instantly Barbara, as with a last effort, sprang from the arms of the Lady Cecil, and threw herself on her father's bosom. The effort was not needed, for the weapon was snatched from the villain's hand. He had now to encounter the reproof of Colonel Jones.

"Sir Willmott, I thought I could have taken your word, that you had no arms except your sword. I was mistaken."

"That fellow is the famous Buccaneer, Hugh Dalton, upon whose head a price is set. Arrest him, Colonel Jones!" exclaimed Burrell, skilfully turning the attention from himself to the Skipper, who stood embracing the lifeless form of his daughter—gazing upon eyes that were now closed, and upon lips parted no longer by the soft breath of as sweet a maiden as ever was born of woman.

"Are you the Malignant of whom he speaks?" inquired the stern colonel.

"He is the unhappy father of that murdered girl," interposed Constantia.

"Whoever refuses to seize him deserves a traitor's death," reiterated Sir Willmott.

The troopers stood with their hands on their swords, awaiting their officer's commands.

The Buccaneer turned fiercely round, still pressing his child to his bosom with one arm, and holding a pistol within the other hand.

"I am," he said in a bold and fearless, but not an arrogant tone, "I am he whom that accursed villain names. But ye had better not rouse a desperate man. Dare not to touch me; at your peril stay my course. Colonel Jones, tell the Protector of England, that Hugh Dalton craves no pardon now. This, this was my hope—my pride; for her I would have been honest, and well thought of! Behold! she stiffens on my arm. She is nothing now but clay! Yet, by the God that made her! no churlish earth shall sully this fair form. She was as pure as the blue sea that cradled her first months of infancy; and, mark ye, when the rays of the young sun rest upon the ocean, at the morning-watch, by my own ship's side, in the bosom of the calm waters, shall she find a grave. I will no more trouble England—no more—no more! Gold may come dancing on the waves, even to my vessel's prow, I will not touch it. Cromwell may take me if he will, but not till I perform for my good and gentle child the only rite that ever she demanded from me."

Even as the tiger-mother passes through an Indian crowd, bearing the cherished offspring of her fierce but affectionate nature, which some stray arrow has destroyed—terrible in her anguish and awful in her despair—her foes appalled at her sufferings and the bravery of her spirit, though still panting for her destruction—their arrows are on the string—yet the untaught, but secret and powerful respect for the great source of our good as well as of our evil passions—Nature—works within them, and she passes on, unmolested, to her lair:—even so did Dalton pass along, carrying his daughter, as she were a sleeping infant, through the armed warriors, who made way, as if unconscious of what they did;—some, who were themselves fathers, pressed their mailed fingers on their eyes, while others touched their helmets, and raised them a little from their brows.

"Colonel Jones," exclaimed the enraged Burrell, "you will have to answer for this to a high power. The Protector would give its weight in gold for the head of that man; and the weight of that again for a knowledge of his haunts."

"Sir Willmott," was the soldier's reply, who, now that Dalton was really gone, began to fear he had done wrong in permitting his escape, and therefore resolved to brave it haughtily, "I can answer for my own actions. Methinks you are cold and hot as best serves your purpose!" Then turning abruptly from him, he added, "We will but intrude upon the hospitality of this mourning bride," glancing at Constantia's dress, and smiling grimly, "until some tidings be obtained of the person who has perpetrated this horrid murder; and having refreshed our horses, return forthwith; for his Highness is impatient of delay, and 'tis good fifty miles to London. Our orders were, Sir Willmott, that you hold no communion with any; so that, if you have aught to say to Mistress Cecil, it must be said at once."

"I can only offer my protestations against this tyrannical—ay, sir, I speak boldly, and repeat it—this tyrannical mandate—and assure the fair dame that I consider her my lawful wife."

Constantia made no reply. Colonel Jones then gave the Lady Frances a slip of paper from the Protector, which merely stated that he thought she ought to remain with her friend, until the mysterious rumour was either cleared up or confirmed. Lady Frances right joyfully assented; and Constantia, overpowered by a multitude of contending feelings, led the way with her father, who seemed as passive and as uninterested in the events of that most eventful hour, as if he were a child of a twelvemonth old. The soldiers who had been sent to reconnoitre soon returned, for night was closing upon them, and they had searched the ruins of Minster, and galloped over the wild hills of Shepey, without being able to trace the misguided Jewess. Colonel Jones could, therefore, do nothing more than advise Sir Michael Livesey (the sheriff, who resided, as we have stated, at Little Shurland) of the circumstance that had occurred, and send off to King's Ferry, Sheerness, Queenborough, and all the little hamlets along the coast, information of the melancholy event, with orders to prevent any stranger, male or female, from quitting the island, until his Highness's future pleasure was known.

The murder of Lady Cecil's favourite was calculated to excite strong feelings among all classes; for the poor had long considered the residence of so good a family on their island as a blessing from Heaven; more particularly, as the former possessor, Sir Herbert, Sir Robert's elder brother, only lived at Cecil Place occasionally, being of too gay, too cavalier a temperament, to bide long in so solitary a dwelling. He had been warmly attached to the house of Stuart; and while his younger brother sought, and made friends of the Parliamentarian faction, he remained steady in his loyalty, and firm in his attachment to the unfortunate and unpopular Charles. Upon this topic we may hereafter treat: at present, we have to do with the living, not the dead.

We cannot now intrude upon the privacy of either Lady Frances or Constantia; we must content ourselves with simply stating that Colonel Jones took his departure, leaving, at Lady Frances's request, a guard of six soldiers at Cecil Place—a precaution he felt justified in adopting when he had taken late events into consideration, and was made acquainted with the miserable condition of Sir Robert's mind, to whom also he undertook to send immediate medical advice. The servants, particularly Lady Frances's women, assembled in the great hall, and with many tears, real and unfeigned tears, lamented the loss of poor Barbara—talked of the mystery of her birth, and the sudden and almost supernatural appearance of her father. Greatly did they blame themselves for permitting him to remove the body, "not knowing," as they said, "but he would give it heathenish and not Christian burial."

After a little while they conversed upon the malady that had overtaken their master, and then hints and old tales were thought of, and almost forgotten rumours of Sir Herbert and his revelries repeated; and as the lamps burned still more dim, and the embers of the fire dropped one by one into that grey and blue dust that heralds their perfect decay, the legends of the isle were rehearsed—How Sir Robert de Shurland, a great knight and a powerful thane, being angry with a priest, buried him alive in Minster churchyard; and then, fearing the king's displeasure, and knowing he was at the Nore, swam on a most faithful horse to his majesty from the island, to crave pardon for his sin; and the king pardoned him; and then, right joyfully, he swam back to the land, where, on his dismounting, he was accosted by a foul witch, who prophesied that the horse which had saved him should be the cause of his death; but, in order to prevent the accomplishment of the prophecy, he slew the faithful animal upon the beach;—how that some time afterwards he passed by the carcass, and striking a bone with his foot, it entered the flesh, which mortified, and the tyrant died; in testimony whereof the tomb stands in Minster church until this day, in the south wall, under a pointed arch, where he lies, leaning on his shield and banner, and at his feet a page, while behind him is carved the horse's head that caused his death:—and, moreover, how his spirit is seen frequently leaping from turret to turret of the house of Great Shurland, pursued by a phantom steed! Of such like legends did they talk. Then they thanked God that their lady was not likely to be Sir Willmott's wife, and spoke of Dalton and his daring, and many of the old servants shuddered.

Then again they reverted to Barbara, and the women crept more closely together, like a flock of frightened sheep, when one older than the others affirmed that no true maid could ever rest in the ocean's bed, unless a Bible were slung about her neck; and as Dalton, of course, had no Bible, their beloved Barbara could have no rest, but must wander to all eternity on the foam of the white waves, or among the coral-rocks that pave the southern seas, or sigh in the shrouds of a doomed ship. But again, some other said, as she was so pure a Christian, perhaps that would save her from such a fate; and one of the soldiers who sat with them reproved their folly, and lectured, and prayed for their edification, with much zeal and godliness; and when he had concluded, the thought came upon them that the Reverend Jonas Fleetword had not been there since the earliest morning, when somebody declared he was seen talking with Sir Willmott Burrell near the Gull's Nest, and fear for the preacher came over them all—why, they could not tell.



CHAPTER II.

Poesy! thou sweet'st content That e'er Heaven to mortals lent, Though they as a trifle leave thee Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee; Though thou be to them a scorn That to nought but earth are born; Let my life no longer be Than I am in love with thee.

GEORGE WITHER.

There are two things that to a marvellous degree bring people under subjection—moral and corporeal fear. The most dissolute are held in restraint by the influence of moral worth, and there are few who would engage in a quarrel, if they were certain that defeat or death would be the consequence. Cromwell obtained, and we may add, maintained his ascendency over the people of England, by his earnest and continually directed efforts towards these two important ends. His court was a rare example of irreproachable conduct, from which all debauchery and immorality were banished; while such was his deep and intimate, though mysterious, acquaintance with every occurrence throughout the Commonwealth, its subjects had the certainty of knowing that, sooner or later, whatever crimes they committed would of a surety reach the ear of the Protector. His natural abilities must always have been of the highest order, though in the early part of his career he discovered none of those extraordinary talents that afterwards gained him so much applause, and worked so upon the affections of the hearers and standers by. His mind may be compared to one of those valuable manuscripts that had long been rolled up and kept hidden from vulgar eyes, but which exhibits some new proof of wisdom at each unfolding. It has been well said by a philosopher, whose equal the world has not known since his day, "that a place showeth the man." Of a certainty Cromwell had no sooner possessed the opportunity so to do, than he showed to the whole world that he was destined to govern. "Some men achieve greatness, some men are born to greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them." With Cromwell, greatness was achieved. He was the architect of his own fortunes, owing little to, what is called, "chance," less to patronage, and still less to crime, if we except the one sad blot upon the page of his own history, as connected with that of his country. There appears in his character but a small portion of that which is evil, blended with much that is undoubtedly good. Although his public speeches were, for the most part, ambiguous—leaving others to pick out his meaning—or more frequently still, having no meaning to pick out—being words, words, words—strung of mouldy sentences, scriptural phrases, foolish exclamations, and such like; yet, when necessary, he showed that he could sufficiently command his style, delivering himself with so much energy, pith, propriety, and strength of expression, that it was commonly said of him, under such circumstances, "every word he spoke was a thing." But the strongest indication of his vast abilities was, the extraordinary tact with which he entered into, dissected, and scrutinised the nature of human kind. No man ever dived into the manners and minds of those around him with greater penetration, or more rapidly discovered their natural talents and tempers. If he chanced to hear of a person fit for his purpose, whether as a minister, a soldier, an artisan, a preacher, or a spy—no matter how previously obscure—he sent for him forthwith, and employed him in the way in which he could be made most useful, and answer best the purpose of his employer. Upon this most admirable system (a system in which, unhappily, he has had but few imitators among modern statesmen,) depended in a great degree his success. His devotion has been sneered at; but it has never been proved to have been insincere. With how much more show of justice may we consider it to have been founded upon a solid and upright basis, when we recollect that his whole outward deportment spoke its truth. Those who decry him as a fanatic ought to bethink themselves that religion was the chivalry of the age in which he lived. Had Cromwell been born a few centuries earlier, he would have headed the Crusades, with as much bravery, and far better results than our noble-hearted, but wrong-headed "Coeur de Lion." It was no great compliment that was passed on him by the French minister, when he called the Protector "the first captain of the age." His courage and conduct in the field were undoubtedly admirable: he had a dignity of soul which the greatest dangers and difficulties rather animated than discouraged, and his discipline and government of the army, in all respects, was the wonder of the world. It was no diminution of this part of his character that he was wary in his conduct, and that, after he was declared Protector, he wore a coat-of-mail concealed beneath his dress. Less caution than he made use of, in the place he held, and surrounded as he was by secret and open enemies, would have deserved the name of negligence. As to his political sincerity, which many think had nothing to do with his religious opinions, he was, to the full, as honest as the first or second Charles.

Of a truth, that same sincerity, it would appear, is no kingly virtue! Cromwell loved justice as he loved his own life, and wherever he was compelled to be arbitrary, it was only where his authority was controverted, which, as things then were, it was not only right to establish for his own sake, but for the peace and security of the country over whose proud destinies he had been called to govern. "The dignity of the crown," to quote his own words, "was upon the account of the nation, of which the king was only the representative head, and therefore, the nation being still the same, he would have the same respect paid to his ministers as if he had been a king." England ought to write the name of Cromwell in letters of gold, when she remembers that, within a space of four or five years, he avenged all the insults that had been lavishly flung upon her by every country in Europe throughout a long, disastrous, and most perplexing civil war. Gloriously did he retrieve the credit that had been mouldering and decaying during two weak and discreditable reigns of nearly fifty years' continuance—gloriously did he establish and extend his country's authority and influence in remote nations—gloriously acquire the real mastery of the British Channel—gloriously send forth fleets that went and conquered, and never sullied the union-flag by an act of dishonour or dissimulation!

Not a single Briton, during the Protectorate, but could demand and receive either reparation or revenge for injury, whether it came from France, from Spain, from any open foe or treacherous ally;—not an oppressed foreigner claimed his protection but it was immediately and effectually granted. Were things to be compared to this in the reign of either Charles? England may blush at the remembrance of the insults she sustained during the reigns of the first most amiable, yet most weak—of the second most admired, yet most contemptible—of these legal kings. What must she think of the treatment received by the Elector Palatine, though he was son-in-law to King James? And let her ask herself how the Duke of Rohan was assisted in the Protestant war at Rochelle, notwithstanding the solemn engagement of King Charles under his own hand! But we are treading too fearlessly upon ground on which, in our humble capacity, we have scarcely the right to enter. Alas! alas! the page of History is but a sad one! and the Stuarts and the Cromwells, the Roundheads and the Cavaliers, the pennons and the drums, are but part and parcel of the same dust—the dust we, who are made of dust, animated for a time by a living spirit, now tread upon! Their words, that wrestled with the winds and mounted on the air, have left no trace along that air whereon they sported;—the clouds in all their beauty cap our isle with their magnificence, as in those by-gone days;—the rivers are as blue, the seas as salt;—the flowers, those sweet things! remain fresh within our fields as when God called them into existence in Paradise—and are bright as ever. But the change is over us, as it has been over them: we, too, are passing. O England! what should this teach? Even three things—wisdom, justice, and mercy. Wisdom to watch ourselves, and then our rulers, so that we neither do nor suffer wrong;—justice to the memory of the mighty dead, whether born to thrones or footstools;—mercy, inasmuch as we shall deeply need it from our successors.

We must not longer trifle with or mingle among forbidden themes, but turn to that which lightens many a heart, and creates of its own power a magic world of pure and perfect enjoyment.

Many there were, before and during those troublous times, who, heedless of the turmoils that were taking place around them, sang, as birds will sometimes sing, during the pauses of a thunder-storm. We would fain con over the names of a few of those who live with the memories of peace, and hope, and love, and joy—as so many happy contrasts to the wars and intrigues, that sin, and its numberless and terrible attendants, have brought upon this cheerful, and beautiful, and abundantly gifted earth.

A blessing on sweet Poesy! whether she come to us mounted on the gallant war-horse, trumpet-tongued, awakening our souls and senses unto glory, hymning with Dryden some bold battle-strain that makes us crow of victories past, present, and to come;—or with a scholar's trim and tasselled cap, a flowing gown of raven hue, and many tales of Chaucer's—quaint, but pleasing—good reading under some old tree close by a quiet brook, where minnows sport and dart with silver flight beneath the broad-leaved lilies, whose white and yellow chalices are spread full to the cheerful heavens, wherein the sun rides like a monarch in his azure kingdom;—or, better still, mounted on a green dragon with glaring eyes and forky tongue, looking for encounter with some Christian knight, who, "full of sad feare and ghastley dreariment," would nathless risk life, honour, all—for his faire ladie love. Beloved Spenser! age withers not thy beauty.

Or Poesy may come in the cool twilight, when the garish day is past, and the young modest flowers, which refused their perfume to the sun, that, with his hot and fiery beams, sought to command their incense, now welcome back the evening, and become prodigal of sweetness;—within some rustic temple, clustered with woodbine, where the robin or the tiny wren hath formed a nest of matchless skill and neat propriety, and trembles not at the approaching footstep, while the soft breath of heaven plays with those blossoms of the sun—the painted butterflies—that fold their wings and fain would sleep till morning. There let her come, and with her bring more blessed children of the olden time,—

"Whose names In Fame's eternal volume live for aye."

The gallant handsome Surrey, tutored by Love into our first, if not our sweetest sonneteer; and Michael Drayton, with his apt crest—Mercury's bright cap, blazoned with sunbeams. Old Fletcher, floating towards his Purple Island, in the same graceful bark that bears his more thoughtful, it may be sombre, brother Giles. Then, garlanded with the rich thistle in all its purple glory; the perfume of his braes, and burns, and heather, reeking amid his clustering hair; his cheerful plaid, and his gay bonnet, graced by the heron's plume; his voice subdued by sorrow, but still sweet and free, singing of "Sion's flowers"—Drummond of Hawthornden! welcome from bonny Scotland, herald of a line of poets, who fling their music on the breezy air, that floats along in melody.

Our gentle Lovelace! thee too I hail—beauty in all thy lines, so quaint yet graceful. A fopling poet though thou wert, dainty and perfumed, yet still a poet, sweet in a lady's bower, where all is fashioned as befits the place and time: a poet indeed! and, what is more, never wert thou turned from thy chosen path of duty by praise or purse—although a poet and poor all the days of thy most checkered life. Alas! must we contrast thee with the weathercock of the rhyming folk, bowing to kings, protector, lords, and all that could pay golden coin for his poesy? Many there be among the scribbling tribe who emulate a Waller's practice, and amble in his ill-chosen path; how few have the redeeming gift that was his so largely!

And thou must not be forgotten, "O rare Ben Jonson!" for whom a single sentence doth suffice. And him, "the melancholy Cowley!" let him come too, with his honeyed wisdom: it will be still the sweeter if we think upon his stern bitterness in prose. Let him reprove the muse to whom he owes his fame,—

"Thou who rewardest but with popular breath, ——And that too after death:—"

let him reprove, yet not come without her. Ah! the poet is but a sorry politician after all.

Ye cannot do ill if ye pile the verdant turf breast high with those old masters; those mighty monarchs of sweet song,—

"Blessings be with them and eternal praise, The poets!"

Bring them all, all, from the ancient of days, who have gained this "praise eternal," to those of our own age, who have laboured for, and will also obtain it. And chiefly among such as have sweetly carolled among us—still more, if ye be young and warm-hearted, with the affections pure and true within you—bring the dear lays of a poet—a ladye poet—a poet who will hold rank among the best, when life shall have given place to immortality.—How gladly do I add the tribute of admiration to the gift of friendship.—In her own eloquent words may we give our thoughts utterance.

"Methinks it is not much to die— To die, and leave behind A spirit in the hearts of men, A voice amid our kind; When Fame and Death, in unison, Have given a thousand lives for one.

"Our thoughts, we live again in them, Our nature's noblest part; Our life in many a memory, Our home in many a heart: When not a lip that breathes our strain, But calls us into life again."

But fail not, above all, to bring the one who comprehends the whole; whose name is to be found in every school-boy book, written in living letters—words that breathe; to whom the hearts of multitudes were as one most simple instrument, which he could tune and tone unto his pleasure. The birds taught him their language—the forest leaves had life within their veins, and talked with him of Nature's mysteries. The broad sea sent its homage by a thousand sprites, fresh from their coral beds, who watched him in his dreams, or by those sylvan glens wherein he wandered—riding the salt-sea foam, or the light spray of the wild cataract, they sung the melodies of river and of ocean into his soul. The beings of air, that, atom-like, float in the clearest ether, bathe in the liquid dew, or drink their nectar from the honey-bells of the wild heather bloom, called him their brother, and prated of their tricks in gay familiarity. Oh, world! art thou the self-same world that Shakspeare trod upon?

And there's another too, who stands alone in his sublimity—who dared the mysteries of Paradise, and communed with angels—angels both of hell and heaven—a giant-master, yet a man of beauty, wisdom, simplicity, knowledge. Behold him as he sits, within the tapestried chamber at Hampton Court! 'Tis the same room in which the Protector sat last night; but how changed its aspect, just by the presence of that one man! How different is the feeling with which we regard men of great energy and men of great talent. Milton, blind—blind, powerless as to his actions, overwhelming in his genius, grasping all things and seeing into them, not with the eyes of flesh, but those of mind, altering the very atmosphere wherein we move, stilling the air that we may hear his oracles!

The room is one of most curious fashion, and hung with the oldest tapestry in England, lighted on either side by long and narrow windows, that are even now furnished as in the time of the old cardinal who built them. On the low seat formed within the wall the poet sat. Who would suffer a thought of the ambitious Wolsey or the sensual Henry to intrude where once they held gay revels and much minstrelsy in their most tyrant pastimes? Cromwell, the great Protector, even Cromwell is forgotten in the more glorious company of one both poor and blind! He sat, as we describe him, within the embrasure of the narrow window; the heat and brightness of the summer sun came full upon his head, the hair upon which was full and rich as ever, parted in the centre, and falling in waving curls quite to his shoulders; his eyes were fixed on vacancy, but their expression was as if communing with some secret spirit, enlivening thus his darkness; he seemed not old nor young, for the lines upon his face could not be considered wrinkles—tokens were they of care and thought—such care and such thought as Milton might know and feel.

He was habited with extraordinary exactness; his linen of the finest quality, and his vest and doublet put on with an evident attention to even minute appearance. His hands of transparent whiteness were clasped, as if he were attending to some particular discourse; he was alone in that vast chamber,—yet not alone, for God was with him—not in outward form, but in inward spirit. It was the Sabbath-day, and ever observed in the Protector's family with respect and reverence. The morning-meeting was over, and Cromwell in his closet, "wrestling," as he was wont to term it, "with sin." Silence reigned through all the courts—that due and reverend silence which betokens thoughtfulness, and attention to one of the Almighty's first commands—"Keep holy the Sabbath-day," given when he ordained that man should rest from his labours in commemoration that he himself set an example of repose after calling the broad earth into existence and beauty. The poet sat but for a little time in that wide silence; yet who would not give a large portion of their every-day existence to have looked on him for those brief moments, moments which for their full feeling might play the part of years in our life's calendar? Blessed holy time!—when we can look on genius, and catch the gems that fall from its lips! Yet Milton spoke not—he only looked; and still his looks were heavenward—turned towards that Heaven from whence they caught their inspiration. He heard the sound of coming footsteps, and loving quiet on that holy day, withdrew to his own chamber. How empty now appeared the tapestried hall! as when some great eclipse shuts to the golden portals of the sun, and steeps the earth in darkness!

Soon after Milton's departure, the Protector entered, in conversation with his secretary, Thurloe; and although it was the Sabbath, there was an air of anxiety and eagerness about him, which made his step more hurried, more abrupt than usual. He suddenly stopped, and said,—