by Moyle Sherer
CHAP. V.
Now winde they a recheat, the roused deer's knell, And through the forrest all the beasts are aw'd; Alarm'd by Eccho, Nature's sentinel, Which shows that murd'rous man is come abroad. _Gondibert._
Early in the morning of the day after that on which the rehearsal atMilverton House was interrupted by the humiliating scene alreadyrecorded, Cuthbert sallied forth, while the first rays of the levelsun were reflected back by glittering dewdrops; and brushing them withswift steps from his path, crossed the foot-bridge near Guy's mill,and was soon lost to view in the woods upon the far side of the Avon.The mill was already at work, but he lingered not to gaze upon therushing waters. His eye glanced at the glad scene, and his ear drankin the living sound; but the prosy old miller was at his door, and hisdaughter stood on the stepping stones below, watching the whitebreasted ducks that played in the back current, therefore, with ashort "good morrow," that waited for no reply, he passed onwards, forhe was bound on an errand of mercy. Although the old body, Margery,had escaped the persecution of yesterday, there was good ground forfearing that it would be soon and more cruelly repeated, if shecontinued to dwell in her lonely and exposed hovel; and Cuthbert hadfound a poor bricklayer from Coventry, who was then employed inrepairing the roof of an outhouse at Milverton, and who had witnessedthe scene of the day before with a true Christian feeling, quitewilling to give the old woman a lodging in the small house in the meanalley in which he dwelt, for such consideration as Cuthbert waswilling to pay. With this proposal of shelter and security he soughtthe wood, in the bosom of which, beneath a sand-stone rock, in aforsaken pit, was poor Margery's desolate abode. From the rude claychimney, in the blackened thatch, curled a blue wreath of smoke: heleaned against the rock above, and called to Margery, but there wasno reply. He went down and entered the hut. Upon a low stretcher on acoarsely plaited mat of straw, dressed in the same rags in which shewalked abroad, she lay fast asleep, and her breathing sounded soft asthat of a child,--a raven with a clipped wing and club-foot hoppedupon the floor, and croaked at the intrusion; but the sound, thoughloud, did not awaken her. "I will not fright away a sleep sofriendly," thought Cuthbert: he went forth again, and seated himselfbeneath a stately oak at no great distance. In an open grassy gladenot far off, in front, a few deer were feeding,--the scene around waspeace and beauty,--trees, herbs, beasts of the field and fowls of theair were declaring the glory and praising the goodness of a presentGod. In silent rapture Cuthbert mused his praise; but adoration wassucceeded by a sense of pain,--another scene, another image,interposed between the sunny objects before him and his mental vision.The stony desolation of Mount Calvary, and the black sky above, andthe pale and holy forehead with its crown of thorns, came up startlingand apparent, and reminded him that he was the inhabitant of a fallenworld. This solemn turn being given to his thoughts, his mindreverted, with serious consideration, to the views of that party inthe state which was already designated by the name of Puritans, andwhich had been hitherto, and but for the questions of civil libertynow widely agitated would still have been, a by-word and a reproachamong the people. "It is true," said he, "a Christian must be amourner--he cannot be other than a mourner; but yet, are we notgraciously commanded to serve the Lord with gladness? is thecountenance always to be sad? is there to be no rejoicing in the lightof the sun? Where is the middle ground between these two great partiesin church and state? Why is not a great and overwhelming majority ofmoderate men found there to defend the best interests of all?" Thethoughts to which he thus gave utterance would have found a responsein the bosoms of thousands--indeed they were the very sentiments ofhis own father; only that good man knew, what Cuthbert was as yetignorant of,--a knowledge which he was soon to purchase at the heavyprice of a most bitter and heart-breaking experience. He had yet tolearn that, in times of public commotion, there is no middle path, andthat a party does too often take the colour of the very worst personsamong those who compose it. The cant of the fanatic and the curses ofthe cavaliers alike disgusted him. But yet he was of an age when menwill be sanguine about having the world mended according to theirdesired pattern; and his heart glowed with the hope that the best menof the parliament side would in the end triumph over the cold andsevere intolerance of the high church party, would control the powerof the crown, and would effect great and glorious things for theliberty and the happiness of England. With these sentiments he had avery difficult card to play at Milverton, for Sir Oliver was a decidedenemy to the party which he secretly approved; and some of theneighbouring gentlemen, holding the same opinions with the knight,gave a much coarser expression to them. He had to hold his mouth aswith a bridle in their presence. Among these persons by far the mostobnoxious was Sir Charles Lambert, a gentleman of aboutfive-and-thirty, related to Sir Oliver, and residing within a fewmiles, at Bolton Grange, upon a fine property, with two youngersisters left dependent on him.
He had been a great deal about the court formerly, and in his youthhad been attached, for a few years, to the retinue of the late Duke ofBuckingham. Not proving of a capacity for public affairs, he had beenthrown back upon country life, without the true refinements of acourtier, but with all those vices and fopperies, which, in the trainof Buckingham, it was not difficult to acquire. He covered with satinand musk a heart as brutal and savage as one of his ownhounds,--resembling in nothing that generous and warm race of men thecountry gentlemen of England but in a fine person and in a passion forthe chase. Nevertheless he did so conceal from Sir Oliver his truecharacter, that he was always made welcome at Milverton. In suchthoughts the mind of Cuthbert was tossed about as on a troubled sea;and from mere weariness he fell into a contemplation of the sweetnessof nature, and the soft manner of her nursing, when we lie still andpassive in her lap, and look upon her face. So long a time had helingered in this green haunt, that the sun was three hours high; andthe great clock of Warwick, striking seven, warned him to return home.Of the small herd in the open glade a few were still grazing,--others,and a noble hart among them, lay in perfect repose: but, suddenly,every neck was raised and turned--the ears stood erect--the nostrilsdistended and closed--the eyes dilated--and then, as by accord, theyall stole slowly off to the rocky and difficult ground above them. Helooked around, and could see nothing to alarm them; but, in the sameinstant, the blast of a distant hunting horn came up faint on thewind: the sound was again heard nearer; and the loud voice of dogs inconcert, shrill yet deep, made the woods echo with notes that silencedevery bird, and drove away all the panting creatures from their lairs.Yet was it a gallant sight--a sight to stir the blood--as within sometwenty yards of the tree under which Cuthbert stood, the chase infull career swept by:--with antlers well thrown back, in its laststaggering speed, came a blown stag, with a stanch hound so close uponits flank, you looked to see the fine creature torn down instantly;not far behind, two leash of dogs were hanging on its track, theirmouths loud opening for prey:--with shouts of joy, and paceprecipitate, the huntsmen followed,--a small but eager band on gallantsteeds all foaming at the mouth, and stained with sweat. Swift as avision of the night they passed, and from beyond a swell of ground infront a winding horn sent forth the well known mort. Cuthbert,naturally excited, ran to a knoll before him, which might command thecountry beyond. On the side of an open slope, at some considerabledistance, he saw the last act of the death. The lifted knife, all redand reeking, was in the hand of a stranger of noble presence, by whoseside stood Sir Charles Lambert. The lordly game lay stretched upon theground, and near, with lolling tongues and panting sides, the houndslay gasping as for life. The riders were all dismounted, and theirhorses, with drooping heads and their hind quarters sunk andcontracted, stood stiff and motionless beside them. By the loud andexulting voices of the sportsmen you might know that the run had beensevere; two or three lagging horsemen were seen coming up in theirtrack; and by a cross path, just above the spot where the stag waskilled, two foresters on foot burst down at the top of their speed,and joined th
e group that now more closely surrounded the noble game.The sound had brought out all the household at Milverton, from whencethe slope was plainly to be seen. The boy Arthur, with some of theserving-men, ran down the pathway towards Guy's mill, while Cuthbertcould discern Sir Oliver standing out on the terrace, and MistressKatharine by his side, with a loose white kerchief thrown over herhead, to keep off the rays of the sun, which were already powerful.
The hunters now sounded the relief, and waved their caps towardsMilverton; intimating, by that note and action, that they would claimthe hospitality of the mansion; and then, leading their tired horsesby the bridle, they proceeded thither by the mill. Cuthbert, unseenhimself, watched all their motions; and when they had disappearedwithin the gates of Milverton, and all below and around him was againstill, he turned, with a dead and jaded interest, towards thesand-pit. Upon the edge of it, near the rock, he saw the bent figureof Margery, as if in the act of listening; and as she raised her head,and observed him walking to the spot, she hastily disappeared below.
He stepped quickly after her; but the door was already barred; andwhen he knocked and called to her, the hoarse croak of the raven wasthe sole reply. He rapped more loudly,--still the same voice of illomen replied; but as he persisted, and said words to re-assure her,the door was slowly opened, and the withered tenant of the pitappeared.
"Is it you, young master?" said Margery; "and are you alone, and isthere no hunter with you?"
"There is no one with me," he replied: "the hunters have gone over theriver."
"That's well, that's well, master: a hunting day, if the game takesthis way, is ever an ill day with me. They that be cowards alone, arebold in merry company; and I have had a whip on my old shoulders, andthe dogs hounded on me before now, if any thing crossed their sport.Three years ago, last fall, when his best hound, Bevis, was killed inthe hollow yonder, nothing would serve the turn of Sir Charles but tofloat my poor old carcass across the river, and to weigh me againstthe church Bible! But he hath had many a sleepless night for that; andbold as he looks by day, the ticking of a death-watch will keep himshivering in his bed."
"What do you mean, Margery? The folk may well think you a witch forwords such as these."
"Why, I mean," said the old woman wilfully and spitefully, "that Inever wished ill to any one, but ill came upon 'em."
"Had I thought this of you yesterday, I should have been slow to askany one to give you house room; but you are God's creature, and havebeen crossed with ill usage; and when you find yourself beneath theroof of a Christian, safe from all enemies, your heart will melt, andyou will taste God's peace yourself, and wish it to others. I havefound a good man, that lives in Croft's Alley in Coventry, and he willgive you a chamber and a chimney corner, and kind words, and a stoutarm to protect you; and when we get you safe there your thoughts willbe quiet."
"Hout-tout! what talk ye about Alley and a chimney corner? haven't Imy own ingle, and my own ways, and my own company? What voice morepleasant to me than those I heard when I was young, and hear still?What'll take better care of me than that old bird? Few there be thatdon't shun to pass close by this hut; and they that come to it stepswiftly back again. I was told, with a curse, that I might not liveany where else, many years ago; and here I shall stop till my oldbones crumble."
"Why, mother, why, you might starve here if you were taken ill, andnone to help you."
"Well, death is but death, let it come how it will."
"But hunger is a bad death; and besides, are you not in constantdanger of being taken up, and losing your life for a witch? Why, thisbird that you keep, and your words and ways, will surely bring you tothe stake one of these days."
"Let the day come, if it is to come; and as to dying of hunger, where,think you, do the foxes die? and where do the birds of the air die?Why, they that escape the hounds die in their holes; and they that thebird-bolt misses find a dying place in some nest or corner. Go yourway, young master! I am no tame rabbit, to be kept in a town hutch,and tormented by children. I don't want to be led to church, and hearthe parson's jabber about my old soul."
"Do not utter such wickedness, unhappy woman. It were charity to thinkyou crazed, and take you into safe keeping against your will."
At this the old woman gave a shriek of passion, fitful as that of athwarted child, and then, suddenly overcome by fear, fell upon heraged knees, and lifted and joined her withered hands, and imploredCuthbert, with wild earnestness, never to have her moved.
"Look you, young master, winter and summer, here I have watched andwaked these many years. It's a small matter of meal that makes myporridge;--some give it for pity, and some give it for fear. There'sno lack of rotten sticks to keep me warm: yonder spring is never dry;and it's free I am to go and to come, and nothing here to flout or tofret me: the deer and the kine take no count of me--the prettycreatures don't fear me; and it's not all the world calling me witchthat will make them. That place is best we think best. Oh, for thelove of God, master, let me alone--let me rot where I am."
Cuthbert's mind was in an agony of prayer; but his tongue clave to theroof of his mouth. He would have said much; but he could speaknothing. He gave her alms; and telling her that he would do nothingagainst her will--nothing to make her unhappy, but that he would comeand see her again--he raised her from her knees, and went upon his wayhomewards.
"My father would not thus have left her," was his first thought. "Hewould have found some way to break into her heart. Strangeworld--strange thing this human life! This old solitary miserable hasbeen wrapped in swaddling clothes, even as others--has been suckled ata human breast--has grasped, with tiny hand, a father's finger--andbeen kissed, and muched; and now, she has survived all kindred--lostall defence of strength or money--hath none of wisdom, and because herback is crooked, and nose and chin have come well nigh together, shehas been hunted from her kind, and dwells apart. As God is love,--andthat he is I cannot doubt and live,--this is a mystery! It's a skeinso much entangled that my poor wit can not unwind it."
Muttering to himself these wayward fancies, he hurried back toMilverton as to his heart's home. There he could see sunlight upon theearth, and feel warm in the comfort of it. Nor in his then mood was hesorry that the guest chambers would be full: he wished a day ofcheerful cups, and pleasant voices, and music. Thus absorbed, hereached the mill, and passed it as swiftly as in the morning.
"There he goes," said the old miller, speaking to his daughter, whowas spreading out some linen to bleach--"There he goes, as shy as ahare, and as fast as if he were making for his form. I never gets abit of chat with him. He's not much for company."
"Why, father," replied the girl, coming upon the pathway, "he's ascholar, you know, and that's the fashion of them, you know."
"Well, it's a bad fashion to go poking about the woods as lonesome asa stray mule; no good comes of those crazy fashions. I like an openface, and an open hand, and a free tongue."
"Eh! he can talk fast enough, I'll warrant me, if he had a sweetheartto talk to."
"He talk to a sweetheart! She must be a poor silly body that wouldlisten. There are merry men and merry hearts enough in old England forthe lasses to choose from, without giving ear to such as he."
"Well, they give him kind words at the Hall,--and they say he's alwaysmore for good than harm; and I find him pleasant spoken enough when hecomes to angle in the mill-pool."
"There it is! I can never make him say a dozen words, black or white;now Parson Mullins will chat free for an hour on, and tosses you off apot of ale with good words and good will. Why, he and I have smokedmany a pipe together; and he's a clerk, and a rare scholar too. Hedoesn't give you ignorant stuff o' Sundays; but Latin, and Greek, andall the best that he has learned at college. That's the man for mymoney."
"Well, father, for the matter o' that, I like to know what folk aresaying; and it might be gipsy language for all you or I are thewiser."
"I know where you got that lesson, Miss Pert; that's what the oldPuritan pedlar said the other day,--r
ot him! he shall take seat on theold wive's ducking-stool if he comes this way again."
"I am sure he was a quiet civil man; and you have not had a betterpiece of linen, or a cheaper, than he sold us, this many a year."
"Hang his linen, and him too!" rejoined the sturdy old miller. "Ididn't like the cut of his black head;" and with that he passed intothe mill, and the girl went towards the dwelling.
While this dialogue was passing, Cuthbert Noble was rapidly ascendingthe path, which rose gently over a swelling field of luxuriant grass,to Milverton. Certainly there was much about Cuthbert to excuse theprejudice of the miller. He was of low stature, with a long visage andgrave aspect; and there was a peculiar expression of his eye, whichdisturbed or repelled those who saw him for a first time, or who sawhim not at his ease; but to those whom, upon a nearer acquaintance,he liked, his dark eye beamed with light; the expression about hismouth was humane and gentle; his voice was low, and rather tremulousbefore strangers; he never laughed, and seldom smiled, save with hiseyes, which gave quick and lively response to whatever pleased him.Though, in his first manhood, he was not without a knowledge of lifeand of the human heart, for his reading had been extensive; and he hadthat felicity of apprehension, by which the lessons of books are mosthappily caught, and most easily applied to the heart's daily wants.Moreover, he had all those graces of persuasion by which a pupil isbest won upon and encouraged to climb the steep hill of fame. Morehappily placed he could not have been than in the family of Sir OliverHeywood, but for one circumstance--he was too happy. A fear laybeating in his bosom. He dared not confess to himself the strange, yetdeep, sentiments of admiration with which he regarded the daughter ofthe worthy knight. He would fain persuade himself that it was nothingbut an emotion of gratitude to Mistress Katharine for that generouscourtesy which would not suffer a scholar of gentle birth to want suchattention and respect as she might delicately pay to him. Here,however, his wisdom was at fault. In vain had books taught him themisery of misplaced affections. He was launching out upon an unknownsea that has no shore.
