CHAPTER XXV.
RICHARD HEYWOOD.
So things looked ill for the puritans in general, and Richard Heywoodhad his full portion in the distribution of the evils allotted them.Following lord Fairfax, he had shared his defeat by the marquis ofNewcastle on Atherton moor, where of his score of men he lost five, andwas, along with his mare, pretty severely wounded. Hence it had becomeabsolutely necessary for both of them, if they were to render goodservice at any near future, that they should have rest and tending.Towards the middle of July, therefore, Richard, followed by Stopchase,and several others of his men who had also been wounded and were in needof nursing, rode up to his father's door. Lady was taken off to her ownstall, and Richard was led into the house by his father--without a wordof tenderness, but with eyes and hands that waited and tended like thoseof a mother.
Roger Heywood was troubled in heart at the aspect of affairs. There wasnow a strong peace-party in the parliament, and to him peace and ruinseemed the same thing. If the parliament should now listen to overturesof accommodation, all for which he and those with whom he chieflysympathised had striven, was in the greatest peril, and might be, if notirrecoverably lost, at least lost sight of, perhaps for a century. Thething that mainly comforted him in his anxiety was that his son hadshowed himself worthy, not merely in the matter of personal courage,which he took as a thing of course in a Heywood, but in hisunderstanding of and spiritual relation to the questions really atissue,--not those only which filled the mouths of men. For the best menand the weightiest questions are never seen in the forefront of thebattle of their time, save by "larger other eyes than ours."
But now, from his wounds, as he thought, and the depression belonging tothe haunting sense of defeat, a doubt had come to life in Richard'smind, which, because it was born IN weakness, he very pardonably lookedupon as born OF weakness, and therefore regarded as itself weak andcowardly, whereas his mood had been but the condition that favoured itsdevelopment. It came and came again, maugre all his self-recriminationbecause of it: what was all this fighting for? It was well indeed thatnor king nor bishop should interfere with a man's rights, either inmatters of taxation or worship, but the war could set nothing righteither betwixt him and his neighbour, or betwixt him and his God.
There was in the mind of Richard, innate, but more rapidly developedsince his breach with Dorothy, a strong tendency towards thesupernatural--I mean by the word that which neither any one of thesenses nor all of them together, can reveal. He was one of those youngmen, few, yet to be found in all ages of the world's history, who, inhealth and good earthly hope, and without any marked poetic ormetaphysical tendency, yet know in their nature the need of consciouscommunion with the source of that nature--truly the veriest absurdity ifthere be no God, but as certainly the most absolute necessity ofconscious existence if there be a first life from whom our life is born.
'Am I not free now?' he said to himself, as he lay on his bed in his owngable of the many-nooked house; 'Am I not free to worship God as Iplease? Who will interfere with me? Who can prevent me? As to form andceremony, what are they, or what is the absence of them, to the worshipin which my soul seeks to go forth? What the better shall I be when allthis is over, even if the best of our party carry the day? Will Cromwellrend for me the heavy curtain, which, ever as I lift up my heart, seemsto come rolling down between me and him whom I call my God? If I couldpass within that curtain, what would Charles, or Laud, or Newcastle, orthe mighty Cromwell himself and all his Ironsides be to me? Am I not onthe wrong road for the high peak?'
But then he thought of others--of the oppressed and the superstitious,of injustice done and not endured--not wrapt in the pearly antidote ofpatience, but rankling in the soul; of priests who, knowing not God,substituted ceremonies for prayer, and led the seeking heart afar fromits goal--and said that his arm could at least fight for the truth inothers, if only his heart could fight for the truth in himself. No; hewould go on as he had begun; for, might it not be the part of him whocould take the form of an angel of light when he would deceive, to makeuse of inward truths, which might well be the strength of his own soul,to withdraw him from the duties he owed to others, and cause the heartof devotion to paralyze the arm of battle? Besides, was he not now in alow physical condition, and therefore the less likely to judge trulywith regard to affairs of active outer life? His business plainly was togain strength of body, that the fumes of weakness might no longer cloudhis brain, and that, if he had to die for the truth, whether in othersor in himself, he might die in power, like the blast of an explodingmine, and not like the flame of an expiring lamp. And certainly, as hisbody grew stronger, and the impulses to action, so powerful in allhealthy youth, returned, his doubts grew weaker, and he became more andmore satisfied that he had been in the right path.
Lady outstripped her master in the race for health, and after a few dayshad oats and barley in a profusion which, although far from careless,might well have seemed to her unlimited. Twice every day, sometimesoftener, Richard went to see her, and envied the rapidity of herrecovery from the weakness which scanty rations, loss of blood, and theinflammation of her wounds had caused. Had there been any immediate callfor his services, however, that would have brought his strength with it.Had the struggle been still going on upon the fields of battle insteadof in the houses of words, he would have been well in half the time. ButWaller and Essex were almost without an army between them, and were atbitter strife with each other, while the peace-party seemed likely tocarry everything before them, women themselves presenting a petition forpeace, and some of them using threats to support it.
At length, chiefly through the exertions of the presbyterian preachersand the common council of the city of London, the peace-party wasdefeated, and a vigorous levying and pressing of troops began anew. Sothe hour had come for Richard to mount. His men were all in health andspirits, and their vacancies had been filled up. Lady was frolicsome,and Richard was perfectly well.
The day before they were to start he took the mare out for a gallopacross the fields. Never had he known her so full of life. She rushed athedge and ditch as if they had been squares of royalist infantry. Hermadness woke the fervour of battle in Richard's own veins, and as theyswept along together, it grew until he felt like one of the Arabs ofold, flashing to the harvest field of God, where the corn to be reapedwas the lives of infidels, and the ears to be gleaned were the heads ofthe fallen. That night he scarcely slept for eagerness to be gone.
Waking early from what little sleep he had had, he dressed and armedhimself hurriedly, and ran to the stables, where already his men werebustling about getting their horses ready for departure.
Lady had a loose box for herself, and thither straight her master went,wondering as he opened the door of it that he did not hear usual morningwelcome. The place was empty. He called Stopchase.
'Where is my mare?' he said. 'Surely no one has been fool enough to takeher to the water just as we are going to start.'
Stopchase stood and stared without reply, then turned and left thestable, but came back almost immediately, looking horribly scared. Ladywas nowhere to be seen or heard. Richard rushed hither and thither,storming. Not a man about the place could give him a word ofenlightenment. All knew she was in that box the night before; none knewwhen she left it or where she was now.
He ran to his father, but all his father could see or say was no morethan was plain to every one: the mare had been carried off in the night,and that with a skill worthy of a professional horse-thief.
What now was the poor fellow to do? If I were to tell the truth--namely,that he wept--so courageous are the very cowards of this century thatthey would sneer at him; but I do tell it notwithstanding, for I havelittle regard to the opinion of any man who sneers. Whatever he may ormay not have been as a man, Richard felt but half a soldier without hismare, and, his country calling him, oppressed humanity crying aloud forhis sword and arm, his men waiting for him, and Lady gone, what was heto do?
'Never heed, Dick, m
y boy,' said his father.--It was the first timesince he had put on man's attire that he had called him Dick,--'Thoushalt have my Oliver. He is a horse of good courage, as thou knowest,and twice the weight of thy little mare.'
'Ah, father! you do not know Lady so well as I. Not Cromwell's besthorse could comfort me for her. I MUST find her. Give me leave, sir; Imust go and think. I cannot mount and ride, and leave her I know notwhere. Go I will, if it be on a broomstick, but this morning I ride not.Let the men put up their horses, Stopchase, and break their fast.'
'It is a wile of the enemy,' said Stopchase. 'Truly, it were no marvelto me were the good mare at this moment eating her oats in the verystall where we have even but now in vain sought her. I will go andsearch for her with my hands.'
'Verily,' said Mr. Heywood with a smile, 'to fear the devil is not torun from him!--How much of her hay hath she eaten, Stopchase?' he added,as the man returned with disconsolate look.
'About a bottle, sir,' answered Stopchase, rather indefinitely; but theconclusion drawn was, that she had been taken very soon after the housewas quiet.
The fact was, that since the return of their soldiers, poor watch hadbeen kept by the people of Redware. Increase of confidence had led tocarelessness. Mr. Heywood afterwards made inquiry, and had small reasonto be satisfied with what he discovered.
'The thief must have been one who knew the place,' said Faithful.
'Why dost thou think so?' asked his master.
'How swooped he else so quietly upon the best animal, sir?' returned theman.
'She was in the place of honour,' answered Mr. Heywood.
'Scudamore!' said Richard to himself. It might be no light--only a flashin his brain. But that even was precious in the utter darkness.
'Sir,' he said, turning to his father, 'I would I had a plan of Raglanstables.'
'What wouldst thou an' thou hadst, my son?' asked Mr. Heywood.
'Nay, sir, that wants thinking. But I believe my poor mare is at thismoment in one of those vaults they tell us of.'
'It may be, my son. It is reported that the earl hath of late beengenerous in giving of horses. Poor soldiers the king will find them thatfight for horses, or titles either. Such will never stand before themthat fight for the truth--in the love thereof! Eh, Richard?'
'Truly, sir, I know not,' answered his son, disconsolately. 'I hope Ilove the truth, and I think so doth Stopchase, after his kind; and yetwere we of those that fled from Atherton moor.'
'Thou didst not flee until thou couldst no more, my son. It askethgreater courage of some men to flee when the hour of flight hath come,for they would rather fight on to the death than allow, if but to theirown souls, that they are foiled. But a man may flee in faith as well asfight in faith, my son, and each is good in its season. There is a timefor all things under the sun. In the end, when the end cometh, we shallsee how it hath all gone. When, then, wilt thou ride?'
'To-morrow, an' it please you, sir. I should fight but evil with theknowledge that I had left my best battle-friend in the hands of thePhilistines, nor sent even a cry after her.'
'What boots it, Richard? If she be within Raglan walls, they yield hernot again. Bide thy time; and when thou meetest thy foe on thy friend'sback, woe betide him!'
'Amen, sir!' said Richard. 'But with your leave I will not go to-day. Igive you my promise I will go to-morrow.'
'Be it so, then. Stopchase, let the men be ready at this hour on themorrow. The rest of the day is their own.'
So saying, Roger Heywood turned away, in no small distress, although heconcealed it, both at the loss of the mare and his son's grief over it.Betaking himself to his study, he plunged himself straightway deep inthe comfort of the last born and longest named of Milton's tracts.
The moment he was gone, Richard, who had now made up his mind as to hisfirst procedure, sent Stopchase away, saddled Oliver, rode slowly out ofthe yard, and struck across the fields. After a half-hour's ride hestopped at a lonely cottage at the foot of a rock on the banks of theUsk. There he dismounted, and having fastened his horse to the littlegate in front, entered a small garden full of sweet-smelling herbsmingled with a few flowers, and going up to the door, knocked, and thenlifted the latch.
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