And as if goaded by some stinging thought, that drove him nigh distracted, Hugh Calveley arose, and paced to and fro within the chamber. His brow became gloomier and his visage sterner.
“Bear with him, good Master Jocelyn,” Aveline said in a low tone. “He hath been unjustly treated by the King, and as you see can ill brook the usage. Bear with him, I pray of you.”
Jocelyn had no time to make reply. Suddenly checking himself, and fixing his earnest gaze upon the young man, the Puritan said —
“Give ear to me, my son. If I desired to inflame your breast with rage against this tyrant, I should need only to relate one instance of his cruelty and injustice. I had a friend — a very dear friend,” he continued, in a tone of deep pathos— “confined within the Fleet Prison by a decree of the Star-Chamber. He was to me as a brother, and to see him gradually pining away cut me to the soul. Proud by nature, he refused to abase himself to his oppressor, and could not be brought to acknowledge wrongs he had never committed. Pardon, therefore, was denied him — not pardon merely, but all mitigation of suffering. My friend had been wealthy; but heavy fines and penalties had stripped him of his possessions, and brought him to destitution. Lord of an ancient hall, with woods and lands around it, wherein he could ride for hours without quitting his own domains, his territories were now narrowed to a few yards; while one dark, dreary chamber was alone accorded him. Finding he must necessarily perish, if left to rot there, I prevailed upon him (not without much reluctance on his part) to petition the King for liberation; and was myself the bearer of his prayer. Earnestly pleading the cause of the unfortunate man, and representing his forlorn condition, I besought his Majesty’s gracious intercession. But when I had wearied the royal ear with entreaties, the sharp reply was— ‘Doth he make submission? Will he confess his offence?’ And as I could only affirm, that as he was guilty of no crime, so he could confess none, the King returned me the petition, coldly observing— ‘The dignity of our Court of Star-Chamber must be maintained before all things. He hath been guilty of contempt towards it, and must purge him of the offence.’ ‘But the man will die, Sire,’ I urged, ‘if he be not removed from the Fleet. His prison-lodging is near a foul ditch, and he is sick with fever. Neither can he have such aid of medicine or of nursing as his case demands.’ ‘The greater reason he should relieve himself by speedy acknowledgment of the justice of his sentence,’ said the King. ‘The matter rests not with us, but with himself.’ ‘But he is a gentleman, Sire,’ I persisted, ‘to whom truth is dearer than life, and who would rather languish in misery for thrice the term he is likely to last, than forfeit his own self-esteem by admitting falsehood and injustice.’ ‘Then let him perish in his pride and obstinacy,’ cried the King impatiently. And thereupon he dismissed me.”
“O Sir!” exclaimed Jocelyn, rising and throwing, his arms round the Puritan’s neck; “you, then, were the friend who tended my poor father in his last moments. Heaven bless you for it!”
“Yes, Jocelyn, it was I who heard your father’s latest sigh,” the Puritan replied, returning his embrace, “and your own name was breathed with it. His thoughts were of his son far away — too young to share his distresses, or to comprehend them.”
“Alas! alas!” cried Jocelyn mournfully.
“Lament not for your father, Jocelyn,” said the Puritan, solemnly; “he is reaping the reward of his earthly troubles in heaven! Be comforted, I say. The tyrant can no longer oppress him. He is beyond the reach of his malice. He can be arraigned at no more unjust tribunals. He is where no cruel and perfidious princes, no iniquitous judges, no griping extortioners shall ever enter.”
Jocelyn endeavoured to speak, but his emotion overpowered him.
“I have already told you that your father rendered me a service impossible to be adequately requited,” pursued the Puritan. “What that service was I will one day inform you. Suffice it now, that it bound me to him in chains firmer than brass. Willingly would I have laid down my life for him, if he had desired it. Gladly would I have taken his place in the Fleet prison, if that could have procured him liberation. Unable to do either, I watched over him while he lived — and buried him when dead.”
“O Sir, you have bound me to you as strongly as you were bound to my father,” cried Jocelyn. “For the devotion shown to him, I hold myself eternally your debtor.”
The Puritan regarded him steadfastly for a moment.
“What if I were to put these professions to the test?” he asked.
“Do so,” Jocelyn replied earnestly. “My life is yours!”
“Your life!” exclaimed Hugh Calveley, grasping his arm almost fiercely, while his eye blazed. “Consider what you offer.”
“I need not consider,” Jocelyn rejoined. “I repeat my life is yours, if you demand it.”
“Perhaps I shall demand it,” cried Hugh Calveley. “Ere long, perhaps.”
“Demand it when you will,” Jocelyn said.
“Father!” Aveline interposed, “do not let the young man bind himself by this promise. Release him, I pray of you.”
“The promise cannot be recalled, my child,” the Puritan replied. “But I shall never claim its fulfilment save for some high and holy purpose.”
“Are you sure your purpose is holy, father?” Aveline said in a low tone.
“What mean you, child?” cried Hugh Calveley, knitting his brows. “I am but an instrument in the hands of Heaven, appointed to do its work; and as directed, so I must act. Heaven may make me the scourge of the oppressor and evil-doer, or the sword to slay the tyrant. I may die a martyr for my faith, or do battle for it with carnal weapons. For all these I am ready; resigning myself to the will of God. Is it for nothing, think’st thou, that this young man — the son of my dear departed friend — has been brought hither at this particular conjuncture? Is it for nothing that, wholly unsolicited, he has placed his life at my disposal, and in doing so has devoted himself to a great cause? Like myself he hath wrongs to avenge, and the Lord of Hosts will give him satisfaction.”
“But not in the way you propose, father,” Aveline rejoined. “Heaven will assuredly give you both satisfaction for the wrongs you have endured; but it must choose its own means of doing so, and its own time.”
“It hath chosen the means, and the time is coming quickly,” cried the Puritan, his eye again kindling with fanatical light. “‘The Lord will cut off from Israel head and tail.’”
“These things are riddles to me,” observed Jocelyn, who had listened to what was passing with great uneasiness. “I would solicit an explanation?”
“You shall have it, my son,” Hugh Calveley replied. “But not now. My hour for solitary prayer and self-communion is come, and I must withdraw to my chamber. Go forth into the garden, Jocelyn — and do thou attend him, Aveline. I will join you when my devotions are ended.”
So saying he quitted the room, while the youthful pair went forth as enjoined.
CHAPTER XVIII.
How the promise was cancelled.
It was a large garden, once fairly laid out and planted, but now sadly neglected. The broad terrace walk was overgrown with weeds; the stone steps and the carved balusters were broken in places, and covered with moss; the once smooth lawn was unconscious of the scythe; the parterres had lost their quaint devices; and the knots of flowers — tre-foil, cinque-foil, diamond, and cross-bow — were no longer distinguishable in their original shapes. The labyrinths of the maze were inextricably tangled, and the long green alleys wanted clearing out.
But all this neglect passed unnoticed by Jocelyn, so completely was he engrossed by the fair creature at his side. Even the noise of the May Games, which, temporarily interrupted by Hugh Calveley, had recommenced with greater vigour than ever — the ringing of the church bells, the shouts of the crowd, and the sounds of the merry minstrelsy, scarcely reached his ear. For the first time he experienced those delicious sensations which new-born love excites within the breast; and the enchantment operated upon him so rapidly and so strongl
y, that he was overpowered by its spell almost before aware of it. It seemed that he had never really lived till this moment; never, at least, comprehended the bliss afforded by existence in the companionship of a being able to awaken the transports he now experienced. A new world seemed suddenly opened to him, full of love, hope, sunshine, of which he and Aveline were the sole inhabitants. Hitherto his life had been devoid of any great emotion. The one feeling latterly pervading it had been a sense of deep wrong, coupled with the thirst of vengeance. No tenderer influence had softened his almost rugged nature; and his breast continued arid as the desert. Now the rock had been stricken, and the living waters gushed forth abundantly. Not that in Norfolk, and even in the remote part of the county where his life had been passed, female beauty was rare. Nowhere, indeed, is the flower of loveliness more thickly sown than in that favoured part of our isle. But all such young damsels as he had beheld had failed to move him; and if any shaft had been aimed at his breast it had fallen wide of the mark. Jocelyn Mounchensey was not one of those highly susceptible natures — quick to receive an impression, quicker to lose it. Neither would he have been readily caught by the lures spread for youth by the designing of the sex. Imbued with something of the antique spirit of chivalry, which yet, though but slightly, influenced the age in which he lived, he was ready and able to pay fervent homage to his mistress’s sovereign beauty (supposing he had one), and maintain its supremacy against all questioners, but utterly incapable of worshipping at any meaner shrine. Heart-whole, therefore, when he encountered the Puritan’s daughter, he felt that in her he had found an object he had long sought, to whom he could devote himself heart and soul; a maiden whose beauty was without peer, and whose mental qualities corresponded with her personal attractions.
Nor was it a delusion under which he laboured. Aveline Calveley was all his imagination painted her. Purity of heart, gentleness of disposition, intellectual endowments, were as clearly revealed by her speaking countenance as the innermost depths of a fountain are by the pellucid medium through which they are viewed. Hers was a virgin heart, which, like his own, had received no previous impression. Love for her father alone had swayed her; though all strong demonstrations of filial affection had been checked by that father’s habitually stern manner. Brought up by a female relative in Cheshire, who had taken charge of her on her mother’s death, which had occurred during her infancy, she had known little of her father till late years, when she had come to reside with him, and, though devout by nature, she could ill reconcile herself to the gloomy notions of religion he entertained, or to the ascetic mode of life he practised. With no desire to share in the pomps and vanities of life, she could not be persuaded that cheerfulness was incompatible with righteousness; nor could all the railings she heard against them make her hate those who differed from her in religious opinions. Still she made no complaint. Entirely obedient to her father’s will, she accommodated herself, as far as she could, to the rule of life prescribed by him. Aware of his pertinacity of opinion, she seldom or ever argued a point with him, even if she thought right might be on her side; holding it better to maintain peace by submission, than to hazard wrath by disputation. The discussion on the May Games was an exception to her ordinary conduct, and formed one of the few instances in which she had ventured to assert her own opinion in opposition to that of her father.
Of late, indeed, she had felt great uneasiness about him. Much changed, he seemed occupied by some dark, dread thought, which partially revealed itself in wrathful exclamations and muttered menaces. He seemed to believe himself chosen by Heaven as an instrument of vengeance against oppression; and her fears were excited lest he might commit some terrible act under this fatal impression. She was the more confirmed in the idea from the eagerness with which he had grasped at Jocelyn’s rash promise, and she determined to put the young man upon his guard.
If, in order to satisfy the reader’s curiosity, we are obliged to examine the state of Aveline’s heart, in reference to Jocelyn, we must state candidly that no such ardent flame was kindled within it as burnt in the breast of the young man. That such a flame might arise was very possible, nay even probable, seeing that the sparks of love were there; and material for combustion was by no means wanting. All that was required was, that those sparks should be gently fanned — not heedlessly extinguished.
Little was said by the two young persons, as they slowly paced the terrace. Both felt embarrassed: Jocelyn longing to give utterance to his feelings, but restrained by timidity — Aveline trembling lest more might be said than she ought to hear, or if obliged to hear, than she could rightly answer. Thus they walked on in silence. But it was a silence more eloquent than words, since each comprehended what the other felt. How much they would have said was proclaimed by the impossibility they found of saying anything!
At length, Jocelyn stopped, and plucking a flower, observed, as he proffered it for her acceptance, “My first offering to you was rejected. May this be more fortunate.”
“Make me a promise, and I will accept it,” she replied.
“Willingly,”, cried Jocelyn, venturing to take her hand, and gazing at her tenderly. “Most willingly.”
“You are far too ready to promise,” she rejoined with a sad, sweet smile. “What I desire is this. Recall your hasty pledge to my father, and aid me in dissuading him from the enterprise in which he would engage you.”
As the words were uttered the Puritan stepped from behind the alley which had enabled him to approach them unperceived, and overhear their brief converse.
“Hold!” he exclaimed in a solemn tone, and regarding Jocelyn with great earnestness. “That promise is sacred. It was made in a father’s name, and must be fulfilled. As to my purpose it is unchangeable.”
The enthusiast’s influence over Jocelyn would have proved irresistible but for the interposition of Aveline.
“Be not controlled by him,” she said in a low tone to the young man; adding to her father, “For my sake, let the promise be cancelled.”
“Let him ask it, and it shall be,” rejoined the Puritan, gazing steadily at the young man, as if he would penetrate his soul. “Do you hesitate?” he cried in accents of deep disappointment, perceiving Jocelyn waver.
“You cannot misunderstand his wishes, father,” said Aveline.
“Let him speak for himself,” Hugh Calveley exclaimed angrily. “Jocelyn Mounchensey!” he continued, folding his arms upon his breast, and regarding the young man fixedly as before, “son of my old friend! son of him who died in my arms! son of him whom I committed to the earth! if thou hast aught of thy father’s true spirit, thou wilt rigidly adhere to a pledge voluntarily given, and which, uttered as it was uttered by thee, has all the sanctity, all the binding force of a vow before Heaven, where it is registered, and approved by him who is gone before us.”
Greatly moved by this appeal, Jocelyn might have complied with it, but Aveline again interposed.
“Not so, father,” she cried. “The spirits of the just made perfect — and of such is the friend you mention — would never approve of the design with which you would link this young man, in consequence of a promise rashly made. Discharge him from it, I entreat you.”
Her energy shook even the Puritan’s firmness.
“Be it as thou wilt, daughter,” he said, after the pause of a few moments, during which he waited for Jocelyn to speak; but, as the young man said nothing, he rightly interpreted his silence,— “be it as thou wilt, since he, too, wills it so. I give him back his promise. But let me see him no more.”
“Sir, I beseech you—” cried Jocelyn.
But he was cut short by the Puritan, who, turning from him contemptuously, said to his daughter— “Let him depart immediately.”
Aveline signed to the young man to go; but finding him remain motionless, she took him by the hand, and led him some way along the terrace. Then, releasing her hold, she bade him farewell!
“Wherefore have you done this?” inquired Jocelyn reproachfully.
“Be assured I will not,” the young man replied. “Shall we not meet again?” he asked, in a tone of deepest anxiety.
“Perhaps,” she answered. “But you must go. My father will become impatient. Again farewell!”
On this they separated: the young man sorrowfully departing, while her footsteps retreated in the opposite direction.
Meanwhile the May games went forward on the green with increased spirit and merriment, and without the slightest hinderance. More than once the mummers had wheeled their mazy rounds, with Gillian and Dick Taverner footing it merrily in the midst of them. More than once the audacious ‘prentice, now become desperately enamoured of his pretty partner, had ventured to steal a kiss from her lips. More than once he had whispered words of love in her ear; though, as yet, he had obtained no tender response. Once — and once only — had he taken her hand; but then he had never quitted it afterwards. In vain other swains claimed her for a dance. Dick refused to surrender his prize. They breakfasted together in a little bower made of green boughs, the most delightful and lover-like retreat imaginable. Dick’s appetite, furious an hour ago, was now clean gone. He could eat nothing. He subsisted on love alone. But as she was prevailed upon to sip from a foaming tankard of Whitsun ale, he quaffed the remainder of the liquid with rapture. This done, they resumed their merry sports, and began to dance, again. The bells continued to ring blithely, the assemblage to shout, and the minstrels to play. A strange contrast to what was passing in the Puritan’s garden.
CHAPTER XIX.
Theobalds’ Palace.
The magnificent palace of Theobalds, situated near Cheshunt, in Hertfordshire, originally the residence of the great Lord Treasurer Burleigh, and the scene of his frequent and sumptuous entertainments to Queen Elizabeth and the ambassadors to her Court, when she “was seen,” says Stow, “in as great royalty, and served as bountifully and magnificently as at any other time or place, all at his lordship’s charge; with rich shows, pleasant devices, and all manner of sports, to the great delight of her Majesty and her whole train, with great thanks from all who partook of it, and as great commendations from all that heard of it abroad:” — this famous and delightful palace, with its stately gardens, wherein Elizabeth had so often walked and held converse with her faithful counsellor; and its noble parks and chases, well stocked with deer, wherein she had so often hunted; came into possession of James the First, in the manner we shall proceed to relate, some years before the date of this history.
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