THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 PRESENTED BY 
 
 PROF. CHARLES A. KOFOID AND 
 
 MRS. PRUDENCE W. KOFOID 
 
ry 
 
THE CAEEWES 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2007 with funding from 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/carewestaleofcivOOgillrich 
 
^ 
 
 #- ^^\ 
 
 
 THE ROYAI. INTRODICTIOX. 
 
\t'-i )^ 
 
 THE CAREWES 
 
 %. ^ale of \\}z ©ibil 2t2Xar$. 
 
 By MARY GILLIES, 
 
 AVTHOR OF "THE VOYAGE OF THE CONSTAXCE. 
 
 ^ WITH TWEXTY-FOUR ILLUSTRATIOXS BY" BIRKET FOSTER. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 W. KENT & CO., 23, PATERNOSTER ROW. 
 
LONDON : 
 llENET VIZETELLY, PRINTER AND ENGUAVKE, GOIGH SQUARE, FI.EKT STRKKT. 
 

 PREFACE 
 
 In describing the lives and adventures of the characters in 
 the following tale, I have endeavoured, (guided by the best 
 authorities) to give a true picture of the customs and man- 
 ners of the time, and to be strictly accurate in every circum- 
 stance touching on historical events. Above all, it has been 
 my wish to give some idea, capable of being understood by 
 my young readers, of the pure motives, the brave struggles, 
 and the noble deeds, of those great men to whom our country 
 probably owes its present liberty under a constitutional 
 queen. 
 
 M. G. 
 
 S^:il7B41 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 Thk Eldest Son .... « . . 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 At Home ......... 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 Thb Chase ......... 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 Valentine's Triumph ....... 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 Henry's Disgrace ......*. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 A Mystery . . . . . . . . « 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 More Mysteries ........ 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 Henry's Generosity ...,,,, 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 Valentine's Confession ....... 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 Three Days at Crewiiurst ... . . 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 WOODRUFFE ......... 
 
 Page 
 
 I 
 
 12 
 
 3S 
 
 53 
 
 87 
 
 101 
 
 115 
 
 126 
 
 141 
 
y^ CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 LoxDOU IN 1C39 
 
 CnAPTER XIV. 
 
 Th« Citt and the Couax . . • • 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 A Nioht'8 Adventvbes .... 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 The PuiBONEtt . 
 
 CHAFIER XVn. 
 TheFcoitivk . . . • • 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 Thb Exile* . * . * . 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A JOVUNEY ...••• 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 The Tower . . . . • 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 The War Begins . . • • • 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 The TRirjiPH or Mind . • • • 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 FOXCE AGAINST FORCE . . . • 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 Thb BittTURJoHT . . • • • 
 
 153 
 
 167 
 
 179 
 
 190 
 
 204 
 
 216 
 
 230 
 
 241 
 
 251 
 
 263 
 
 291 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 TuK Royal Introduction 
 
 [Page 63) . 
 
 
 
 Frontispiece. 
 
 BANauKT AT WHiTfcHALL [Page 172) 
 
 
 
 
 Vignette. 
 
 Glbe Singers . . . . 
 
 
 . 
 
 
 . Page IG 
 
 DiNNtR IN THE Gkeat Chambeb 
 
 
 
 
 
 28 
 
 The King's Huntsmen 
 
 
 
 
 
 46 
 
 Unwelcome Visitors 
 
 
 
 
 
 C7 
 
 The Scares Villagers 
 
 
 
 
 
 81 
 
 The "Worthy Knight, John Carewk 
 
 
 
 
 
 91 
 
 Royal Hunting in France 
 
 
 
 
 
 112 
 
 Tiia Evening Hymn 
 
 
 
 
 
 122 
 
 The Wassail Bowl 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 130 
 
 The Yulc Log 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 132 
 
 Woodruffe in Argument 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 149 
 
 A London Coach . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 158 
 
 The Ante-koom . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 176 
 
 The Lion's Mouth 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 198 
 
 A Night Alarm 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 208 
 
 Mumming in Earnest 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 231 
 
 Drinking Toasts . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 239 
 
 Hard Times 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 242 
 
 The Meeting at Lord Say's 
 
 
 
 
 
 250 
 
 The Buckinghamshire Men 
 
 
 
 
 
 208 
 
 Prince Rvpekt's Troopers 
 
 
 
 
 
 2^7 
 
 The Victims of War 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 
 296 
 
THE CAREWES. 
 
 CIIAPTEE I. 
 
 CREWHURST HALL. 
 
 In tlic year 1637, the twelfth of King Charles the First, 
 there stood, not far from the skirts of Windsor Forest, a fine 
 old hall belonging to a branch of the ancient family of 
 Carewe. A deer park of considerable extent, adorned -svith 
 magnificent trees, among which were some oaks and beeches, 
 and a few stately cedars close to the hall itself, which were 
 remarkable for their size and beauty, ended in a mid wood- 
 land, or chase, of some miles in extent, which at one point 
 almost joined the royal forest. This chase had been grant- 
 ed to the Carewe family by a charter of King Henry the 
 Second, and from it the whole manor took its name of Crew- 
 hurst — Hurst signif}ing, in Saxon, a woody region. The 
 parish church stood close to the park wall. In fact, the 
 mortuary chapel or burial-place of the Carewe family, which 
 was part of the church, fomied a portion of the wall, and 
 a private door entering from the park. 
 
 ^a,d. 
 
2 THE CAREWES. 
 
 Sir Arthur Care^yc, the present propnetor, had sat in 
 the last parliament, hut that was eight years ago. The 
 king had never in all this time summoned another, nor was 
 there any sign, as yet, of his doing so. Sir Arthur had 
 taken no part in puhlic affairs during this period, hut had 
 devoted himself to study, to the improvement of his pro- 
 perty, and the care of his people. He was not fond of field 
 sports himself, hut he had a pride in keeping up the 
 cstahlishment in the order in which he received it fi'om his 
 father, who was devoted to them, so that the sporting 
 establishment at Crewhurst was a model to the neighbour- 
 hood. Equally celebrated Avere Sir Arthur Carewe's farms. 
 The new taste for improvements in agriculture met with 
 a keen supporter in him. Nowhere were finer crops of 
 wheat, rye, and barley, nor better pastures, nor finer breeds 
 of sheep and cattle to be found, than on his estates. He 
 also took great interest in the welfare of his tenants and 
 dependants ; many of the retainers of the family had been 
 bom and gro^vn old in its serA-ice, and for the special ac- 
 commodation of such as were not the domestic servants in 
 the Hall itself, but acted as keepers, foresters, gardeners, or 
 in similar capacities, he had cleared a comer of the chase 
 where his experienced eye detected an especially favourable 
 soil, and had built a pretty village ; the neat thatched cot- 
 tages peeping out from under the old trees, which had been 
 left here and there. He had also been active in promoting 
 the making of roads and building of bridges, which were 
 both much wanted in those days. 
 
 While Sir Arthur canied on his improvements on a 
 large scale, Lady Carewe took up the good work at the 
 
CRE^VHIJRST HALL. 3 
 
 point where lie left it. A taste for flowers, and tlie adorn- 
 ment of gardens, was arising at that time, together with the 
 increasing interest in agriculture ; and this she cultivated 
 successfully. She heautilied the gardens while he improved 
 the farms ; she also cared for the comfort and happiness of 
 the people who iidiabited the cottages he had built, and 
 shielded them from want and suffering : so that Sir Arthur 
 and Lady Carewe found plenty of emplojTiient, though there 
 were no parliaments, and though they had not visited London 
 for several years. 
 
 But besides all these interests, they had a family of five 
 children, four of wliom were educated at home, by Lady 
 Carewe herself, with the assistance of the chaplain of tlifi 
 family, a young man of great learning, and as Lady Carewe 
 was a devoted mother, and a careful mistress of her large 
 estabhshment, looldng into every department of it, it is not 
 necessary to say that she led no idle life. 
 
 It is a bright sunny morning towards the end of July, 
 and a young party may be seen resting under one of the 
 spreading oaks in the park, on their way to the end of tlic 
 avenue to meet their brother Valentine, who was expected 
 home from Oxford for the long vacation that day. 
 
 First there is the eldest daughter, whom we should now 
 call Miss Carewe, but who was then called Mistress Editli. 
 She was a graceful fair girl of fifteen, mth golden hair flow- 
 ing in long ringlets doA^ai her back, from under a hat and 
 feather, not very unlike what young ladies wear now. She 
 sat, as if tired with the heat, on a stool which a servant Iiad 
 carried for her. On her finger she held a beautiful falcon, 
 v»iiich she was caressing, ha\iDg just taken ofi" his hood and 
 
4 THE CAREWES. 
 
 jesses to cool liim, as she said : but tame as lie was, she liad 
 secured him by a little silver chain that was fastened to one 
 of his legs ; at her feet lay a very small ItaHan greyhound, 
 that whined every now and then, and looked wistfully in her 
 face, as if jealous of the bird ; close behind her, cropping the 
 fine gi-ass, was a much larger favourite — a tame stag : so it 
 was easy to see at the first glance, that Mistress Edith was 
 very fond of pets. 
 
 Next in succession is Master Ilemy. He was about 
 thirteen ; a square-made, sturdy fellow, and was at that 
 moment stretched full length on the grass, A^itli one arm 
 thro\STi across the neck of a fine handsome mastiff called 
 Lion, almost as large as his name-father, and very much of 
 the same colour. The dog was asleep, or looked as if ho 
 was, but his young master was wide awake, and apparently 
 in deep tliought. Beside him lay a large knotted oak stick, 
 which it was his fancy to carry, and perhaps, as the other 
 companion of his walks was always the huge mastifi", any 
 one might have said he was right to have a weapon of de- 
 fence ; but never had the stick been used on Lion — Henry 
 and he were much too fond of each other. Henry had none 
 of the graceful beauty of his sister ; and his hair, which was 
 dark bro^^'n, grew in short clustering curls, so that he had 
 received from his elder brother, who was remarkably hand- 
 some, and wore a profusion of long wa\y hair, after the 
 fashion of the time, the nickname of "The Puritan" because 
 those strict sectaries disapproved of the fashion. Sometunes, 
 also, from the contrast between the two brothers, the coun- 
 try |)ooj)le had called them Valentine and Orson ; and perhaps 
 it was in a sort of proud defiance of these insults, and with 
 
CREWHURST HAl.L. & 
 
 a determiiiatioii to show that he did not care the least about 
 them, that Henry chose to carry his oak stick, as Orson 
 earned his club, while Valentine, like a gay knight, would 
 have a hawk on his hand, or a cross-bow, or fishing-rod, or 
 gun, and a hunting-horn slung at his back ; but then, as old 
 Nurse Crairy used to say, *'Our honourable young master. 
 Sir Yalentine as Avill be some day, bless his handsome face, 
 and long may it be before his honourable father, our dear 
 and worshipful master, gives up his place to him — a better 
 will never fiU it ; our young Master Yalentine is four years 
 the oldest. He'll be seventeen come Martinmas, and Mas- 
 ter Henry, bless him, he was only born in the year of grace 
 one thousand six hundi-ed and twenty-four, just the very 
 year before the king's majesty King Charles came to the 
 throne ; more by token, I remember, just as if it was yester- 
 day, when Ralph Ditchly, the carrier, came down from Lon- 
 don, when he was a baby of one year old, and brought the 
 news of the proclamation, and I had the baby in my arms, 
 and he gave a frown, as he always did, pretty feUow, if a 
 stranger looked at him ; and Ralph says, why marry, says 
 Ralph, yomig master, you be not going to fro^vn at the King, 
 he says, and so we laughed, and Master Henry he stared out 
 of his great eyes at us, just, for all the world, as he do now 
 ^^'hen Master Yalentine teases him a bit, not angry Hke, 
 but grave ; and then I says to Ralph, says I, some day this 
 babe here on my arm -wall be a judge, and so I say now ; 
 and judge or no judge, see if he don't turn out as good a man 
 and as worshipful a gentleman as ever bore the name of 
 Carewe." 
 
 ISTurse Craiiy was not singidar in her love of young 
 
« THE CAREWES. 
 
 Heiir}'. His mother said little about it, but slie knew there 
 was a good heart, and good head too, under his rough out- 
 side ; he was a favourite ^ith ever}^ servant about the place, 
 and there was a Mend besides who loved and valued him, 
 and was dearly loved by him in return. This was Mr. Russell, 
 the chaplain mentioned before, who acted as his tutor. 
 
 little Mistress Alice, the next of the family, was only 
 eiglit. She was now seated beside her brother Martin, who 
 was but four, in liis new little coach, or, as the two under- 
 imrses, Cicely and Mary, who drew it, called it, coroach. It 
 was quite a new invention for children, and indeed it was 
 not vcrj' many years since coaches had been introduced into 
 England for their elders, and most people still preferred 
 riding on horseback, in the country, to incurring the risks 
 and delays of the bad roads, where ruts and holes were apt 
 to cause overturns, or accidents of one kind or other. Alice 
 was nursing a doll which she called a baby, though it was 
 dressed like a lady in a court suit ; ar.d as to Martin, he was 
 fast asleep, his flushed cheeks bearing mtness to the heat 
 of the sun. 
 
 The party was aroused out of its repose by the sound of 
 a man's voice, but as Lion was not at the trouble to raise 
 his head, and only half opened one eye, it was very sure that 
 no stranger had approached. It was in fact Woodruffe, 
 the keeper. 
 
 •* I have been thinking, so please you, Mistress Edith," 
 he said, addressing the young lady, " that the buck may grow 
 dangerous one of these days.'* 
 
 " What ! Prince grow ill-natured ! No, that I never wiU 
 believe," replied she. 
 
CREWHURST HALL. T 
 
 " Still, an it sliould not displease you, I would fain keep 
 by you, as you walk through the park ; and if I be right in 
 thinking that you be on the way to meet the young master's 
 honour at the gates, why there's not much time to lose. He 
 rides hard, and Master Henry told me he was to start at 
 early morning from my Lord Falkland's." 
 
 " Woodi'uiFe is right, Edith," said Henry, slowly rising 
 to his knees. '' Come, Lion ! awake, shake yourself and 
 prepare to meet your master." 
 
 " Valentine is not Lion's master," cried little Alice, as 
 she clambered out of the coach, holding her baby fast in one 
 arm. " I know Lion is thy dog, and so nurse says." 
 
 " But my -pTetty pet here is Valentine's," said Edith ; 
 *' and he ^\all say that his falcon looks well, and his feathers 
 bright and smooth, I know." 
 
 " But when he comes to make him fly at a heron, I fear 
 the cry will be ' Edith hath spoilt my falcon.' Over-much 
 petting cools the courage. Aii he tui-ns not tail and flies back 
 to the fist, I am out in my reckoning." 
 
 " And if he do, Yalontinc hath plenty more." 
 
 '^ And so he hath, Edith; and if he be of my mind, he ^nR 
 give thee thy pretty falcon, to carry about daintily on thy 
 finger, and not send him on any dangerous flights." 
 
 ** I thank thee for thy good ^ill, Heniy, and believe thou 
 wouldst ; but now he must let me hood him again, and then 
 we ^yl\l move on as Woodruffe ad^dses." 
 
 So tliis being done, they put themselves in motion. Henry 
 and Lion taking the lead. Prince trotting by Edith, her little 
 dog fnsking about her, and the nurses, the coroach, the 
 children, and "Woodrufle, biinging up the rear. About a 
 
8 THE CAREWES. 
 
 quai-tcr of an hour's walk brought them to the avenue, with 
 its welcome shade. 
 
 Tlie avenue was of great length, with two rows of grand 
 old oaks on either hand. On the bright green sward, be- 
 neath one of these shady alleys, overarched with cloister- 
 like boughs and quivering green leaves, they went merrily on, 
 enjo}'ing the delicious coolness. Beyond the trees on one 
 hand was a fine sheet of water, rippling and glancing in the 
 sun, on the other were water meadows of emerald verdure, 
 on which about twenty sleek cows were feediag. Beyond was 
 a grove of tall elms containing a rookery, but the noisy in- 
 habitants were away somewhere enjopng themselves in dis- 
 tant fields ; the ground then rose into slopes, and grassy hills 
 dotted Anth sheep. Nothing could be more tranquil and 
 peaceful. Only the tender cooing sound of the wood pigeon 
 was heard through the air, and little ^lartin varied the song 
 he had begun humming to himself as his coroach jolted over 
 the gi'ound, by imitating it. 
 
 The avenue ended in high iron gates leading into the 
 cha.se, much ornamented \sdth scrolls and leaves wrought in 
 the metal, and ha^^ng a tall stone pillar on each side, sur- 
 mounted by the figure of an English mastiff, the family 
 dcncc, while the family motto, "Trustie andTrewe," cast in 
 iron in old English characters, fonned an arch over the gates. 
 
 A stone lodge on either side, belonged, the one to the 
 imder-keeper, La^\Tence Leeson, and the other to Thomas 
 Boult, the forester ; and the quiet was interrupted here by 
 sounds of music which issued from the latter. It was not 
 ver)' harmonious music, however, for it consisted of the tuning 
 of various instruments, and the discord was increased by a 
 
CREWHURST HALL. 9 
 
 long loud howl from Lion, wlio never could bear music. At 
 tliis noise there issued fr'om the lodge the forester himself, 
 in his green holiday suit, Anth a guitar in liis hand. 
 
 '' A\Tiy, Thomas,'' said Woodruffe, " art practising thy 
 trills and jangling thy large fiddle so early i' the day ?" 
 
 After two or three low reverences to his honourable young 
 masters and mistresses, Thomas explained that he and Law- 
 rence had a mind to welcome the honourable Master Valentine 
 as he entered the gates with something of a catch or mad- 
 rigal ; and that, as Master Woodruffc knew, they had a pretty 
 notion of a tenor and an alto, and they had gotten Michael 
 Protheroe, with liis good bass, to come and take a part, and 
 he was sure to sing well, for he had a deal o' time to practise, 
 as he sat at his loom, and had a good chance of being chosen 
 for parish clerk, if so be his reverence the vicar was pleased 
 to favour the notion, when old Arcliibald Simlet gave up, 
 and withal they had a chance, he thought, to please the 
 young master. 
 
 " But I heard a pipe besides your guitar," said Edith. 
 
 " Surely, my young lady, you did. Old Simon Dunkly 
 it was you heard \^dth his long pipe, and besides him, there's 
 Christopher Knight with his quaint drum and tabor to mark 
 the time." 
 
 "And what are you going to sing?" asked Henry. 
 
 " A three-part glee it is to be," repHed Thomas, " and 
 out of Master Shakespere too, one that Master EusseK taught 
 us in the evenings, last winter time, and you shall hear what 
 it be when the time comes. As our worshipful young master 
 rides up to the gates, we shall come out, and stand as it may 
 be just here, and strike up." 
 
10 THE CARE WES. 
 
 " But," said Ilcury, *' we sec only a little way along the 
 road, because of its winding through the trees ; he will be 
 upon you before you have time to begin." 
 
 " Aim ! Master Henry, but we have thought of that," 
 said Thomas. " Abel, the verdui-er's boy, is up on the high 
 gi-ound, quarter of a mile on, and he's to fire his piece first 
 glimpse he gets, and so we be made aware." 
 
 " I should like to go up there too," said Henry. 
 
 "Here, Lawrence, bring out the gra}" nag for Master 
 Henry," cried Woodruffe, " and he can ride up the hill and 
 come back with Master Yalentine." 
 
 " Now have a care what you do, Master Woodrufie," 
 said Cicely. " My lady gave me the charge of the young 
 masters and mistresses, and never said aught about the gray 
 nag." 
 
 " Master Henry can ride just as well as Master Yalentine 
 himself," replied Woodrujffe, rather offended, " and is to be 
 taught the great horse soon." 
 
 "And him but thirteen," said Cicely, disdainftdly ; "I 
 hope 'twill be long before they think o' training him for the 
 wars, if ever they do." 
 
 " Well, he has rode his little nag since he was not much 
 higher than my Imee, and the gray nag many times, and I 
 know my lady would trust me with him." 
 
 " It cannot be long before he sees Master Yalentine and 
 his company," said Cicely, softening. " For they mil be a 
 good company on the road. You all talk as if Master Yalen- 
 tine wjis riding his lonesome lone, like a pedlar with his pack." 
 
 '* Yery surely he is the one we think of the most, and so 
 we talk most of him. But here's the nag, and make your 
 
CREWHURST HALL. 11 
 
 mind easy, Cicely. More by token, I shall walk by him 
 myself. There's plenty here now to take charge of the buck. * ' 
 
 Henry, giving no heed at all to the altercation that was 
 going on in the background, had already mounted, and was 
 off with Lion by his side, and Woodruffe trudged after him, 
 gradually recoveiing the effects of Cicely's tongue, which 
 provoked him the more as he had sometimes entertained 
 thoughts of elevating her to the rank of wife to the head 
 keeper of Crewhurst, or at least of proposing that dignity 
 to her, though he very well knew there were rivals in the 
 field. 
 
 Old dame Lecson, the grandmother of Lawrence, who 
 lived with him and his wife in the lodge, had come out to 
 unlock the gates, and now invited her two young mistresses 
 into her parlour to sit down and rest ; they therefore took 
 refuge there while the nurses and little Martin went into the 
 other lodge to see Thomas Boult's young wife. She was 
 newly-married, and had been one of the daiiy-mnids at the 
 Hall, so they had plent}' of gossip to talk over. 
 
12 THE CAKEWES. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE ELDEST SON. 
 
 Henry rode forward rather quietly at first, fall of many 
 thoiiglits. He had none of the joyous feeling of one boy 
 meeting another. Valentine was so much older, so clever, 
 so tall and handsome, had such polished manners, was always 
 so admired and praised, that to Henr}^ he was more like some 
 hero to he wondered at than a companion to be loved. In 
 those days, too, the eldest son of a family of distinction was 
 made of more importance in comparison with the others than 
 even he is now. He was sent to Eton or to AYestminster, as 
 Valentine had been, the latter being preferred in his case 
 because the head master, Dr. Osbaldeston, was an honoured 
 fi-iend of his father's, then to the Universit}% and after- 
 wards on his travels. He was then, probably, introduced at 
 court in the traiu of some nobleman, and before his educa- 
 tion was considered complete, was entered at Lincoln's Inn 
 or the Temple to learn something of the laws of his country 
 before he became proprietor or legislator himself. There 
 was no standing army, and the na\y was a rough scr^^ce. 
 The younger sons, on the other hand, were generally educated 
 at home, by the domestic chaplain, who though often a dull 
 pedagogue, punishing vdth. a severity not now practised. 
 
THE ELDEST SON. 13 
 
 except in very rare instances, was sometimes, as in the case 
 of Mr. Russell, better able to give them a sound training, 
 ■svliicli should fit them for pushing their way in the world, 
 than a more sho^^y course might have done. 
 
 Besides this inferior position as a younger son, Henry was, 
 as we have said, apt to fall under the lash of Valentine's 
 jeering moods, and had occasionally gone into violent passions 
 when this happened. All this made him at first ride soberly 
 on, sometimes wondering if Valentine had grown still taller ; 
 sometimes wondering if he wore a sword yet, sometimes 
 trying to remember what Mr. Russell had said to himself 
 about being good-humoured, and taking jokes as they were 
 meant, and wondering if he should be able. At last he 
 reached the high ground, very clear of trees for some dis- 
 tance, where Abel was posted with his gun, and looking out 
 along the road over the open heath, distinctly saw a cloud of 
 dust and the figures of six horsemen looming through it. 
 
 " Fire !" cried Henry, and forgetting, in a moment, every- 
 thing but the pleasure of seeing Valentine again, dashed for- 
 ward full gallop. 
 
 ^' Cicely indeed ! " said Woodruffe to himself, smiling 
 complacently. "Master Henry can ride with the best of 
 them, and we w^ant none of her wisdom. JSTow^ Abel, that 
 crack will do very well ; run back and see that they all come 
 out of their cottages and be ready to have a glimpse of him." 
 
 The space between Henry and the coming party was 
 rapidly diminishing meanwhile. Very soon he could see 
 them distinctly. There w^as Valentine again, and two young 
 gallants with him, and behind them three grooms, with saddle 
 bags, portmanteaus, and hat- cases strapped on their horses. 
 
14 THE CAREWES. 
 
 There were no railways then, nor even public coaclies ; no 
 roads beyond bridle paths, except on the great thoroughfares 
 to the north and west, and these very bad, so that in winter 
 they were difficult for carriages ; so instead of coming home 
 from Oxford by the train, as young men do now, they had 
 rode the whole way, resting one night at Lord Falkland's, 
 whose hospitality to Oxonians was celebrated, and had been 
 met at the distance of fifteen miles by Sir Arthur Carcwe's 
 servants and horses to bring them home. 
 
 The young masters, as well as their servants, ^yeYe all 
 armed with swords slung to a belt, and pistols in holsters, for 
 there were frequent robberies on the road at that time, 
 when distress and discontent were very general in consequence 
 of the forced loans and irregular ways of raising money with- 
 out consent of parliament ; aggi'avated, too, by a late revival 
 of the forest laws, and the extension of some of the royal 
 forests, to the ejection of many inhabitants of cottages and 
 houses which had graduall}' encroached upon the ancient forest 
 land. The approacliing party, however, seemed to have had 
 no disagreeable adventures. They came gaily on, the smnmer 
 •mud plaj-ing among the feathers in theii* hats and their long 
 curling hair, the spurs in their high riding boots and the 
 silver ornaments on their bridles glancing in the sun, and their 
 tight riding suits showing off their gracefid riding. As they 
 came near, Valentine, as if to show Henry his new dignity, 
 drew his si;\'ord, and waWng it over his head, cried — 
 
 " Stand I trusty and loyal squire ! AVhat tidings from 
 our ancient hall?'* 
 
 TTeniy was in the midst of the party in a moment, ^rith 
 joyous face and light heart, because Valentine was so kind 
 
 J 
 
THE ELDEST SON. 15 
 
 to liiin, and had answered several questions about home before 
 he was introduced to my lord of Morley and Master Henry 
 Wibnot, and then turning his pony, they all trotted along 
 together. It was a full month since there had been any 
 communication between them. We can hardly imagine such 
 a thing in these days of penny postage ; but there was no 
 post then, except on the north road between London and 
 Edinburgh. The king had lately appointed a man on 
 horseback to carry the letters regularly between the two 
 ])laces, to go and return in six days, a time which sounds 
 incredibly short, and which it appears was not actually kept 
 to. Every where else people had to send expresses riding, or 
 to trust to the carriers who traversed the comitry. 
 
 Before Valentine's questions were half ended, the tall 
 gates of his home appeared in sight, and he stopped to 
 exclaim with inward pride, "Welcome to Crewhurst, my 
 Lord Morley, and you our trusty and well-beloved cousin 
 and councillor, Harry Wilmot." 
 
 As he spoke, a hearty cheer sounded through the air, and 
 a crowd of the tenants and dependents of the family were 
 seen ranged on either side the entrance to greet their young 
 master. He took off his hat and thanked them ^^'ith smiles 
 and kind words, and then threw himself from his horse and 
 ran forward ; for inside the now opened gates he saw his 
 beautiful young sister Edith, with little AHce and Martin 
 by her side. She had never looked so beautiful in his eyes, 
 and he felt as proud when he introduced his friends to her 
 as he had done when he said, " Welcome to Crewhurst." 
 There she stood, under the soft shade of a spreading oak, 
 with the long avenue stretching into distance behind her, 
 
Hi 
 
 THE CAREWrES. 
 
 the bright sunHght streaming across the velvet-Hkc turf' at 
 each opening of the trees, and contrasting with the deep 
 shadows they cast ; her pretty hawk on her finger, her Httle 
 greyhound at her feet, and the tame stag, a little startled by 
 the shouts and bustle, careering lightly as the wind off into 
 the park, and then returning to her side. 
 
 But now before Valentine had time to notice the children, 
 he was startled in his turn by the music which suddenly 
 
 struck up, and had to stand and listen to the glee in three 
 voices. 
 
 " Under the greenwood tree, 
 Who loves to lie with me, 
 And tune liis merry note, 
 Unto the sweet bird's throat. 
 
THE ELDEST SON. 17 
 
 Come Hthor, come hither, come hither : 
 
 Here shall he see 
 
 No enemy, 
 But winter and rough weather." 
 
 It was a gay scene ; the cliildrcn danced to tlie music ; 
 the crowd outside enjoyed it ; Henry thought it was capi- 
 tally performed, and Valentine was amused and pleased too ; 
 but his two young companions, assuming the airs of coimois- 
 seurs, rather shrugged their shoulders, and looked contemp- 
 tuously from the one to the other, and he noticed it. 
 
 '' What says Will Shakospere ?" said he, addressing 
 Lord Morley aside, but quite loud enough to be heard. " An 
 a dog had howled thus, we had hanged him !" 
 
 ^'Ay," replied his lordship, in the same tone, "'tis no 
 matter how it be in tune, so it makes noise enough." 
 
 Henr}^ coloured and bit his hp. " They thought he would 
 Hke it and be pleased, and now they Avill feel right vexed 
 and troubled," he said iuAvardly. 
 
 There was a pause. A sort of gloom seemed to have 
 fallen over the scene. 
 
 " So please you, sir," said one of the grooms, addressing 
 Valentine very respectfully, " the horses are very warm, and 
 Sir Arthur A\all not be best content if they stand about and 
 catch cold." 
 
 '* I know how to guide a horse as well as you. Sir 
 Jackanapes," retorted Valentine, who was annoyed at what 
 had been said about the singing, though he said the worst 
 himself, and was therefore out of temper. " Fall back, and 
 keep your place." 
 
 " Nay, but, Carewe," said Lord Morley, " the fellow is 
 
18 THE CAREWS. 
 
 right. Let us dismount and walk the rest of the way, if 
 Mistress Edith will permit us to keep her company so far. 
 It is hut half-past ten, and though the avenue appears of 
 vast extent, we shall yet reach the Hall in time to prepare 
 for the dinner hour." 
 
 *SSo he it," said Valentine, assisting his friends to alight; 
 *'and, as we have time, let us walk hy the heronry, 
 Edith." 
 
 Henry had given hack the gray nag to Lawrence, and the 
 three grooms were soon on the way up the avenue, each 
 w4th a led horse. 
 
 "Farewell, my masters, and many thanks for your warm 
 welcome and sweet music," said Yalentine, as he took 
 Edith^s hand to move on ; hut she slipped away from him 
 for a moment, and ran to the group of musicians. She had 
 observed that they heard her brother's words, and her 
 sweet nature could not bear to leave them with pained 
 feelings. 
 
 " They were only saying the words of a stage play," said 
 ishe. '* All that is what is said in the play about quite other 
 songs. It does not mean yours. They were reminded of 
 the play by the song, and so they said the Avords. You 
 sang right well. I liked it much, and so did Master 
 Henry." 
 
 " Your young mistress says what is true," said a voice 
 behind her. 
 
 " Ah, Mr. Russell, were you here ?" said Edith. " 1 saw 
 you not before." 
 
 " Edith, Edith ! we arc waiting," cried Yalentine, and 
 she ran off to hnn. Henry and Mr. Eussell were still by the 
 
THE ELDEST SON. 19 
 
 iiusicians. Old Protlieroe looked very rueful and shook his 
 lead. 
 
 " I misdoubt about it very much," said he. 
 
 " And I know how it came about well enough," said 
 jawrence. '' Lion there set up one of the very dismallest 
 lowls that ever came out of dog's throat, just as we started 
 >fF; and what I beheve is, that Master Yalentinc thought 
 t was Thomas coming in with his tenor." 
 
 " Consider it not so deeply," said Mr. Russell ; " your 
 'oung master was pleased ^-ith what you all did to welcome 
 lim, and only said what he did to humour the mood of his 
 I'iends. Your glee was well sung. Did I not teach you 
 iiysolf ? We must have some more practice as the evenings 
 ragthen." 
 
 The performers began to brighten up, but a good deal of 
 whispering went on among them, which ended in an appeal 
 Master Henry. 
 
 " A\liat think you. Master Hemy ?" said Thomas. " Shall 
 re venture on a little masque, a sort of dance, as I may say, 
 3r the entertainment of our honourable young master while 
 .e dines ?" 
 
 " A dance ? a masque ? Why, what sort of a thing do 
 ou mean ?" 
 
 " 'Tis more a sort of kind of mumming we mean, to make 
 im merry," said old Simon Dunkly. 
 
 " Yes, come and do your mumming of a surety," said 
 lenry. " He likes a laugh nght well, and I shall be there 
 3 see, for I am to dine in the great chamber to-day beside 
 Ir. Russell ; so never doubt we shall laugh. Come, Lion I" 
 nd off they scoured together, round trees and up laioUs, 
 
20 THE CAREWES. 
 
 following Mr. Russell, as he walked fast to overtake tlie rest 
 of the party who had now reached the sheet of water. 
 
 Edith and Alice were throAnng bread to the swans, which 
 came in numbers to the banks to be fed, ruffling their feathers 
 and arching their graceful necks. Yalentine took a piece 
 and broke it. 
 
 "What coarse stuff!" said he, as he did so. 
 
 *^ Old Dorothy at the lodge gave it to us that we might 
 throw it to the swans," said Edith. *'It is good and sweet, 
 though it looks bro^^^l. Thou wouldst not have us feed the 
 birds Avith manchet?"^ 
 
 " I would," replied Valentine ; '' they ought to have it." 
 
 *' Our mother says not," said Hemy. " Our people eat 
 brown bread, and when the poor beggars come she deals 
 them out rye bread ; she will not give to the birds better food 
 than to men." 
 
 "But see how royally the birds comport themselves," 
 said Yalentine. " That magnificent one that sails so grace- 
 fully in front, and that all the rest follow, is a king. See 
 now, he shall be called his majesty, and there is the beauti- 
 ful queen by his side, and behind them come their train of 
 courtiers, and the young princes and princesses." 
 
 " And," said Edith laughing, " the young princes and 
 princesses have made their court dresses quite complete now, 
 on purpose to please thee. They are as white and smooth 
 as the very snow, instead of ugly and gray as they were at 
 first." 
 
 "And see," said Lord Morley, "where comes the reigning 
 
 The fine wHte bread made of wheat, and with some milk in it. 
 
THE ELDEST SON. 21 
 
 favourite to the water's edge to grace the pageant. Look at 
 that painted peacock, mth his jewelled train sweeping the 
 grass, and his neck like the richest Genoa velvet dusted with 
 gold. He minds me of our boyhood, Wilmot, when thou and 
 I Avere Buckingham's pages, and saw many a gorgeous scene." 
 
 " Ay, his beauty may well recall our splendid master," 
 replied Wilmot, *^ as he looked when he gave his last fete 
 to their majesties, before his fatal visit to Portsmouth, when 
 the villain Fenton took his life. He wore at that fete a 
 suit that cost thirty thousand pounds, so precious were the 
 pearls and diamonds that were broidered on it." 
 
 " 'Tis said that his suit of uncut white velvet, and cloak 
 set all over with diamonds, when he went to Paris to bring 
 over her gracious majesty, was worth eighty thousand," said 
 Lord Morley. 
 
 '' I would rather be like that little brown falcon, and able 
 to cleave the air, than a painted peacock," said Henr}^ 
 
 " No, no !" cried little Alice, " thou art wicked to say 
 that, because thou wouldst kill the pretty little birds that 
 sing in the trees, and our dear herons that build their nests 
 so high and stand by the water so quaintly on one of their 
 long legs." 
 
 ** Ah, yes, Morley, we shall have some brave hawking," 
 said Valentine, caressing his falcon, which he now held on 
 his own finger. " Thou hast taken real care of him, Edith. 
 And how are all the hawks, Henry ? Is Ralph the falconer 
 here still?" 
 
 '' That is he ; we should do ill without Ralph. Thou 
 shalt see how well all the gentils look ; and dost thou know 
 of the pair of ger falcons from Norway ?" 
 
22 THE CAREWES. 
 
 " Ay, my father told mc of them in his last letter." 
 
 " Their mngs measure five feet from point to point," said 
 Henry ; " so Ralph says." 
 
 " *Tis a great size ; but I know not but I prefer to fly a 
 good goshawk or gentil," said Wilmot. 
 
 '' Thou shalt try all," said Valentine ; " here is good 
 store of herons, as thou mayst see ;" and, indeed, numbers 
 of Alice's quaint favourites might now be seen, for the party 
 had reached the heronry. Some were standing, gravely 
 looking into the water, on one long leg as she had de- 
 scribed, but took flight when approached, heavily flapping 
 their large wings, and giving their sharp A\'ild cry as they 
 rose ; others were flying backwards and forwards between 
 their usual haunt and the fish ponds not far off*, where they 
 found their food. '' Shall we let the little falcon off" for a 
 flight even now ?" 
 
 Alice began to cry. 
 
 " Why, what aileth thee, pretty little Mistress Alice ?" 
 asked Lord Morley. 
 
 " Mistress Alice cannot abide to hear of the herons being 
 killed," said Cicely. 
 
 *' She likes to look at them," said Edith, kissing and com- 
 forting the poor little girl ; " and in spring, when they 
 were sitting on their eggs, she would watch them and mark 
 their long gray necks and crested heads as they showed 
 against the blue sky at the top of the trees ; and she saw 
 when they brought food to their young, and watched the 
 young take flight." 
 
 " Come to me, little Alice," said Yalentine, taking her in 
 Ills arms. " We will not harm thy herons now. Let me 
 
THE ELDEST SOX. 23 
 
 cany thee. See, I will be thy palfrey all the way home," and 
 he set off bounding along with her, and she was. soon laugh- 
 ing and playing with his curls, and telling him they smelled 
 as sweetly as the roses Goodwife Freeman was distilling ; and 
 then the stag let her pat and caress his sleek sides, and so 
 she was comforted. 
 
 " Is this fine buck our little pet of last year, Edith ?'^ 
 asked Valentine. 
 
 " Surely he is. Hast thou forgotten our pretty Prince ? 
 He is quite tame and gentle, but Woodruffe fears he may 
 grow dangerous." 
 
 "And thou shouldst be cautious, Edith. His horns 
 might do thee a mischief." 
 
 *' Ah, that I cannot believe," she said, looking lovingly 
 at her favourite. 
 
 Little Martin must now be taken out of his coach ; Alice 
 must come down, and he must ride on Yalentine's shoulder, 
 and so they walked on, Valentine and his burden in front. 
 
 " Thou hast store of bright creatures. Mistress Edith,'* 
 said Lord Morlcy as they passed a little enclosure of wu-e- 
 work, where gold and silver pheasants were kept. " How 
 tame they are ! they come to thy hand." 
 
 "Wq have tamed them mtli care," she replied. '' They 
 were brought home to our father by the young son of his 
 steward, who sails in a ship to and fro the Indies." 
 
 " And so thou hast deserted thy coach. Master Martin," 
 said "Wilmot. " Wouldst not like to see the brave coaches 
 in London with six horses in them ?" 
 
 " I want to see them," said Martin. " Take me, Valen- 
 tine!" 
 
24 THE CAREWES. 
 
 " Our mother has four in hers," said Henry, " and that 
 is enough." 
 
 *' 'Twas Buckingham that first drove mth six," said Lord 
 Morley, '* and well I remember how the crowd gaped and 
 stared, though since that time we have seen eight in a coach." 
 
 " I would not sit cooped up in a coach to be dragged 
 about like a dainty lady," said Henry, disdainfully. 
 
 *' AYliy, how now. Master Henry? Thou art mighty 
 scornful, methinks ! " said Yalentine. 
 
 *' Henry is a country man," said Mr. Russell, " and hath 
 not learnt the ways of the court and the city yet." 
 
 " I have been reading in the Chronicles of Master Speed 
 and Master Stow," said Henry, " how in the time of Queen 
 Elizabeth^s majesty, a young gallant would as soon have been 
 seen in the streets of London in a petticoat as in a coach." 
 
 ** Ah, but those are old times now," said Wilmot. '' There 
 are scores, nay hundreds, of coaches to be seen in London 
 now, and as many gallants as ladies in them. AYliat wouldst 
 say if thou sawest one carried in a sedan ?" 
 
 " A sedan ! what may that be ?" 
 
 ** A sort of chair, borne on poles by two men." 
 
 " I should hoot at him ! " 
 
 " Then wouldst thou most likely get a good cudgelling 
 for thy pains, for many a gallant is so carried," said Yalen- 
 tine. 
 
 " And was it the Duke of Buckingham that began this 
 notable contrivance too ?" asked Henry. 
 
 ''Truly I believe it was." 
 
 " Lion ! Lion ! " cried Henrj^ and started off with his 
 friend homewards, as if he could bear no more, follow d by 
 
THE ELDEST SON. 25 
 
 ii laugh from the two courtiers at his rustic simplicity, in 
 which Valentino joined. But Edith looked grave ; she could 
 have Tvished that Valentine disliked luxury and indolence 
 too. 
 
 A sudden turn now brought them under a dark grove of 
 cedars in sight of the Hall itself, with its many stone 
 mullioned windows, its gables and pinnacles, and here and 
 there the green i\'y clothing the gray stone walls. Valentine 
 set down his little brother, and hurried onwards, his eyes mois- 
 tened with tears of affection and joy, for on the flight of 
 stone steps that led up to the door, he saw a large group 
 collected to receive him ; the servants of the family were all 
 there, and a few guests besides, but among them he saw only 
 two faces. His father and mother stood in front of all, and 
 now came quickly down to meet him. He was soon at their 
 feet with uncovered head, after the reverential custom of the 
 time, receiving their blessing, and then raised by their hands 
 and fondly embraced and welcomed. 
 
26 THE CAREWES. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 AT HOME. 
 
 After tlic first moment of joy, Yalcntine presented his two 
 friends to his parents. They were kno^Ti to his father hy 
 name, and a sHght cloud passed over his face, though ho 
 received them courteously. He had given Valentine per- 
 mission to hring two of his college companions ^yith him, 
 and would fain those he had chosen had been steady students 
 instead of young men of fashion, destined most likely to fill 
 places about the court. But Valentine was such a favourite 
 T\4th his father, was so dearly loved and cherished by liim, 
 that any feeHng of disapprobation was sure to pass off 
 quicldy. Sir Arthur held his son by the hand, while his 
 face, usually grave even to melancholy, lighted up with 
 pleasure. Lady Carewe, "with her hand on his shoulder, 
 looked long into his eyes, as if to read there the assurance 
 she sought, that her boy had come back to her such as she 
 would have him. Valentine interrupted this scrutiny by 
 embracing her affectionately once more, and then turning 
 round to make a low reverence to a gentleman who stood 
 behind her ^vith a lady on his arm. 
 
AT HOME. 27 
 
 " My Lord Willoughby, I am happy indeed and fortunate 
 to find you here ; and may I crave an introduction to your 
 lady, of whom I have heard much?" 
 
 Lord Willoughby, after a hearty recognition, made the 
 introduction. 
 
 Edith, Ilenr}', and the children, with their nurses, had 
 now come up the steps, and the entrance-hall, large as it 
 was, could scarcely hold them all. Edith stood by her hand- 
 some brother, and Henry, with his eyes beaming with joy, 
 looked up at him as if he could not admire him enough. 
 
 " You may well be proud of your eldest son. Sir Arthur," 
 
 whispered Lady Willoughby ; "but I give not up my favourite, 
 Orson, for all that." 
 
 The servants now gi-eeted their young master with low 
 bows, and reverences, and smiles, and began to move off; 
 but when all had gone besides, there remained WiUiam 
 Freeman, the butler, and Goodwife Freeman, the house- 
 keeper, who were man and vnfc, and had been in the family 
 for thirty years, and Xurse Crairy, all of whom remembered 
 the day he was born, and had seen him grow up. He ^^•as 
 declared by them to be grown taller by half the head, and 
 broader across the shoulders also ; and nurse stroked his 
 hair and blessed his goodly face, and told Master Henry he 
 had fom* years to grow as tall in, and it was a deal to do, 
 but yet she beHeved he'd do it, unless he was to be one of 
 the short ones, and no matter if he was short in stature so 
 he was great in grace. 
 
 After nurse's oration, they all began to ascend the wide 
 oak staircase, and the travellers were conducted to their 
 chambers to prepare for dinner, for the hour of twelve was 
 
2H 
 
 THE CAREWES. 
 
 not far off, so that they had to hasten; but they succeeded 
 in being ready at the first summons of the l)ell, and were 
 ushered into the j^eat chamber before it had ceased. 
 
 The ^x^at chamber, or dininf^-room, was not used when 
 tlie family was alone, but all meals were taken in a smaller 
 one called the j)arlour. This, however, was a festive occa- 
 sion. The room was of gix)at size, hung mth tapestry and 
 finished ^\•ith fine oak carving. The floor was of dark oak 
 and chiefly bai-e, but small Turkey carpets were placed at 
 diflerent parts, before elbow chairs covered ^^itll purple clotli 
 
 embroidered with gold, of which there Avere several, though 
 the party at dinner sat on oak benches. It looked handsome, 
 even magnificent. There were many articles of massive 
 j)late cm the sideboard and in cupboards, or what we might 
 now call cabinets or chiffcmiers. The table was covered 
 
AT HOME. 29 
 
 mtli a fine damask table cloth. The drinking cups and salt 
 cellar were of silver. 
 
 The company took their scats before any of the dishas 
 were placed on the table. A napkin of damask, to match 
 the table cloth, was next handed to eacli. Freeman's voice 
 was then heard proclaiming, '' By your leaves, gentlemen, 
 stand by," and at the signal, the cooks and serving-men 
 entered with silver dishes containing profusion of fish, flesh, 
 and fowl, and placed them on the table ; others followed, 
 bearing the plates or trenchers, as they were called, also of 
 silver. AM then rose as Mr. Russell said grace, and then 
 the feast began, with appetites to do honour to the good 
 cheer, though it was only noon ; three of the party having 
 lidden since seven in the morning, and all brealvfasted at 
 that early hour. 
 
 Hemy could not attend to his dinner for continued watch- 
 ing in expectation of the mumming that Thomas had pro- 
 mised. Lion Avas lying under the table, with his head on 
 his master's feet, and only now and then raised it to take a 
 piece of bread or meat from his hand, and showed no sign 
 of any approacliing bustle ; but at last he did give a low 
 growl, then a short howl, and music was heard in the 
 gallery, together ^dth. a noise of feet and of suppressed 
 laughter. 
 
 *' Here they come !" thought Henr}^ Accordingly, when 
 the door opened to admit the second course, there appeared 
 Thomas, IjaA\Tcnce, and Michael Protheroe, the three singers 
 of the morning, dressed in the costume of the fools of the 
 former reign, who performed a dance, with such preposterous 
 antics, to the music that struck up outside, that Henry 
 
30 THE CAREWES. 
 
 shouted with laughter, and the three Oxford students, 
 though they tried to look grave and disdainful, caught the 
 infection. When the dance was completed, the whole bevy 
 of performers were furnished with cups of foaming ale to 
 drink Master "Valentine's health, which they did with right 
 good will, and were then invited to go do\\Ti to dinner in 
 the servants' hall. 
 
 The ladies rose and retired to the withdrawing room soon 
 after dinner was over, and here, in an oriel Avindow, Lady 
 Carewe and her daughter Edith sat at embroidery, Avhile Lady 
 Willoughby delighted them and herself by reading aloud the 
 '' Masque of Comus," which Mr. Russell had lately received 
 from London from the author, his dear friend Mr. John 
 Milton, as a parting gift before he went to Italy. Thus 
 employed, time slipped away so fast that Edith had almost 
 forgotten she had made Yalentine promise to meet her in 
 the garden at three. The great clock of the Hall striking 
 the hour reminded her of it, and of her longing desire to 
 talk mth him, and find in him the same brother who had 
 left her a year ago. 
 
 Having received her mother's permission, Edith went 
 quickly down, entered the parlour, and stepped out to the 
 bowling green, which was close to the house at that side. 
 Here all the gentlemen, including her father, were engaged 
 so ardently on a game at bowls, that after waiting a little 
 while in the vain endeavour to catch Valentine's eye, she 
 determined to go alone to the garden, knomng she should 
 find nurse and the children there. 
 
 But Edith first walked up and down the broad terrace or 
 alley that bounded the bowling green on the side opposite to 
 
AT HOME. 3l 
 
 the Hall for a little while, still hoping Valentine Avould join 
 her. On each hand, the terrace had gilded balustrades, ydth. 
 obelisks, pyramids, and vases, at equal distances along its 
 whole length. A flight of steps led down from it into the 
 garden below, and she now leaned on the balustrade, looking 
 down there, but as yet saw no one, though she had expected 
 that the children would be out at this hour. The garden on 
 which she looked was then considered perfection. It was 
 square, and carpeted with turf so smooth and thick that the 
 foot sank in it. On every side of this velvet-like lawn ran 
 a broad straight walk. A small round pond, mth a fountain 
 in it, occupied the middle of the la^vTi. The fountain was in 
 the form of a tree, made of copper, and was covered with 
 numbers of little copper birds, which spouted the water from 
 their bills, as did the leaves from their tips. On either side 
 of the fountain was a yew tree, cut into quaint and curious 
 forms, the top of one representing a gigantic peacock, and 
 the other a pheasant. There were little flower-beds of formal 
 shapes at each comer, but in them, though they were culti- 
 vated with the greatest care, there were nothing like the 
 variety of flowers we now possess. There were roses gi'ow- 
 ing on bushes of that good old exquisitely-scented kind, the 
 cabbage rose, and pansies, and pinks, and stocks, or gilli- 
 flowers, and a few others. Two smaller round ponds occu- 
 pied the middle of each end of the lawn. A wall-like, high 
 yew hedge, of extraordinary thickness, enclosed the whole 
 garden, having at each corner an arbour, cut out in its thick- 
 ness and furnished with seats. 
 
 While Edith stood thus, her thoughts had been filled 
 with the beautiful poetry to which she had been listening. 
 
32 THE CAREA\'ES. 
 
 and wandering off to tlie tangled undergrowths and " alleys 
 green " of the chase, as much more in harmony -vsith it than 
 the fonnal garden; hut now they fixed on Yalentine, and as 
 they did so, she hardly knew why, the tears hegan to drop 
 on the gilded balustrade on which she leaned. Yes, Valen- 
 tine was changed. She had lost the dear companion, her 
 playmate since childhood. He had become a young man, and 
 preferred the companionsliip of young men to his sister, and 
 she must prepare herself to see him leave home again, and 
 even to see him go to foreign countries. In vain httle Ariel, 
 her pretty greyhound, bounded about her. She was too sad 
 to look at him. 
 
 As she stood thus she felt a soft arm encircle her waist, 
 and turning, saw her mother's face full of love and sjnnpathy. 
 
 ** "What aileth thee, my Edith ? Hath aught happened 
 to pain thee, that thou weepest thus?'' she asked. 
 
 Edith liid her face on her mother's shoulder, and only 
 said, ** Oh pardon me, my mother. It is nothmg. I have 
 no real cause of grief. Do not be troubled about me." 
 
 **Nay, but thou art not apt to shed tears for nothing, 
 my daughter. I think thy mother hath di\aned thy secret. 
 Thou thinkest our Yalentine hath come home to us changed, 
 and less losing than he used to be." 
 
 *' It is so indeed, my mother. Neither doth he love me 
 nor seek my company as he did before he left us." 
 
 " Have patience yet awhile, my Edith. Let us see what 
 our love and his home mil do. Think not more of it yet, 
 but come mth me to the herb garden. The merry voice of 
 little Alice came on the air just now. We shall find nurse 
 there and some of the maids, and sec if they have gathered 
 
AT HOME. 33 
 
 good store of lavender and rosemaiy for Goodwife Freeman 
 to distil. The Lady Willougliby hath retired to her cham- 
 ber to write, and I can enjoy an hour or two ^nth my child- 
 ren." 
 
 Edith obeyed gladly, and they descended the flight of 
 steps together, and crossed the garden, and emerged through 
 an arch cut in the yew hedge into the other called the herb 
 garden. Here grew abundance of all those plants so much 
 used in medicine, in confections and syrups. There were 
 beds of camomiles, and of liquorice, and plantations of la- 
 vender and rosemary. 
 
 No sooner had Lady Carewe and Edith entered this fra- 
 grant garden, than a shout of joy was heard from Alice, 
 echoed by Martin, and both came running from among the 
 blooming lavender, carrying large bunches in their hands. 
 Two of the maids belonging to the still-room department 
 were busy cutting the long stalks from the plants, and the 
 task of the cliildren was to hold them and carry them to the 
 l)askets. Nurse was at work in a stone pavilion at the end 
 of the garden, and had many things to say to my lady, but 
 the children must first show her the large heaped baskets that 
 were ready to be carried in when Roger and John, the gar- 
 deners, came for them. 
 
 " No need to wait for the gardeners ; let me take them," 
 cried Henry out of breath with the haste he was in, and 
 already seizing on one. 
 
 " Have I not told thee. Master Henry," said nurse, " that 
 to bring the dog into the garden is a forbidden thing? See 
 now how he is treading do^Ti the thyme." 
 
 " Indeed, I had forgotten, nurse. Here, Lion, come away." 
 
34 THE CAREWES. 
 
 " Thou shouldst not forget, Heniy ; let it be tlie last 
 time," said Lady Carewe. 
 
 " It shall, my mother ; but wait for me while I take him 
 away, if you wiU be so good. I am tired of running for their 
 bowls, and want to come to you and Edith. Lion will wait 
 at the gate." 
 
 Hemy retm-ned in a very little ^^'llile, and began to assist 
 vigorously in the work that was going on ; and as soon as 
 he was among them, there was sure to be laughter and merri- 
 ment ; though a little shy and quiet \ST.th strangers, he was 
 always fidl of his jokes and fun mth his sisters and brothers, 
 and Edith quite forgot her heaviness wliile she sported about 
 with the little ones. Lady Carewe had taken her seat by 
 nurse, and was listening to her sad account of the state of 
 Master Valentine's ruffles and collars, and giving her orders 
 for repairs, and promising a supply of new linen and cambric. 
 
 Wlien this important affair was concluded, and the baskets 
 were quite filled, she dismissed nurse, and took charge of the 
 children herself. This was the thing they liked better than 
 anything in the world, and Henry gladly resigned the baskets 
 to the gardeners, who now made their appearance, and 
 followed her with Edith, as she walked between the two 
 little ones. She took them first to the kitchen garden, where 
 she -svished to see the state of the vegetables, and where 
 they had numbers of questions to ask. "\Yhat especially in- 
 terested her was the progress the potatoes were making. She 
 had a small plot of those rare vegetables, and expected to 
 succeed well in growing them. She also had a fi-ame for 
 raising melons, of which she was very proud. The peas were 
 still bearing, and the cauliflowers and cabbages were good. 
 
AT HOME. 35 
 
 Outside the garden was an orchard of cherry and apple trees, 
 among which were some golden pippins, and these were 
 nearly all the fruit trees about the place, 
 
 Ha\ing walked through the kitchen garden, they went 
 into the pretty flower garden Avith the lawn and the fountain 
 again, and there, seated in one of the arbours with little 
 Martin on her knee, and Alice and Edith one on each side, 
 and Henry on the ground at her feet, she gave them a lesson 
 about birds and flowers, their names and habits, and how to 
 know each ; and if little Martin could not understand much 
 of it, he was quite enough amused with arranging the rose 
 leaves, that he had picked up on the grass, in pretty shapes 
 on the round table before them. 
 
 They would never have been tired of listening to their 
 mother, but Lord Willoughby and Sir Arthur interrupted 
 them before an hour was out, and she joined them in a walk 
 up and down the lawn. Edith then took charge of her little 
 brother and sister, and sported about with them, but her 
 heart was heavy ; she was longing for Yalentine, and hurt at 
 his neglect. She stole away from the childi'en, therefore, when 
 they were engrossed by some play Henry had contrived for 
 them, and walked apart, her eye seeking her mother, as it 
 always did Avhen she was troubled. But here again she found 
 no comfort. Her mother was listening to Lord Willoughby 
 with an anxious face, and her father's countenance was heavy 
 with care. What could be the matter ? They could not 
 have sad thoughts like hers. 
 
 As she passed them once more nearly, she heard the words 
 " ship-money " and '' Mr. Hampden." She could remember 
 that the year before her father had appeared to sufi'er much 
 
36 THE CAREWES. 
 
 anxiety on Mr. Hampden's account, and tliougli she knew 
 not tlie cause, she grieved that the anxiety had returned, 
 and heaved a deep sigh. 
 
 " Sigh not, ladie, sigh not so,'' said a voice behind her, 
 and at the same moment a hand was laid on her shoulder. 
 "Valentine! thou art come at last, then?" 
 " Thou knowest I must amuse these friends of mine. We 
 have had a splendid game at bowls, and we have since been 
 thi'ough the stables. Truly our father is rich in gallant 
 steeds ! Twenty stand there in stall such as the king's 
 majesty might be proud of. I would I had one for mine 
 own to ride in his service." 
 
 " Thou dost not still wish it, my brother ? Thou wilt not 
 really seek to go into foreign countries, and leave us for 
 such dangers as thou mightest run into ?" 
 
 Edith's eyes were brimful of tears, and they even began 
 to trickle down her cheeks. 
 
 " Foolish girl ! Nay, but do not let thy tears rain down 
 like that. Thou wilt dim thy bright eyes and spoil thy 
 pretty rounded cheeks." 
 
 " Speak not so foolishly, Valentine," she replied, dasliing 
 away her tears ; " thou makest me feel angry with thee, and 
 that is worse than feeling miserable." 
 
 " But listen to me, Edith. I long for change. I am tired 
 of Oxford. Then our king ! If thou hadst but seen him as 
 I have : so stately, so grave, so proud, yet \nthal so cour- 
 teous, thou wouldst bum to serve him as I do. And to 
 think of the wrongs of his nephews, the Palatine and the 
 brave impetuous Rupert ! The war lags for want of ti'uo 
 hearts. Thou must help me with our father." 
 
AT HOME. 3Y 
 
 Edith shook her head mournfully, and they walked away 
 together in deep talk, going up the steps to the terrace, and 
 then out of sight. 
 
 The bell had rung for evening prayers, and the whole 
 family had assembled in the chapel, when they entered 
 together. The rays of the setting sun that fell through the 
 painted glass sent not in sufficient light, or it would have 
 been noticed by all that Edith's face was pale and melan- 
 choly ; but the solemn tone of the organ under Mr. Kus- 
 sell's hands calmed her, and she joined in his thanksgiving 
 that the family was once more united, and his prayer for a 
 blessing on it, w^th something like a dawning hope that 
 Valentine had been moved by her entreaties to think a little 
 longer before he took any rash resolution. Yet Henry, who 
 kneeled by her, observed her agitated state. 
 
 '* Valentine hath not vexed thee ?" he asked, with a face 
 half of pity, half of anger, when the ser\ice was over. 
 
 " IN'o, no. Good night, my brother. Thou hast a kind 
 heart. Make him happy in his home all thou canst, and see 
 that thou forwardcst all his \nshes to be merry -snth his 
 friends." 
 
38 THE CAREWES. 
 
 CHAPTEE lY. 
 
 THE CHASE. 
 
 A WEEK of continual festivities and sports had passed at 
 Crewhurst. Hawking, fishing, boating, riding, \isits in the 
 neighbourhood, company at home, kept Valentine in a state 
 of high spirits and excitement ; and Sir Arthur was so happy 
 in having his favourite son beside him, that he entered into 
 all the amusements with zest, and seemed to have forgotten 
 his cares, whatever they might have been. 
 
 But now on a fine August morning, when everything looks 
 bright and peaceful in the park and avenue, what ails Yalen- 
 tine that he is so out of harmony with the scene ? He is 
 walking up and down the greensward by the roadway chaf- 
 ing mth impatience. Sometimes stopping to look towards 
 the Hall, as if expecting some one ; then stamping, and 
 muttering words that sound very like some of the fashionable 
 oaths of the time. His hat is on the grass ; beside it his 
 gun ; at last he flings himself doTvm at full length, exclaim- 
 ing, " We have lost the day now. I care not whether he 
 comes or no. "What time is there for aught like sport ?" 
 
 While he thus fretted himself, his two friends lay lazily 
 and in provoking contrast to his state of turmoil, each on one 
 of the stone seats that were placed at intervals under the 
 
THE CHASE. S9 
 
 trees. Lord Morley had a smile of derision on liis face, and 
 Wilmot, placing his head on one side as a critic contemplates 
 a picture, said : 
 
 " Most excellent Valentine, thy vassals are not so obedient 
 to thy behests as thou didst fondly imagine.'' 
 
 " Thou shalt see soon how that will be/' exclaimed Yalen- 
 tine, in a loud and angry tone, starting to his feet and 
 seizing his hat. '' Wait only till my return ;" and so saying 
 he set off at a quick pace homewards, a sort of dry cough 
 from one of his friends, and a long, low whistle from the 
 other, adding fuel to the flame of his passion as he hurried 
 onwards. 
 
 The sport they were bent upon consisted in a kind of 
 battue in the chase, which was often practised at that time 
 of year, when it was too early to shoot game. A number of 
 people were sent into the woods to beat the bushes and drive 
 into a narrower and narrower circle all the wild creatures 
 contained in them ; foxes, squirrels, badgers, rabbits, hares — 
 whatever, in short, was there ; while the sportsmen stationed 
 in the centre, armed mth cross-bows, guns, or even stones 
 and sticks, shot or knocked do-v^Ti whatever they pleased. 
 This does not sound like very gentlemanly sport, but neither 
 do bull-baiting, bear-baiting, and cock-fighting, wiiich were 
 still favourite amusements. We become, by Kttle and Httle, 
 less cruel as the stream of time flows on. 
 
 To enjoy this sport, the attendance of a large number of 
 the servants would be required ; and, indulged as Yalentine 
 was, he could not order this ^\ithout his father's permission. 
 He had intended to obtain it when the family assembled for 
 prayers as usual at half-past six; but his father had already 
 
40 THE CAREWES. 
 
 gone out on horseback, not to return for some hours. This 
 was quite an unusual thing, and completely thwarted Yalen- 
 tine's ^\dsh to start for the chase immediately after break- 
 fast. Still, if his father returned at nine o'clock there might 
 be time, and Henry was ordered to be on the watch on the 
 road by which he was expected, give Yalentine's message, 
 and brmg the keepers and their assistants to the gates of the 
 chase with aU possible despatch. Here, therefore, the three 
 young men waited ; but nine o'clock came and passed and 
 there were no tidings of Henry, and half-past nine came, 
 and still there were no signs of him. Lord Morley now 
 began to question the necessity of obtaining Sir Arthur's 
 permission at all, arguing that it was certain to be granted, 
 and that the accident of his absence was quite sufficient to 
 excuse this de^dation from accustomed rules. He reminded 
 Yalentine that, according to his own showing, he had per- 
 fect power to do whatever he liked, and could always make 
 his doings appear right to his father if he managed well ; and 
 that, being the eldest son of the house, surely he coidd take 
 it upon him to order so trifling an affair as this. 
 
 Yalentine, though his conscience rather pricked him, 
 determined to act upon this advice, and the three repaired 
 to "Woodruffe's cottage, which formed the very beginning 
 of the \iUage before mentioned. They scarcely expected to 
 find him at home, but hoped to discover from his mother, 
 who kept house for him, where he was. He was, however, 
 at his cottage ; but when Yalentine made liis request known 
 to him, he shook his head. His master. Sir Arthur, had 
 sent word that he should wait at home till further orders, 
 and even if it had not been so, he could not go hunting in 
 
THE CHASE. 41 
 
 the chase without special leave. Valentine said that though 
 WoodrufFe waited at home himself, he might send for the 
 undor-kcepcrs and foresters and their hoys, and as to leave 
 to go hunting in the chase, the word of his master's son was 
 quite enough. 
 
 Woodi'uffe, however, made no move and sent no messages 
 for his assistants. He stood leaning on his staff, looking 
 troubled and puzzled, but evidently not intending to act on 
 this sort of leave. 
 
 Valentine became very angry, especially as he saw a 
 mocking expression on Lord Morley's face, and began to 
 talk loudly and abusively to "Woodruffe, in which his friends 
 joined, but this made not the slightest impression on the 
 keeper. He maintained a perfectly respectful manner, but 
 continued firm in his resolution, not to order out the people 
 mthout Sir Arthur's leave. 
 
 Valentine was obliged to give in — what could he do ? but 
 in order to issue one command that might be obeyed, he 
 desired Woodruffe to go in search of Master Henry, who 
 was watching on the road, and ask whether Sir Arthur had 
 come back. "VVoodruffe said he was very sorry, but his 
 orders were not to leave his cottage till Sir Arthur sent 
 down to him, and to employ aU his men on the upper 
 plantations till dinner, so that he had no one about to go 
 a message for him. 
 
 Thus baffled, the three young men returned to the 
 avenue, after seeing Woodruffe shut himself in again, and 
 another half hour slowly passed. It was now past ten ; all 
 the morning was lost ; and Valentine was hurrpng off home- 
 wards, with he scarcely knew what purpose, when Henry 
 
42 THE CARE-VVES. 
 
 at last appeared, walking slowly and heavily mtli Lion by 
 his side and his usual oak stick in his hand. Yalentine 
 stopped short. 
 
 " Move thy legs faster, man !" he cried. '^ '.Chere's lead 
 in thy feet surely. No wonder we wait so long if this be 
 thy way of coming on." 
 
 But Henry made no better haste, and by the time the 
 brothers met Valentine was in a fever of impatience. What 
 then was his ii-ritation, when he heard that his father had 
 returned truly, but that when Henry, running to him as 
 soon as he appeared, had made the request about the chase, 
 his answer had been, '' JS^o member of my family, nor one 
 of my servants, must enter the chase this day. Eemember 
 it is my command." 
 
 "The boy cannot have done his message well," said 
 Lord Morley, who T\ith Wilmot had come up to the place 
 where the two brothers were standing silent, and looking at 
 each other. 
 
 '' Or he is making up a false tale," said Wilmot. 
 
 The blood rushed to Hemy's face, and his eyes flashed 
 with anger. 
 
 "Nay, Henry Wilmot, my brother was never kno\^'n 
 to speak what was false," repHed Yalenttue. 
 
 Heniy looked gratefully at him, and asked what he 
 would like to do now, and if there was amihing in which 
 he could help. At this moment, the tame stag, seekig 
 his fiiend Henry, came bounding from the herd and stood 
 close by him to be caressed and patted. 
 
 " AVhcre is my father ? I Avill myself hear the meaning 
 of this strange command," said Valentine. 
 
THE CHASE. 4S 
 
 *' My father waited only wliile horses Avere prepared, and 
 then set out for London, taking Ealph and William to attend 
 him." 
 
 " Eor London ! How is this ?" 
 
 " He said nought to me. He spent all the time alone 
 with our mother. I did but wait to see him go, and I heard 
 him leave the same command mth all at home about the 
 chase." 
 
 " A strange fancy traly ! " said Lord Morley. 
 " Sir Arthur meant surely that he would have no hunt- 
 ing there this day," said Wilmot. '* He meant not that we 
 should none of us go and wander among those old gnarled 
 trees, and it may be take a shot at a rabbit. The paths look 
 inviting to the last degree, and I mean to go in, so please 
 you. Master Henry." 
 
 " So will not I," said Henry ; " nor shalt thou if I can 
 hinder thee." 
 
 " Thou art a proper young braggart, methinks ! " said 
 Wilmot. '^ Stand aside with thy dog and let me pass." 
 
 "Henry, thou art forgetting thyself strangely," said 
 Valentine, '' to stand thus in Master Wilmot's path. I take 
 the same view of the matter with him. My father could not 
 possibly mean that we should not go into the chase at all. 
 What hurt can it do ? He may have some wish about the 
 vert or the game ; but as for walking in the paths, that we 
 may surely do." 
 
 " Our father said, * No member of my family is to enter 
 the chase this day,' " said the sturdy Henr}\ 
 
 "Ah ! but he meant * with an intention to hunt there."' 
 " He did not,'' replied Henry. 
 
44 THE CAREWES. 
 
 *' AYliat ! dost thou contradict me thus with thy rustical 
 preciseness ! I tell thee thou art a clown and a puritan t^ 
 say so." 
 
 Henry's hlood hoiled. All the passions that Mr. Bussell 
 had heen labouring to conquer began to rise in their fury. 
 He neither spoke nor moved, however, but Lord Morley 
 laughed scornfully at the "fearful scowl on brow and lip," as 
 he said. 
 
 " We will go in, and he shall go with us, to cure him of 
 his puritan notions," added his lordship. 
 
 Henry struck his stick so violently on the ground that 
 it made a deep hole and planted itself there, and he leaned 
 on it as much as to say, " Here I stand. Move me who can !" 
 
 "Ho, there ! open the gates!" cried Yalentine, knocking 
 at the lodge door. 
 
 There was no one at home but Leeson's old mother, who 
 came out smiling and curtsepng to her young master with 
 the key on her finger. 
 
 " Do not open the gates, Dame Leeson," said Henry in a 
 firm voice. 
 
 The poor old woman stood looking from one to the other 
 quite puzzled wdiat to do. 
 
 " I tell thee to open the gates," cried Yalentine. " What ! 
 are my commands to be disobeyed by every menial? Open 
 instantly." 
 
 " Your master. Sir Arthur, has forbidden it," said Henry. 
 
 " He has not," retorted Yalentine. " I A^dll make short 
 work A\T[th the matter," and seizing the key from the old 
 dame he opened the gates liimself, and as he did so. Prince 
 bounded into the chase ; Yalentine, Avishing to drive liim 
 
THE CHASE. 45 
 
 back, ran after him, carrying the key and leaving the gates 
 open. 
 
 "No sooner was he out of sight, than Morley making a 
 signal to Wilmot, the two seized on Henry, pinned his arms 
 to his sides, and dragged him by main force towards the 
 gates. He struggled with all his strength, and Lion gave a 
 fierce growl and prepared to spring on Morley, who, seeing 
 his danger, relinguished his hold on Henry, and pulling up 
 the oak stick, aimed so furious a blow at the dog, that had 
 not Henry broken its force by rushing in and stopping it, re- 
 ceiving in so doing a hea^y blow himself. Lion would pro- 
 bably have been killed. 
 
 " Down, Lion," he cried, '' down, sir!" and the obedient 
 animal was quiet in a moment. Then the two combatants 
 stood glaring at each other, Morley still wielding the club. 
 
 " You shall not dare to touch my dog,'* said Henry, gasp- 
 ing for breath. 
 
 " Walk forward mth us, then," said Morley. 
 
 " I will not," replied Henry, violently ; and he was 
 instantly seized again by his two assailants. His strength, 
 as he felt, was powerless against them, and his arm was 
 almost disabled by the blow it had received, so he struggled 
 less, but Lion growled again, and Morley kicked him. 
 
 *' Stop ! " cried Henry in such a tone that the two young 
 men obeyed instinctively. " The dog wiU not see this ruifianly 
 conduct and be quiet, and you shall not maul and kick him. 
 Call him in. Dame Leeson, and keep him safe. Go in. Lion, 
 go in !" 
 
 Lion obeyed very unwillingly, with his tail between his 
 legs, and a low growl like distant thunder. Henry was then 
 
46 THE CARE-VVES. 
 
 dragged on for ten minutes or so by his two tormentors, 
 without resistance, for he found it was useless, and then they 
 met Valentine returning, after an unsuccessful pursuit of 
 Prince. 
 
 " Ah, I am glad to see Henry has come," he cried, as 
 he walked smilingly towards them. " Is it not free and 
 pleasant among the old trees ?" 
 
 "Bid thy friends let me go, Valentine,'^ said Henry. 
 " I have come far enough to please them I" 
 
 " Wliat, gentlemen !'' said Valentine, flushing Avith 
 anger. "This was going too far. I meant not to use 
 unmannerly force. Take your hands off my brother, so 
 please you." 
 
 They obeyed, and Lord Morley laughed. " It was but 
 a jest," said he. " Here, give me thy hand. Master Henry, 
 and thank me for a pleasant walk in this old wood, and for 
 saving thy conscience ; for if thou art chidden, thou canst 
 put finger in eye and say, * I did it on compulsion.' " 
 
 Henry held back his hand, but did not moA^e. He was 
 free to go now. Why, instead of going, did he rush forward 
 further into the wood at his utmost speed ? 
 
 " What can he mean ?" asked Morley. 
 
 "I cannot tell," replied Valentine. "But hold! who are 
 those two huntsmen I see among the trees ? By heaven, 
 they are hunting in our chase. See, they are even now 
 starting their dogs after a stag." 
 
 " And the stag is thy pretty sister's pet, methinks," said 
 Wilmot. 
 
 All three now followed Henry ; but before any of them 
 could reach the spot, the dogs had run down poor Prince, 
 
THK KING'S HVNTSMAX. 
 
THE CHASE. 47 
 
 and the huntsman had given him his death wound. He 
 was so tame that he had not taken alarm till too late. He 
 never imagined any harm was meant him. 
 
 Henry, first reaching the spot, knelt beside his poor dead 
 friend, gently stroking his dappled side, and at the thought 
 of Edith some tears fell on it. He was entirely out of breath 
 and could not speak, but he looked reproachfully at the men. 
 Valentine, however, rushing up, cried, 
 
 " "Who are you that have presumed to enter my father's 
 chase and kill his deer ?" 
 
 One of the men laughed insolently. 
 
 " And who are you, my young master, that calls this 
 ground thy father's, which is, in truth, the king's majesty's, 
 and belongs to the royal forest of Windsor? Be pleased to 
 return within thy bounds, and trespass not here where thou 
 hast no right." 
 
 " Thou liest like a villain and a thief, as thou art," 
 returned Valentine, dramng his sword, " and if thou mo vest 
 not ofi", thou and thy mate and thy dogs, we are strong 
 enough to force thee." 
 
 *' Carewe I" said LordMorlcy, seizing his arm, ^^art thou 
 mad ? These are huntsmen belonging to the royal house- 
 hold. Thou wilt get thyself into some serious danger by 
 thy violence. Dost not see the crest on their sleeves ? 'Tis 
 the royal arms of England ?" 
 
 Valentine was trembling A^-ith passion, but he lowered 
 his sword. 
 
 There was a rushing sound through the ferns, and 
 Lion, springing on the foremost huntsman, pinioned him 
 to the earth. The next instant, the other man had shot 
 
4S THE CAREWES. 
 
 the faithful dog in the side. He let go his hold, rolled 
 over and gave one short howl. Henry started up, threw 
 his clinched hands wildly ahove his head, and then fell 
 beside his wounded friend, caressing him, begging him not 
 to die, '' Oh, not to die ! but to look at him once 
 more ! " 
 
 Poor Lion did look at him, one last, loving look ; licked 
 the cheek that was laid close to him, and the hand that 
 was fondling him ; but the eyes became glazed ; slower and 
 slower moved the tongue ; and then he stretched out his feet 
 stiffly and died. 
 
 The cry that Henry uttered rang through the wood and 
 went to Valentine's heart. To every one else there, it seemed 
 childish folly to feel so much for a dog. Henry had shed 
 tears for Prince, but none came now. He felt ^^dld with 
 mingled rage and grief, and he bm'ied his face in the grass, 
 clutching at the tree roots and tearing up the earth in his 
 anguish. He heard contention around him, loud words, 
 oaths, the clashing of swords. He never moved. If they 
 killed him as he lay he did not care. At last he heard 
 Valentine telling him they must go home, that he must 
 stand up and come away, but he heeded nothing. Then he 
 heard Valentine exacting promises that Lion should be care- 
 fully buried where he lay. This roused him at last. 
 
 "Nobody shall touch him !" he cried, standing upright. 
 *' I will take him home. He shall not be left here to be 
 trampled on by robbers." fl 
 
 " You had best keep a civil tongue in your head, young "' 
 master," said one of the men ; and as he spoke ho stooped 
 as if to move the dog. 
 
 I 
 
THE CHASE. 49 
 
 ^' Do not come near him," cried Henry. ^' I \nll kill any 
 one that touches him." 
 
 There was a laugh at this boyish threat, which gave 
 Henry double strength. He raised poor Lion in his arms. 
 It was no sHght weight, but the state of excitement in which 
 Heniy was made it seem like a feather. He walked fast on, 
 his dog's honest face pressed against his breast, and the fine 
 strong brown paws hanging stiff and cold over his arms. 
 The three others followed silently. Henry, who had walked 
 fast at first, began to stagger under his burden. 
 
 " Here, let me carry the old head !" said Lord Morley, in 
 a bantering tone. 
 
 *'No, no, do not dare to touch him!" cried Henry, and 
 again he walked strongly on. Valentine never spoke, but 
 looked dejected and miserable. At last they reached the 
 gates, which were open. Henry passed through without 
 stopping to look behind, and while the others delayed, lock- 
 ing the gates and giving up the key, hurried towards an old 
 hollow oak which stood at a short distance in the midst of 
 a thicket of holly and hawthorn. Through this he forced 
 his way, laid his sad burden gently on the greensward, and 
 then sat down on a root of the aged tree and buried his face 
 in his hands. 
 
 Some one touched his shoulder soon. It was Yalentine. 
 
 " Henry, Henry, leave him here and come home. The 
 hour of noon is near. We must not excite observation by 
 our absence." 
 
 Henry only shook off the hand. 
 
 *'Come, Henry; do, pray, come. The dinner hour is 
 near." 
 
SQ THE CliREWES. 
 
 " I cannot go home.'* 
 
 " What shall I say ? How shall I account for thy 
 absence ?" 
 
 "Say anything thou wiliest." 
 
 At this moment the bell was heard from the Hall, giv- 
 ing warning that it wanted but half-an-hour to the time 
 when dinner would be served. 
 
 *' I must go, Henry. Even now I shall scarcely be in 
 time. Poor Lion ! I would have carried him for thee 
 gladly, oh, gladly ; but — " He hurried away without saying 
 more. Henry sat without moving till the sound of the foot- 
 steps was lost in the distance, then he looked up. He was 
 alone at last. Then all the sorrow that had been pent up 
 burst forth. Thick and fast fell his tears. Sobs, mingled 
 with moans and broken words, burst from his aching heart. 
 He threw his arms round his faithful dog ; took the cold 
 paws in his hands, and lay on the grass, feeUng as if a black 
 weight of misery had fallen over all the world. 
 
 It was not only this cruel death of his dog. Wretched 
 thoughts of Edith and her stag, wretched thoughts about 
 Valentine, about his father who had been so shamefully 
 disobeyed, of his mother who would feel — Oh what would 
 she not feel ! — when she knew of the disobedience. Wher- 
 ever he looked there was nothing but misery. Then came 
 bemldered wonder as to the meaning of what had hap- 
 pened in the chase ; the meaning of what those men had 
 said. Could there be any connection between their claiming 
 the chase for the king, and his father's command that no one 
 should go into it ? Was some misfortune hanging over 
 his father ? He raised his eyes from the ground, where 
 
THE CHASE. 51 
 
 they had been fixed, and gazed up at the cahn, blue summer 
 sky and the sunlight among the green leaves, as if to try 
 to find some help there. Among them, he saw the iron 
 tracery over the gates and the motto of his father's crest, 
 " Trustie and Trewe," and this made liim look down again 
 at Lion. 
 
 " Thou shalt rest here," he said. " Trustie and trewe 
 thou wert, and in defence of thy master against wicked men 
 who would do liim ^^Tong thou didst meet thy death. I 
 cannot carry thee farther, and I will not leave thee here to 
 be seen by unfeeling people. Here shalt thou be buried, 
 and those words shall stand up above thy grave." 
 
 As he spoke he made his way out of the thicket, went 
 quickly to the lodge, and'asked a little boy who opened the 
 door to his knock, if his father would lend him a spade and 
 pickaxe. The old Avoman came out at his voice, and seemed 
 surprised both to see him there still and at his request, and 
 inclined to question the meaning of it, but for this he had 
 no patience. 
 
 " Give me what I ask for," he said. " If you had at- 
 tended to my words this morning, it had been better for 
 us all." 
 
 There was something in his tone that made her feel he 
 must be obeyed, so she brought the tools and he took them, 
 telling her he would return them soon, and went back to his 
 thicket. 
 
 Henry now began to dig a grave. His arm had become 
 very painful, but he did not care for that ; the pain of body 
 even seemed a relief to him, it was so much less hard to 
 bear than his pain of mind. It took him a long time to 
 
&2 THE CAREWES. 
 
 dig a hole that would be large enough. The ground w 
 hard and mixed with tree roots, which required the pickaxe 
 to get them out. Often he had to stop and sit down to 
 rest, but the moment he had recovered his breath he began 
 again, with an impatience that seemed to drive him on. 
 When he had done, he tore some branches from the oak 
 and laid them mth their fresh leaves at the bottom and 
 lined the sides mth them. All was ready now. He had 
 only to lay his dog in his grave. He began to raise poor 
 Lion, but when, as he did so, the head drooped down and 
 the legs dragged along the ground, strength and corn-age 
 failed him all at once ; he let his dog slide from his grasp, 
 and sank dowTi beside him on the heap of moist earth he 
 had raised at the edge. He was in truth exliausted ^^ith 
 fatigue, heat, grief, and all the passions he had gone 
 through. At first he lay in a kind of stupor, but before 
 long he fell fast asleep. 
 
SB 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 "Henry! my brotlicr Henry!" these words awoke him. 
 It was Valentine who had come. Henry stared round quite 
 bewildered. There was a red light among the trees as if the 
 sun were setting. Was that possible ? He fixed his eyes 
 on Valentine's face, which was full of sorrow and sympathy. 
 
 " Is there aught amiss, Valentine ? What is it ? Is 
 my mother ill or unhappy ?" 
 
 Valentine raised Henry's head from the ground and sup- 
 ported it on his shoulder. Then the boy saw his poor Lion 
 lying cold and dead close beside him at the edge of the 
 grave he had dug, and everything rushed back to his 
 memory at once. 
 
 " Help me to lay him in, Valentine," said he slowly 
 rising, but as he did so he turned sick and giddy and sank 
 do^vn again. 
 
 " Thou art iU, Henry. What can I do for thee ?" 
 
 " Couldst thou get me a cup of cold Yi-'ater at the lodge ? 
 I am parched with thirst.'* 
 
 Valentine went and quickly returned with a flagon of 
 pure water, which Henry took gratefully and drank with 
 eagerness. As Valentine hold it to his lips, the two 
 
5i THE CAREWES. 
 
 brothers looked into each other's eyes, a look full of sadness 
 but full of love. Whatever had been wrong between them, 
 was put right now. 
 
 " You mil help me," said Henry rising. He took Lion's 
 head tenderly in his hands, raised it from the grass, stroked 
 the ears gently down, and kissed the fine broad forehead 
 and put the paws straight. Valentine at the same time 
 raised the hind legs and they lowered him gently down, and 
 laid him on the branches, and covered him over with others. 
 Then they threw in the earth. Many a tear from Henry's 
 eyes glittered among the leaves before they Avere all covered, 
 but he never stopped. He worked mth feverish haste ; 
 Valentine, not so much used to such Avork, got tired and stood 
 by, looking at him wliile he piled a mound over the grave. 
 
 " I shaU not forget the place. But what is that in thy 
 hand ?" 
 
 " Thy oak stick. I found it on the path." 
 
 " Give it me," said Henry, and he planted it firmly in 
 the mound. " I shall never carry it again." 
 
 Valentine offered to return the tools. When he had 
 done so, they took their way homewards. 
 
 "I am very anxious to talk with thee, Henry," said 
 Valentine as they walked, " about that which happened this 
 morning, and how we should comport ourselves about it. 
 Whatever be the meaning of the presence of those hunts- 
 men in the chase and the words they said, there can be no 
 need that we should mix ourselves up vnth the matter. 
 A^Hiy should my father be still more vexed by hearing that 
 we were there at all ?" 
 
 " I do not understand thee, Valentine.*' 
 
VALENTINE S TRIUMPH. 55 
 
 " I repeat, wliy should my father be troubled about it ? 
 Wc were there only a few minutes actually. My going in 
 at all was only to catch the stag, and yours a frolic of 
 Morley's.*' 
 
 *' Still we were there. "We must surely tell him, or my 
 mother, as he is from home, that we were there, and of the 
 death of Edith's stag and of Lion, and of the conduct of 
 those men." 
 
 " We must not tell either him or my mother. In fact, 
 it is impossible now, for Morley and Wilmot (who is indeed 
 the best romancer of the two) made up a most admirable 
 story about thy absence, accounting for it in a very inge- 
 nious manner, while we dined, and gave a description of 
 our morning's employments without saying a word about 
 our short incursion into the chase." 
 
 " And didst not thou supply the truth which they con- 
 cealed?" 
 
 " Thou wouldst not have had me give the lie to my 
 friends at our oAvn board, especially when they only tried to 
 sliield me by their story? It mattered Httle to them." 
 
 " Thou must go to them, and insist on their explaining 
 to my mother this falsehood of theirs as well as they can. 
 I know not how ; but explained and put right it must be." 
 
 " They have both left Crewhurst. They took horse at 
 two o'clock, and are gone on to London." 
 
 " I am right glad to hear it. But it is strange : me- 
 thought they were to stay a fortnight." 
 
 *' They intended it, in truth ; but nothing could stop 
 them. I know not why they went." 
 
 *' We shall be better for their absence. Drive cowardly 
 
56 THE CAREWES. 
 
 thoughts away mth them. Let us go straight to my mother 
 and tell her the truth, cost what it may." 
 
 "It is very easy for thee, very easy indeed, to say that. 
 There was no fault on thy part. Thou wert forced in. It 
 is on me that all the e\il consequences will fall. My father 
 will not forgive the disobedience, and still less the deceit 
 abeady practised on my mother, though neither was fault of 
 mine. I made the old dame at the lodge promise not to 
 tell any one of our going through the gates, and told her she 
 should have a reward for her silence. When I took hack the 
 tools, she told me no one but herself knew it."" 
 
 Henry now broke into passionate remonstrances : re- 
 minded Yalentine of his father's love — his mother's 
 tenderness ; cast contempt on coAvardly falsehoods, and 
 entreated Valentine to shake liimseK free of them at 
 once. But Yalentine could not resolve to take this fear- 
 ful step. He knew that his father, indulgent as he was, 
 was a stern judge in cases of failure in the duty and 
 reverence he considered his due, and would be disgusted and 
 incensed at the deceit permitted at least, if not joined in, by 
 himself, and he feared the punishment would be to send him 
 back to Oxford, instead of letting him go into the service of 
 the king, either abroad or at home, a thing he anxiously 
 desired, and had already begun to hint at vaguely to his 
 father. To keep Henry quiet, however, he pretended that 
 he would only delay his confession, and that all he asked 
 was that Henry would say nothing till he had made it. '' It 
 would be absolutely fatal to me and treacherous in thee if 
 thou didst," said he ; "see what ''an effect it would have if 
 thou didst tell of this matter ? It must come from me first." 
 
VALENTINE S TRIUMPH. 57 
 
 " Siirely it must. I mil not speak of it till thou dost." 
 
 " Promise me that faithfully." 
 
 *' I do promise it. But delay not thy confession, for till 
 it is made, I know not how to look at my mother, nor Edith, 
 nor Mr. Russell. To them all I ever tell everj'ihing that 
 concerns me or them. How can I talk with Edith as if all 
 was nght mth me, when I know her stag has been killed, 
 and my poor Lion is lying cold in his grave ?" 
 
 '' Well, well, only remember that promise, and all shall 
 be right." 
 
 They had reached the Hall now. It was almost the hour 
 of evening prayers, and Henry, weak and faint for want of 
 food, as well as from the consequences of all he had gone 
 through, staggered up to his own room to try to compose 
 himself, and put his disordered dress into a better state, so 
 that he might make his appearance there without exciting 
 observation. His own impulse would have been to hurry 
 straight to his mother, and open his whole heart to her, and 
 lay his sorrows at her feet, and ask her to help Valentine, 
 and forgive the share he had had in causing them, and then 
 to have Edith's sjTnpathy and give her his, while Mr. Russell 
 would coiuisel and strengthen him. This new plan of conceal- 
 ment and silence was misery to him, and actually seemed to 
 confuse his very senses. 
 
 When he opened his door, expecting to be quiet and alone, 
 he saw to his surprise that nurse was there, seated in a chair 
 by the window, fast asleep, with a little table by her, covered 
 with a cloth and some supper for him. 
 
 " My boy ! " she said, waking up as he went in, ** what have 
 you been doing, and what have they been doing to you ? Come, 
 
58 THE CARE^\^S. 
 
 come, tell your old nurse. Wliy, what a face you have got ! 
 and licre^s a torn sleeve, and your brow is damp and cold, and 
 look at your hands. Sit down, I say, and eat. I don't believe 
 none of thcii* tales and lies, those fellows. A row to Hampton 
 Court to see the young princes in their coroach, and a walk 
 back ! Marry come up ! Mighty fine ! my boy has not 
 been there. Ay, ay ! old Dame Leeson, vdth. her nods and 
 gi'oans, meant something more than that ! Eat, I say, or 
 drink some of this wine first, and then eat afterwards, and 
 I will help thee to dress then." 
 
 Happily for Henry, nurse talked so much herself, and then 
 busied herself so earnestly finding another suit for him to 
 wear, and getting him the water to wash his face and hands, 
 and there was so much need for haste to be ready for prayers, 
 that he was scarcely required to say a word liimself ; and 
 poor kind nurse's supper did him good, though at first he 
 did not feel as if he could touch it, and nurse's kindness did 
 him good too. But when he heard the bell he crept down 
 and entered the chapel like a guilty creature, unable to meet 
 his mother's eye. The organ seemed to send forth a confused 
 whirl of sounds, and he could not compose his thoughts so 
 as to join in the prayers. AYhen he went like the others to 
 receive his mother's blessing, he never looked at her, and ran 
 ofi" and up to his room without speaking to Edith. 
 
 Next morning he awoke from uneasy dreams to still more 
 uneasy thoughts, and got up \^dth the determination to seek 
 Valentine the moment that prayers were over, and force him 
 to end this state of wretchedness at once ; but Yalentinc 
 began a lively talk with Edith as they walked away, and 
 continued it throughout breakfast. Ilemy was perfectly 
 
59 
 
 astonislied that Valentine could be so gay, but after vain 
 attempts to catcli his attention, saw that he was rising from 
 table, and going out with their mother, and that she led him 
 to the terrace. 
 
 *' Now," thought Henry, '* now he will tell her all," and 
 he went to his lessons vdfh Mr. Eussell mth a lighter heart. 
 
 Valentine, on the contraiy, felt his heart sink as he 
 followed his mother, fearing that by some means she had dis- 
 covered his secret, and her first words confirmed his fears. 
 
 " I grieve, my son," she said, " that trouble should arise 
 among us so soon after thy arrival. We had hoped thy 
 stay might be passed in peace and joy, but, alas, it is not so." 
 
 " It has not been by any intention of mine, but by a 
 a mistake," Valentine began. 
 
 **My son, thou art as innocent of the danger that 
 threatens us, as I am myself. Hso, we share with others the 
 sufferings of these evil times. The country cries out for a 
 parliament, and the king grants it not. Meanwhile, he needs 
 money, and the irregular levies oppress and anger the people." 
 
 ** But the people should give wilHngly to so good a Idng." 
 
 *' Thy father thinks not so. He thinks that by the ancient 
 laws of England, it is only the Commons' House of Parlia- 
 ment that can levy moneys on the people. Ptemember the 
 words of Mr. Hampden when he was committed to close 
 custody in the Gatehouse five years ago, when our dear and 
 lamented friend. Sir John Eliot, so soon to give up his life 
 in the Tower, was still there. * I would be content to lend 
 as well as others,' these were Mr. Hampden's words, ' but I 
 fear to draw on myself that curse in Magna Cliarta — which 
 should be read twice a year — against those that infringe it.' " 
 
60 THE CAREWES. 
 
 " Yet, my mother, 'twas poor and pitiful in so ricli a man 
 to refuse so small a sum. Surely a niggard act ! " 
 
 " Tliou scest not, nor understandest the matter ! But it 
 is for no tax thy father is at this moment called in question. 
 It is for his right to the chase." 
 
 " The chase ! " echoed Valentine. 
 
 " Thou hast not perhaps heard how much the king, led on 
 by evil counsellors, is enlarging his forests. He hath seized 
 on the whole manor of EeauHeu, and taken it into the New 
 Forest, whereby the Earl of Southampton is well nigh ruined. 
 The forest of Eockingham is extendeji from six miles to sixty. 
 In other places people have redeemed their land by heavy 
 fines ; many small landholders, and even cottagers, have had 
 to pay sums according to their means ; in this way money 
 flows into the exchequer." 
 
 ** Then these lands that they redeem have once been 
 the king's ?" 
 
 " It is true. They were in ancient times wild forest, but 
 so was half England. .JSTo one could msh to see it return to 
 that state." 
 
 " Still these are encroachments." 
 
 *' JS'ot always. Many landliolders have titles granted by 
 various sovereigns to the portions they hold. These, pro- 
 duced before the Forest Court, held at Stratford in Essex by 
 my Lord Holland, are respected ; the fines are levied on 
 those who have them not. The blow hath now fallen on 
 thy father. Only the night before last, at a late hour, he 
 g^eceived intimation by an express from my Lord Holland, 
 that his chase of right belongs to the royal forest of 
 Windsor, and would yesterday be taken possession of by his 
 
valentine's TRIU3IPH. 61 
 
 majesty. It was to avoid any dispute between our people 
 and those of the royal household that thy father forbade any 
 member of his family, or any of his dependents, to enter it. 
 He went to London to make his suit to the king in person, 
 believing that he himself knows not nor intends this act of 
 injustice." 
 
 Appalled to hear that the matter was so serious, and that 
 he had caused, by liis disobedience, the very mischief his 
 father dreaded, Yalcntine turned pale and stood silent. 
 
 " Thou art shocked, my son, and no wonder ; but we will 
 do our utmost to save the land, were it only for thy sake. If 
 it must go, we must bear the loss, but thy father will redeem 
 the village, even though he pay a ruinous fine. Om- poor 
 people must not be turned out of the cottages they love as 
 their own." 
 
 '' But we are safe by our title ; that cannot be disputed?" 
 
 " ]N^ot in justice ; for that our charter was granted by 
 King Hemy is certain, and it was established before the 
 commissioners in the time of Queen Elizabeth ; but strange 
 to say, it can nowhere be found." 
 
 " Lost !" said Yalentine. " Sui^ely so important a parch- 
 ment should have been safely guarded." 
 
 " Thy father hath never had it in his possession," she 
 repHed. "Yet thy grandfather especially mentioned it in 
 his last illness, and said it was safe. He died suddenly, and 
 without saying much he meant to say to us, striving in vain 
 to articulate words that would not come. He was in dan- 
 ger of his life in the troubled times of Queen Mary for 
 conscience sake ; the Carewes have ever been Reformers ; 
 and his papers were seized at that period. ^Ye believe 
 
62 THE CAREWES. 
 
 that he said in liis ilhiess rather what he wished than what 
 he knew, arid that our charter then fell into the hands of 
 the government of that day, and hath heen found by the 
 present, and thus they know we are defenceless/' 
 
 Valentine stood silent again. 
 
 *' Thy melancholy grieves me to the heart, my son,'* 
 said Lady Carewe. " How changed is thy face since only 
 a week since thou earnest home to us mth all the bright- 
 ness of youth upon thee ! Order thy favouiite horse, and 
 take a groom to attend thee, and ride for an hour or two 
 this lovely morning. Thy father hath cherished that spirited 
 little horse, and many a time hath stroked down the white 
 star on his forehead, and longed to see thee mounted on 
 him. May it soon be so indeed. '' 
 
 Valentine was quite ready to agree to this proposal, and 
 was soon on his way. 
 
 "With the careless lightness of his natui^e, he had soon 
 shaken off his melancholy. Putting his horse to a gallop, 
 he was miles away over heath and forest, by cultivated 
 land and green pasture, singing as he went, and casting 
 sorrow to the winds. All would be well. The king would 
 reverse the hateful order ; his father would retui^n in good 
 spirits; would never hear of the unlucky adventure of 
 yesterday ; would have more festivities at the Hall ; Avould 
 agree to his great wish for an introduction to the court. 
 
 Full of these pleasant imaginations, Valentine found 
 himseK near the margin of a large more, and heard the 
 barking of a dog, and saw overhead the bare branches of a 
 withered tree. Something in the sound and the sight 
 reminded him of Lion and of Henry. He drew up, left 
 
63 
 
 off singing, and went on more slowly ; then, turning a corner, 
 came suddenly upon a lady and gentleman hawking, attended 
 by a keeper with dogs. They were magnificently mounted, 
 and were evidently people of distinction. Their falcon had, 
 at the very moment of his approach, made its swoop on a 
 heron, and the victim and his conqueror fell at their feet 
 as he stopped. AYhen the hawk had returned to his mis- 
 tress's hand to be caressed, and to have his hood and jesses 
 replaced, the lady said something in a low voice to her 
 companion, who then looked hard at Yalentine, and beck- 
 oned to him to approach. 
 
 * ' Pardon me, young gentleman, ' ' said he, ' ' if I am mistaken, 
 but it seems to me I speak to a son of Sir Arthur Carewe.'' 
 
 Yalentine, respectfully taking off his hat, replied that he 
 was right. 
 
 " Thy whole look and manner assures me," resumed the 
 speaker, " that the Lord Morley has correctly estimated thy 
 character ; and that though thy father hath ever seemed 
 ready to join the factious party, who would set up their 
 vain conceits in opposition to the wise counsels and divinely- 
 appointed rights of their king, whose will should be their 
 law, yet thou hast a loyal and devoted heart, and art worthy 
 of the honour I am now deputed to confer on thee. Our 
 lovely mistress and queen extends her hand to thee, and 
 permits thee the pri\ilege of kissing it." 
 
 Yalentine, intoxicated with joy, threw himself from his 
 horse, flung his hat on the grass, and kneeling on one knee, 
 fervently pressed his lips to the white and jewelled hand 
 presented to him, vowing as he did so to devote his life to 
 her ser\ace. 
 
64 THE CAREWES. 
 
 The queen smiled on liim, and completed his conquest 
 by a glance of her bright eyes. 
 
 " We are much beholden to my Lord Holland/' she 
 said, "for this introduction, and we hope to see thee again. 
 Rise, now, and go on thy way. Thou mayst perchance 
 hear from us ere long." 
 
 Yalentine rose as he was commanded, and mounted his 
 horse, riding away slowly and uncovered till he was out of 
 sight of this royal vision of loveliness. Then careering off 
 at full gaUop, felt as if a glory was spread over earth and 
 sky, and as if all nature did homage to him in his trimnph. 
 
 He dashed up the avenue, through the park and into the 
 court-yard, with his horse in a foam, and there saw the 
 grooms busy over a number of dusty horses that had just 
 come in. He saw at a glance that his father had returned. 
 
HENRY^S DISGRACE. 65 
 
 CHAPTEE YI. 
 
 While Yalentine was so pleasantly engaged, far differently 
 had the hours passed with Henry. He was dull and dis- 
 tracted oyer his lessons, and quite unlike himself; so that 
 Mr. Russell at last, shutting up the books they were attempting 
 to study, looked him steadily in the face, and said to him, 
 " This is but lost time, Henry. Thou hast something on thy 
 mind." 
 
 Henry covered his face with his hands and did not speak. 
 
 " Tell me thy trouble, Henry. There is no grief so 
 great but that a friend may lighten it. Surely I deserve 
 thy confidence." 
 
 Henry sighed heavily. ^' You have indeed always been 
 a true friend to me, Mr. Eussell. "Will you then, for this 
 morning, cease to question me. I hope that before night, 
 long before night comes again, I may tell you all that aHeth 
 me." 
 
 " Then I am right in thinking thou hast some secret 
 sorrow ?" 
 
 " Oh yes, oh yes, indeed ! I am very miserable." 
 
 Mr. Russell looked at him with great concern. He 
 loved Henry so much that to see this state of strange un- 
 
66 THE CAREWES. 
 
 usual silence and grief was truly painful, but lie complied 
 with the request that had been so earnestly made, and dis- 
 missed his pupil immediately. 
 
 Henry, when lessons were over, had usually twenty things 
 to do, and was off to some active employment in a moment ; 
 now he only used his liberty to run up to his own little 
 room, and shut himself in, anxious to avoid everybody till 
 he had heard from Valentine that his confession was made. 
 
 Lady Carewe, meanwhile, after spending an hour or two 
 over her many household cares and occupations, and reading 
 mth Edith, Avent to the village, where she had been urgently 
 requested by Sir Arthur to prepare the mhabitants for the 
 possibility of their being ordered out of their cottages ; while 
 at the same time she would soothe them ^dth the hope that 
 he might prevent such a calamity, and Avith promises to pro- 
 tect them and establish them elsewhere if he were unable to 
 do so. It was a melancholy errand, and she felt very sad 
 herself. Edith, who had heard from her of the anxiety that 
 pressed so heavily, felt sad too, and missed her pretty stag, 
 who used always to gambol round her in the park. She often 
 looked round for him, and wondered where he was. As to 
 Lion, she wondered nothing about him ; he was sure to be 
 with Henry wherever he was. 
 
 Everything about the village was outwardly peaceful, and 
 green, and pretty; but disquiet and fear had already got 
 among the inhabitants. Their lady's visit was much needed, 
 and brought much comfort. They had already heard of the 
 danger that hung over them, for a party of the king's guards 
 had come, and were quartered at the farm-house hard by. 
 Woodruffe had been there at the morning meal, and had 
 
HENRY S DISGRACE. 
 
 ^1 
 
 seen Farmer Rudd and his family with several of these men 
 at their table, cutting into his beef and drinking his ale, and 
 they had boasted that the ground his farm stood on would 
 soon be the king's forest, as it once was and always ought to 
 have been. 
 
 When the poor people heard that their honourable 
 master. Sir Arthur, had gone to London to make his suit to 
 the king about it, they seemed to feel as if everything w^as 
 safe, for if Sir Arthur took it in hand he must succeed. Lady 
 Carewe, wishing she could share in the confidence she had 
 inspired, left them to return to the Hall. It seemed to her 
 that even the heavy fine they might be prepared to pay 
 would perhaps scarcely redeem the \dllage, so determined 
 seemed the purpose to take it, yet she felt ready to make 
 any sacrifice that was in her power to save it. 
 
 The sound of horses' feet approaching rapidly was heard 
 as she drew near, and Sir Arthur was soon seen far in 
 
68 THE CAREWES. 
 
 advance of his servants and several other horsemen. She 
 hurried on and met liim as he alighted at the entrance, while 
 the rest of his party turned off towards the court. Edith 
 stood looking at her father, yet did not ventm-e to speak to 
 him, and Lady Carewe took his hand and gazed at him in 
 silence, for on his face was an expression of sorrow so deep 
 that she felt something worse than loss of property was hang- 
 ing over them. He, also, spoke no word, but led Lady 
 Carewe at once into his private room, where they remained 
 together for a long while. Edith had seated herself in the 
 eoiTidor watching for her mother to come out, and when at 
 last the door opened and she did come, her face was pale and 
 her eyes red with weeping. Edith flew to her side. 
 
 " Things look very had, my child," said Lady Carewe ; 
 " but I trust the worst Avill tui-n out to be a base calumny. 
 Has Valentine retm-ned?" 
 
 "JN'o, my mother, I have but just inquired for him." 
 
 " Where is Henry ?" 
 
 " I know not. I have not seen him since he left the 
 parlour after breakfast." 
 
 After a little inquiry, one of the servants said that 
 Master Henry was up in his bed-room, John, the gardener, 
 had seen him looking out of his window. Lady Carewe 
 inmiediately went there, telling Edith she wished to see 
 him alone. 
 
 Henry's room was so remote that he had heard no sound 
 of his father's arrival. He still sat by his window, trying to 
 learn the Latin lesson in which he had so grievously failed 
 in the morning, and now and then looking out for Valentine, 
 whose strange conduct in going out on his horse without 
 
69 
 
 telling liiin what had passed between their mother and him, 
 had pained him very much, and left him in all the grief and 
 perplexity of the morning. At his mother's gentle knock 
 he opened his door, and his eyes fell before her. 
 
 " Henry ! " she began, " never have I known deceit nor 
 falsehood in thee. Tell me, wert thou and was Yalentine in 
 the chase yesterday ?" 
 
 The expected blow had fallen, then. Yalentine had not 
 made his confession. From others, not from themselves, had 
 the events of yesterday come to the knowledge of his mother. 
 Henry felt disgraced for ever in her eyes. He changed 
 colour, he trembled, and his tongue clove to the roof of his 
 mouth when he tried to speak. At last he stammered out, 
 "Where is Yalentine?'' 
 
 "Is it possible? art thou guilty then of disobedience, 
 concealment, falsehood ? Oh, I could bear loss of fortune, 
 loss of station, loss even of dear lives, better than this ! I 
 trusted thee as myself.'* 
 
 Henry threw himself at her feet, clasping her dress, and 
 drawing her back as she turned away from him. " Oh, my 
 mother, pity me, and think the best of me thou canst!" 
 These were all the words he could say. His voice was choked. 
 By breaking his promise, and bringing Yalentine to shame, 
 he could have cleared himself in a moment, but neither was 
 possible to him. 
 
 " Thou must come down mth me to thy father." 
 
 " My father ! Has he returned ? Then there is no hope 
 for us !" 
 
 " Henry, is it thus thou feelest at thy father's coming ? 
 What a change!" 
 
1Q THE CAREWES. 
 
 " Would lie not wait till Valentine comes back ? Might 
 I not see Yalentine and talk with him first ?*^ 
 
 ^' Thy father will not wait. He requires thy mstant 
 attendance. In this, at least, show obedience." 
 
 She moved to the door, and Henry followed without 
 another word. 
 
 Sir Arthur was seated at his table. Behind him stood 
 Mr. Eussell, and at his side the t^vo huntsmen of the day 
 before. 
 
 "That was the young gentleman," said one of them 
 instantly, " who first ran up to us, and set his dog on us. 
 Had not my comrade shot the brute I had been torn to 
 pieces. It was the elder who drew on us." 
 
 *' You may go for the present," said Sir Arthur ; " I will 
 see you presently." The two men went from the room. 
 
 " Is this true, or a foul lie, Henry ?" said Sir Arthur, in 
 a stern voice. 
 
 Henry did not speak. 
 
 " Dost thou remember my positive conmiands when I left 
 home, and yet thou didst this tiling?" 
 
 Henry's anguish was almost past endurance. He stood 
 before his father convicted of \^dlful disobedience, and of 
 concealing his fault. But he could not break his promise, 
 and he could not brand Yalentine with the double disgrace 
 of first causing all this ^\Tetchedness, and then fl}ing from the 
 consequences, and lea^dng everything to fall on his brother. 
 
 It was hard to bear, but Henry did not sink under the 
 trial. Ho did not speak, but he looked steadfastly in his 
 father's face. He was innocent, and he had a high and 
 noble motive for his silence ; therefore, though he was very 
 
HENRY S DISGRACE. 71 
 
 pale, and though he trembled from head to foot, he could 
 meet his father's eye without quaiHng before it. 
 
 There was silence in the room for some time. Then 
 Sir Arthur, who usually preserved a perfect command 
 of himself, rose in extreme anger, his lips trembling with 
 passion. 
 
 "I will not endure this contemptuous silence," he 
 said. " A confession, a prayer for forgiveness, might have 
 moved me ; but this stubbornness I cannot bear. Fol- 
 low me." 
 
 Henry obeyed, and followed his father along many pas- 
 sages, and up several stairs, to an old and now uninliabited 
 part of the house, where there were some large rooms, either 
 totally unfurnished, or hung with faded tapestiy, and con- 
 taining a few old-fashioned chairs and tables, and such things. 
 Sir Ai'thur unlocked one of these, ordered Henry to go in, 
 locked the door on him, and left him without another 
 word. 
 
 It was at the very moment that Sir Arthur returned to 
 his room, leaving Henry a prisoner, that Yalentine came in 
 from his ride, stiU under the excitement of the late meeting 
 with the queen. He went straight to welcome his father home, 
 meaning to keep up his plan of concealment, and bind Henry 
 strictly to it, for, now that his most ambitious hopes seemed 
 to be on the point of fulfilment, he was doubly anxious to 
 avoid giving offence. He appeared therefore with a smiling 
 face, flushed with his rapid ride, his eyes beaming with the 
 excitement of his feelings, and kneeled before his father of 
 receive his blessing, and say how rejoiced he was to receive 
 it again. Is it wonderful that his father, seeing this bright, 
 
 F 
 
72 THE CAREWES. 
 
 open, handsome face looking up respectfully and affection- 
 ately at his, and remembering that pale, trembling, silent boy 
 mth his mournful but steady, and, as it appeared to him in 
 his anger, defiant gaze — is it wonderful that his father 
 said in his heart, ^' This, my eldest son, the son of my 
 love and my pride, is innocent; the fault has been the 
 other's. He alone is the guilty one." So deceitful are looks 
 sometimes ! 
 
 l^evertheless he summoned the liuntsmen back. He 
 could not doubt that Valentine had been in the chase. 
 He now only had to discover why he had been there ; 
 his own theory and partial conclusion was, that it had 
 been to save and protect his brother, Avho had gone first 
 alone. 
 
 " Do you know these men ? " said he to Valentine as 
 they entered, ushered in by Ralph, who remained without. 
 
 A thrill of fear shot through Valentine. He saw in a 
 moment that all was discovered, but the extremity of his po- 
 sition gave him power to meet it. " Unfortunately," said he, 
 in a tone of humility and grief, ^' I do know them. By a 
 total misapprehension of your Tsdshes, as I have since learned 
 them from my mother, I went into the chase yesterday, and 
 finding these men had killed my sister's stag, I drew upon 
 them. 
 
 " Drew upon us, young sir ! " said the man who spoke 
 before. " You wounded my companion, in revenge for his 
 saving me from your brother's dog ; and had not Lord Morley 
 protected you, you vrould not have gone unscathed your- 
 self" 
 
 ** Valentine," said Sir Arthui-, *' as it does not appear 
 
HENRY S DISGRACE. 73 
 
 that you can throw any new light upon this unfortunate af- 
 fair, hy any further conference with the huntsmen, we have 
 nothing more to say to them. Ralph, show these gentlemen 
 to their horses." 
 
 There were a few moments of silence. Mr. Russell had 
 remained throughout the whole of the proceedings, a mute hut 
 attentive observer of every thing that passed. He had now 
 fixed his eyes steadily on Valentine. Lady Carewe had hid- 
 den her face in her handkerchief ; she was completely over- 
 come. 
 
 " You have to explain why you went into the chase, 
 after m)^ commands sent to j^ou by Henry to the contrary,'* 
 said Sir Arthur breaking the silence. 
 
 " Your command, sir, as I understood it, was, that we 
 shoidd not hunt in the chase. This ^\'e strictly obeyed. We 
 neither took in gun nor cross-bow." 
 
 " My command was that you should not enter it," said 
 Sii' Ai'thur, raising his voice. 
 
 " I did not so understand Henry." 
 
 " Then he is guilty, as I thought. He could not, by pos- 
 sibility, mistake my words, which I even took the precaution 
 to make liim repeat after me. Yet, not only does he fail to 
 deliver this message, but is himself, by the testimony of those 
 two men, the first to disobey it." 
 
 Valentine's face flushed, and then became pale. Shame 
 at his own base prevarications, shame at the injustice done to 
 Henry, panic fear at the thought that a word from Henry 
 might heap disgrace upon himself, by disclosing the truth, 
 shook him to the soul. 
 
 " Thou feelest more deeply for thy brother than he do- 
 
74 riiE CAREWi:s. 
 
 serves,'* said Sir Arthur, entirely mistaking the meaning of 
 the emotion he ohserycd. 
 
 " Where is he ?" asked Valentine. 
 
 " Let us not think of liim at present," rej)lied Sir Arthur. 
 *' His culpable disobedience, and thy rash bcha-sdoui' in his 
 defence against these men, have cost us the chase." 
 
 " My father ! is it possible ?" 
 
 '' The fine to redeem the chase I might have met, but 
 the ruinous sum I shall have to pay as penalty of thy rash- 
 ness, will render it impossible, without relinquishing other 
 and higher duties." 
 
 Valentine sank into a chair. He had been standing up 
 to this time, but this blow completely prostrated him. 
 
 *' Far more painful to me than the loss of the chase, or 
 the loss of any amount of money," said Lady Carewe, look- 
 ing up, " is the thought of my poor Henry. Nothing but 
 evidence I cannot gainsay, should make me believe this of 
 him. He hath faults, like all of us ; but up to this time I 
 have never kno^vn him to be disobedient to his father, nor 
 guilty of untruth." 
 
 *' Nor hatli he now been gaiilty of untruth," said Mr. 
 Russell, speaking for the first time. " Henry hath neither to 
 you, my lady, nor to Sir Arthur, nor to me, denied going into 
 the chase.' 
 
 *' But he hath not confessed it," rejoined Sir Arthur ; " and 
 we know to a certainty that he was there before his brother. 
 To obseiwe a disdainful silence, after the commission of a 
 fault, is next to a denial of it." 
 
 " Tliere is a strange mystery about the matter," resumed 
 Mr. Russell. *' Heniy did not, as I well remember, appear 
 
henry's disgrace. 75 
 
 at dinner nor tlirougliout the evening of yesterday. \Yliere 
 was he ?' 
 
 " He was hurpng Lion," answered Valentine. 
 
 " Poor Lion !" sighed Lady Carewe. 
 
 " Poor Henry !" said Mr. Russell, in a tone of deep feel- 
 ing. '' AVliere did he bury Lion ?'' 
 
 " Under the holloAv oak near the gates," answered 
 Valentine. 
 
 " My Lord Morlcy and Mr. Henry "Wilmot gave a 
 very different account ; and it seems strange to mo, 
 that you. Master Valentine, who were present at dinner, 
 though Henry was not, did not contradict it." 
 
 *' I have not time for these questionings now," said Sir 
 Arthur rising impatiently. *' I have most important affairs 
 to arrange, which require the attendance of my steward, 
 and couriers to despatch ^N-ithout an hour's delay." 
 
 " I can well believe it, Sir Arthur. Pardon me, sir, if 
 my love for my young pupil, and, I may add, my confidence 
 in him, have made me anxious to probe this business to 
 the bottom. May I request to know if I keep the charge 
 of him?" 
 
 " Surely, surely, Mr. Russell. Let every attention be 
 paid to his wants, but till I have time to think, keep him 
 in confinement. The key I make over to you. He is in 
 the wainscotted room in the east tower. My wife, thou 
 wilt remain with me. I need thy counsel much." 
 
 " May I not see my brother ?" faltered Valentine. 
 
 " No. Until he confess his fault, no member of the family 
 shall see him but Mr. Russell. I know his interest in his 
 pupil will equally prevent weak indulgence and undue sever- 
 
7G THE CAREWES. 
 
 ity. To him I confide Henry. Let no one else, not e^en 
 his mother, go near him." 
 
 From this sentence there was no appeal. Valentine, 
 anxious to avoid Mr. Russell's eye, retired to his own room, 
 and a short time afterwards went forth to walk alone on 
 the terrace, and then into solitary parts of the grounds, to 
 ponder over the tangled weh of his affairs. 
 
A MYSTERY. 77 
 
 CHAPTEH yil. 
 
 A MYSTERY. 
 
 Edith sat alone towards evening in the pleasant summer 
 room where she usually studied mtli her mother, feeling 
 very dejected and unhappy. She was sure that something 
 wrong had happened. Both her brothers seemed to have 
 disappeared. Her father and mother had been shut up 
 together for many hours, and had, she knew, sent for the 
 steward and kept him for a long while with them. She had 
 seen two couriers ride ojff post-haste ^nth despatches. The 
 usual customs of the family were suspended. There had 
 been no gathering together at noon, but food had been 
 carried to the private rooms of each. ISTurse and the chil- 
 dren were out, and the voices of little Alice and Martin, 
 who alone of all the inhabitants in the house seemed like 
 themselves, came in at the window; but only sounded 
 sad in her ears. 
 
 Her melancholy thoughts were interrupted by the 
 entrance of nurse Crairy, who, as if unable to stand, let 
 herself drop into an arm-chair, whore she rocked herself 
 backwards and forwards, crpng, ^dping her eyes and con- 
 
78 THE CAREWES. 
 
 stantly repeating, " Ah, well-a-day ! Ah, woes the day ! 
 Ah, mercy on us !" till Edith was so frightened, that she 
 could not ask what was the matter. 
 
 " I tell thee, my pretty love, my poor pretty ladybird — 
 don't begin to cry and look at me so pitiful like that — I tell 
 thee Master Yalentine has broken some forest law or some 
 of their laws, like Robin Hood and Little John, and Idlled 
 a huntsman and one of the king's deer ! Oh, well- a- day !" 
 
 ^' Killed a huntsman !" 
 
 " I tell thee it's true, and he'll be branded, or pilloried, 
 or we can't see what, or it may be have his comely head 
 cut off on Tower HHl." 
 
 " Nay, nurse, you must have made some complete mis- 
 take. What can Yalentine have done ?" 
 
 " I have not, I tell thee ; and Master Henry's fault they 
 say it is, and he's shut up in some lonesome old room. 
 Master Henry disobedient, quotha ! and tell lies, forsooth ! 
 Never tell me ! They shall give me an account of my boy 
 before another hour goes over my head, or I shall know 
 the reason why. Marry come up ! I say again." 
 
 " Oh nurse, do, pray, ask my mother if she would let me 
 come to her for five minutes — only five minutes — that she 
 might tell me really about it." 
 
 " I have been trying it myself, but it is of no avail, my 
 pet. Nobody dares go and disturb her and Sir Arthur. 
 He's not to be spoken to, as thou well knowest, when he's 
 put out of the way, and it's not to be wondered at now, for 
 they say all his houses and lands is forfeit, and so we're all 
 ruined and undone !" And nurse began rocking again and 
 crying and wringing her hands. 
 
A MYSTERY. 79 
 
 " What shaU I do ?' thought poor Edith, " Nurse, do 
 listen to me ! Go and try if thou can'st find Mr. Russell, 
 and bring him to me to tell me what all this means." 
 
 Nurse obeyed, and returned after a few minutes with 
 Mr. Russell, whom she found alone in his study. He calmed 
 the worst of Edith's fears by assuring her that the greatest 
 misfortunes that hung over the family were the loss of the 
 chase, and a heavy fine, not death or imprisonment to any 
 one she loved. Edith knew so little of the world or of hard- 
 ships, that the loss of money did not seem anything terrible 
 to her. She said she should be very sorry to lose the pretty 
 chase, but then they could still see it through the gates, and 
 the king's majesty perhaps would let them walk in it and 
 pick the harebells and wood-sorrel in spring. 
 
 "Ah, well- a- day! but the Carewes have owned the 
 chase hundreds of years afore the king or the king's 
 majesty's father ever came out of Scotland to rule over 
 us," said nurse. " Mayhap, if they'd staid where they was, 
 it would have been none the worse for us. We did very 
 well without them." 
 
 " But what hath Valentine done, and what is it I hear 
 of Henry, Mr. Russell?" 
 
 He thought for a minute, and then, without giving his 
 own impressions in any way, told her as simply as he could 
 the events of the morning. She started up when he told 
 her of what Henry was accused, and all her gentleness dis- 
 appearing, declared that he was falsely accused ; that he never 
 would have disobeyed his father ; and would never attempt 
 to conceal the truth — no, never. 
 
 " As good a boy as ever trod on the earth," said nurse, 
 
80 THE CAREWES. 
 
 wiping her eyes. "A little hasty or so at a time, and 
 wilful, and it may he forgetful and heedless ; hut him tell a 
 lie ! A mighty likely thing ! Never ! Marry and amen, 
 say I." 
 
 Edith was struck dumb, however, by hearing of the un- 
 doubted e-sddence that he had been in the chase, and this 
 brought out the sad story of her stag. 
 
 " Oh my pretty stag !" said she. ** I loved thee so much. 
 Thou wert so gentle and affectionate. I shall never stroke 
 thy sleek sides again, and look in thy large wild eyes. 
 Henry ran into the chase to save him ! I know it has been 
 so ; but why does he not tell my father this ?" 
 
 " Henry has had a severe loss himself. These hunts- 
 men not only killed your poor stag, they kiUed Lion." 
 
 " Killed Lion ! Is Lion dead ? Oh my poor Henry ! 
 how much he must have suffered ! Do, pray do, let me 
 go to him and comfort him ! After aU he has had to 
 bear, they have shut him up alone ! I must go to him," 
 cried Edith. 
 
 Mr. Russell told her Hemy was not permitted to see any 
 member of the family but himself. 
 
 " Let me go to my father and entreat him." 
 
 " No, we dare not interrupt Sir Arthur. He has heavy 
 troubles to bear, and important affairs to arrange." 
 
 ** Then, Mr. Eussell, as you may go to Henr}% and have 
 been to him you say, go once again, and say to him from me, 
 * Edith trusts thee, dear Henry !'" 
 
 " Ay, ay ! pretty pet ! sweet heart, she trusts him," said 
 nurse, still crying. 
 
 But when Mr. Russell had gone, charged with this mcs- 
 
■IHK SCAKKD VII,I.A(iK.I 
 
to the *l)lu< 
 
 SI 
 
 ...., ., tlirew Kerself dovni 
 
 on as though she could 
 
 ne^ V , dried her own eyes, 
 
 id carry off Vai 
 
 oaU bl 
 
82 THE CAREWES. 
 
 from a trenclier that little Alice carried. As Edith 
 looked, the faces seemed all familiar to her. There were 
 Christopher Knight and old Dame Dunkly, and little 
 Amy Rudd, and Eobert Hazeldine and his wife ; she 
 knew them all. They all belonged to the village of the 
 chase. 
 
 "WTiat was the matter ? Edith fomid it out but too soon, 
 by the words she heard her father say to them. He told 
 them that he had sent to London to beg for time. That he 
 would redeem the village by paying the fine the Forest Court 
 laid on, if it were possible for him to do it. That he had a 
 promise from the sheriif, " that till his answer came from 
 London no man should enter their cottages, if they behaved 
 quietly and made no quarrels or disturbances." Then her 
 mother spoke kind words to them and comforted them, and 
 bade them be of good cheer, for their lord would save the 
 village, if money would do it. 
 
 So now Edith understood that the whole of the chase, 
 even to the village, had been seized for the king. 
 
 There was no time for indulging in sorrow. The people, 
 frightened and disturbed out of their usual labours, had not 
 provided firing and food for the evening, and needed help. 
 The farmer, oppressed with so many men quartered on him, 
 was complaining bitterly. Lady Carewe set herself to the 
 task of smoothing away all these troubles with the energy 
 she always put into every good work. Food, and all that 
 was needed, was sent down to the village ; Goodwife Rudd 
 at the farm found her larder filled with abundance in an 
 hour's time ; Woodruife was specially charged with the task 
 of seeing that all was properly distributed, and ordered to 
 
 I 
 
A MYSTERY. 83 
 
 remain on the watch through the night to guard against any 
 mischief. 
 
 Distant thunder was heard while these preparations were 
 made, and the poor people who had flocked up to the Hall in 
 their panic, had scarcely got into the shelter of their cottages 
 when heavy rain came on. The storm increased as night 
 closed in, and the lightning flashed thi'ough the darkness ; hut 
 Sir Arthur resolved to go to the gates of the chase and pass 
 the night at the forester's himself, in order to see that the 
 agreement made as to the cottages was faithfully kept. He 
 could thus he on the spot in a few minutes, if any alarm 
 occurred, so hy ten o'clock he had settled himself in 
 Thomas Boult's parlour, ^vith two of the servants; and 
 the poor people of the village, when they heard he was 
 there, slept in peace, feeling sure they were safe under his 
 protection. 
 
 It was nearly midnight before Lady Carewe felt that all 
 was done, and that she might retire to rest. She went to 
 her own room and looked out into the moonlight, with the 
 most melancholy forebodings for the future, and most melan- 
 choly thoughts of the present, in which Henry's conduct 
 gave her more pain than aught else. The storm had ceased, 
 and a perfect calm had succeeded. There was a strange 
 silence after the turmoil. It was interrupted by a Vm' tap 
 at her door. Having believed that every one was at rest, it 
 startled her. She opened the door herself, and saw Mr. 
 Russell "vsdth a lamp in his hand. 
 
 " I grieve, my honoured lady," he began, " knowing how 
 many duties have pressed on you, and how great your 
 fatigue must be, I deeply grieve to disturb your needful rest ; 
 
84 THE CAREWES. 
 
 but something so strange and unaccountable has occurred, 
 that I cannot but acquaint you with it." 
 
 " Oh, does some new misfortune, then, hang over us ?" 
 
 ** I trust it will not turn out so," said he; "but what to 
 think, I know not. Henry has disappeared." 
 
 "Disappeared!" 
 
 " I went to his room, my lady, about ten o'clock — to give 
 him a message — a kind message it was, from Mistress Edith, 
 and to see after his bed for the night ; both should have been 
 done sooner, but for the pressing need of my aid A^ith the 
 poor people of the village ; but he was gone ; the room was 
 empty." 
 
 " His escape looks ill for him. It is rebellious, and looks 
 like guilt. Oh, my boy, I could not have believed this of thee." 
 
 " My lady, he could not escape." 
 
 " How I what mean you, then ?" 
 
 " I mean that his disappearance is an entire mystery to 
 me. He could not possibly get out of that room." 
 
 " You speak riddles. When had you seen liim last ?" 
 
 " I visited him soon after Sir Arthur had given me per- 
 mission to do so. He immediately questioned me as to his 
 brother, and on my telling him what had passed, and how 
 Master Yalentine replied to the (questions put to him, he 
 buried his face in his hands, and never spoke again. 
 To all my words, which were sometimes severe, but were 
 often indeed kind, he repHed nothing ; only when I told hi^^l 
 of the fatal consequences of the act of disobedience, he startea 
 up, and looked at me with such a face of sorrow as deeply 
 affected me, and which, as I remember it noAv, affects me ; 
 then fell into his gloomy silence again." 
 
 I 
 
A MYSTERY. 85 
 
 Lady Carewe remainod for a few minutes lost in thought, 
 then asked to be conducted to the room where he had been. 
 She followed Mr. E-ussell with trembKng steps along the 
 corridor, and through long passages, to the old part of the 
 house, then up the stairs, and Mr. Russell having unlocked 
 the door of the room, she entered '\^-ith him. 
 
 " This," said he, " is the room. Here he was, but here 
 he is no longer." 
 
 The room was of no great size ; wainscotted throughout ; 
 and containing no furniture but a small bedstead, a wooden 
 stool, a round table, and a box, which, on opening it, was 
 found to hold a few old books. Lady Carewe, scarcely able to 
 stand from fatigue and agitation, leaned against the bedstead. 
 
 ** You see, my lady," said Mr. Russell, " that he could 
 not escape from this room, even if he Avished it, which I 
 believe to be a thing he never would have done. The door 
 was locked and bolted outside ; the mndow is at a great 
 height from the ground, and besides secured with thick iron 
 bars. There is no second door, no tapestry to hide an outlet. 
 I have wearied myself A^dth vain attempts to find any sliding 
 panel or other mode of getting out. There is no explanation 
 Ijut to suppose that some one has a second key, and has let 
 him out, but that is unlikely in the extreme. The key, as 
 you see, is a very peculiar one, and has always been in Sir 
 Arthur's possession." 
 
 " This is most strange. My boy, my Henry, where art 
 thou?" 
 
 '* You are exhausted, my honoured lady. Suffer me to 
 light you to your room. I will return and pass the night 
 here. We can do no more." 
 
86 THE CAREWES. 
 
 " No more but trust in Him who orders all, mnd submit 
 to His will/' 
 
 Lady Carewe moved silently away, following Mr. Rus- 
 sell as he lighted her through the labyrinth of passages to the 
 corridor ; then they parted, and he returned to the mysterious 
 room. 
 
MORE MYSTERIES. 87 
 
 CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 MORE MYSTERIES. 
 
 Mr. Eussell was right in telling Edith that he had left 
 Henry in a painful and gloomy state in the morning, 
 and indeed Mr. Russell knew not the extent of the pain. 
 It was Valentine's baseness that ranlded in Henry's heart. 
 When he found himself alone again, he pushed aAvay the 
 table on which he had been leaning, got up from his seat, 
 and began to roam about the room wildly, and struggling 
 ^dth passions that almost mastered him. " Was it possible 
 that Valentine could be so mean, and cowardly, and false as 
 this ? Was it possible that he would persist in such a course ? 
 No, it should not be submitted to ! He would insist on 
 being confronted, face to face, with Valentine, and force him 
 to tell the truth." 
 
 " But then, even then, when the truth was told, what a 
 ^Tctched state they were all in ! His father half-ruined, 
 Valentine disgraced, everybody made miserable." Again 
 Henry's passion rose against Valentine and his two worthless 
 companions, who had caused all these misfortunes, and he 
 scarcely knew how to endure his own powerless condition 
 when he remembered their violence and insolence. 
 
m THE CARE WES. 
 
 A kind of reckless hardened feeling succeeded to all tliis, 
 and lie began to look about him at the room he was in, and 
 examine what was in it. " If they choose to shut me up 
 here," said he to himself, " and leave me all alone in this 
 cold, proud way, let them ! I don't care how long I stay 
 here. I can do very well by myself. Let them pet and 
 indulge their favourite Valentine, and be all very happy and 
 comfortable with one another. Just as they please ! No, 
 I shall not bear it. Why should I have to suffer all this 
 for a coward like Valentine ?" 
 
 He tried to eat what Mr. Russell had brought, to prove 
 to himself how very easy and unconcerned he was ; but it 
 would not do. The food seemed to choke liim. It wou^d not 
 go down his throat; so he drank the water to the la^^t drop, 
 and then began to roam about the room again. 
 
 There was a box in the corner. This he opened, and 
 found in it some old books. He knelt do\\Ti and began 
 examining them. One was an illuminated manuscript, con- 
 taining legends of the Carewe family. After reading a few 
 words, he became interested, and sat down at the table again 
 and read the 
 
 1 
 
 VERY QUAINT AND CURIOUS HISTORIE OF TETER CAREWE, 
 
 Peter Carewe (as tlie legend told in strange old speUing, 
 which is here altered,) was the youngest son of Sii* WiUiam 
 Carewe of Mahones Otrey, in the county of Devon, and was 
 bora in the year of grace 1526. He was ever a boy of high 
 courage and stubborn ^vill, and to bring him into order, his 
 worshipful father resolved to send him to Exeter, there to 
 attend the grammar school of the city. 
 
MORE MYSTERIES. 6 
 
 For this purpose, Sir William Carewe sent a messenger to 
 Thomas Hunte, draper and alderman of Exeter, who made 
 knoAvn these his wishes and commands. That Master Hunte 
 shoidd receive the young Master Peter CarcAve into his 
 household to live in it, and must keep a close eye on him, that 
 he went straight to school and played with no rude com- 
 panions. If he be truant, flog him. This was what Sir 
 "William said by the messenger. 
 
 Then said Master Thomas Hunte, "Wife, this is a heavy 
 charge. The hoy, I am given to know, is pert and forward. 
 He is the youngest son, and his father looketh to his learn- 
 ing to bring him some advancement. Sir William is a hard 
 man." 
 
 Then said his wife in reply, ^' We must needs do Sir 
 William's bidding. We cannot gainsay it." 
 
 And the next morning came the boy on horseback, with 
 a single servant to attend him. " Here's sorry cheer, me- 
 thinks!" said Master Peter, as he looked at the mean 
 wooden building. ^'Xothing within but store of woollen 
 stuffs." 
 
 Xatheless, ^Master Peter must enter in. He went 
 straight to school as ordered ; but what then ? He sits dog- 
 gedly with book open before him. Syntaxis he will have 
 none of. Every day he is flogged, for the master, whose 
 name is Freer, is cruel ; but 'tis all one to Peter. At Master 
 Hunte's 'tis the same. He neglects noon-tide meals, and is 
 off to pleasant fields, book of ballads in hand, in lieu of 
 Latin, and reads actes and feats of chivalry, and deeds of 
 knights and pnncesses. Is daily truant ; but one whole day 
 he never comes home. 
 
90 THE CARE WES. 
 
 Then was Master Hunte alarmed, and going in search, of 
 him, finds him hiding behind a buttress of the city wall. 
 " Oh, varlet, have I caught thee ?" cries Master Hunte, 
 
 " Not yet," says Master Peter, and he climbs to top of 
 the highest turret, and then he cries — 
 
 " Let me be ! keep down ! If you press upon me, I will 
 surely cast myseK headlong do^\Ti over the wall, and then 
 shalt thou be hanged." 
 
 So Master Hunte wrote to Sir William Carewe. Then 
 came Sir William riding to Exeter, 'with servants behind 
 him, and Peter stands trembling before him. 
 
 Then crieth Sir William, *' Bring the chain and the 
 collar !" and they put the collar about his neck, and lead liim 
 by the chain through the streets ; and he is taken home to 
 Mahones Otrey, and coupled to a hound and lodged in a 
 filthy kennel. In vain his mother kneels for pity. 
 
 But Sir William takes thought at last, and carries ofi" his 
 son to London, and places him at St. Paul's school. 'Tis all 
 one. The schoolmaster can in nomse, whether by daily 
 flogging or what it may be, get the young Peter to smell to 
 a book, or to like of any schooling. 
 
 Then Sir William came again to London, and he walked 
 musing as he went in Paul's- walk, and there he met a friend 
 who was going to the French court, and told him his 
 trouble ; so this friend took Peter for his page. 
 
 Now was young Peter mightily pleased that he had doui 
 with syntaxis, and he was dressed in gay clothes, and fared 
 well, and partook of courtly exercises ; but what then ? He had 
 duties to perform ; must keep to hours, must observe rules. 
 He was ill at ease. He kept no time, he got into disgi'ace, 
 
 I 
 I 
 
 in 
 
THE WORTHY KNIGHT, JOHN CARKWK. 
 
01 
 
 ik to tlic siiHe, and ^crnTTic a n^ulct, vnih charge of 
 
 
 lerr}' liii 
 
 8, OareA\' 
 
 tood. 
 
 1 r. fi' 
 
 the knight, and got into favour at 
 
 " ''' ' ' ud he did 
 
 he cra^'cd 
 
 ■t 
 iission to do therii ilien th- 
 
 ly Mhi 
 
IHk WORT!' 
 
MORE MYSTERIES. 91 
 
 and sank to the stable, and became a mulet, with charge of 
 the mules. 
 
 Now was Peter pleased with his liberty. His clothes 
 were worn, but what then ? He loved roystering, dancing, 
 and virelays, and led a riotous, merry life. 
 
 But now Peter grows older, and he reads Froissart and 
 Comines, and says to himself, '* I am but a poor mulet !'* and 
 he drooped and was sad. 
 
 Then came the worthy knight John Carewc, from Henry 
 the Eighth to Francis the First, and he drew up his steed at 
 the gates of the monastery hard by, and the monks came out 
 to do him reverence ; and his steed was weary with long travel, 
 and they besought him to enter in and rest. Then cried the 
 horse boys, as they played about, " Carewe Anglays, Carewe 
 Anglays, come see the knight Avith lance and plume !" 
 Then said the knight, " Which is Carewe Anglays ?'* and 
 they showed him Peter all in rags as he stood. 
 
 And the knight looked at Peter, and said, " Thou injured 
 boy, I am thy father's brother I Thou shalt be to me as a son." 
 
 So Peter went with the knight, and got into favour at 
 the French court, and at the Emperor's court, and he did 
 deeds of valour at the battle of Pavia, and then he craved 
 permission to go on a journey. 
 
 Sir William and Lady Carewe were seated in their hall, 
 and a goodly company with them, when an armed knight 
 craved permission to do them reverence. Then there stepped 
 into their presence a tall young man of noble countenance 
 in complete armour, and he doffed his plumed helmet and 
 threw himseK at their feet, and said, " My father, my 
 mother ! I am your son Peter Carewe." 
 
92 TPIE CAREWES. 
 
 Ileiiry flung the book on the table \N'hcn he had done. 
 " It would suit Yalentine more than me," he thought. " I 
 am the poor mulet, and he \^dll be the young knight of noble 
 countenance that will kneel before father and mother and be 
 forgiven." 
 
 His head had begun to ache, and the stifling heat of the ^ 
 coming storm affected him. He clambered up to the window ^ 
 and tried to open it, but it would not open, and his head 
 ached more and more. To forget it he took up his book 
 again, and now he read of noble deeds and acts of chivalry 
 and self-devotion for honour's sake among his ancestors, and 
 then he despised himself for having ever entertained such a ^_j 
 thought as betraying his brother. He would die sooner ! aH 
 Carewe should be ready to die rather than break his Avord. 
 
 The thunder began, the rain beat against the Tvdndow, 
 and it grew darker and darker. The storm increased. The 
 lighting flashed through the window, A\'liich had neither 
 curtain nor shutter, the thunder rolled overhead, and seemed 
 to shake the tower. There was something in the storm that 
 spoke to Henry's heart as he sat there alone. It was great 
 and solemn. He became humbled before it, and suddenly 
 found out that his proud, rebelHous mood was very poor and 
 pitiful. 
 
 But he felt more and more ill ; and a craving for his 
 mother, such as he never felt before, took possession of him. 
 Mr. Russell had left him writing materials, and with the last 
 glimmering light of day, aided by the lightning which ncnv 
 scarcely ever ceased, he wrote the few following words : — 
 ** My dear and honoured master, Mr. Russell. I am very ill. 
 My heads aches very badly. I am afraid I shall lose my 
 
MORE MYSTERIES. 9S 
 
 senses before you come again. Oh ask my mother to come ! 
 Ask my mother to come to me ! Henry." 
 
 Ilaving finished this note, he staggered to the bedstead, 
 and lay down mth his eyes wide open staring at the lightning. 
 At last the storm ceased. It became perfectly dark, inky 
 dark, and as still and quiet as death. Not the smallest sound 
 broke the silence. The strange calm made no change on 
 Henry, except that he had taken his eyes away from the 
 window, and fixed them on the opposite wall, Avhere in his 
 confused, half delirious state, it seemed to him the Hghtning 
 had left a spark that still shone and returned his look. 
 
 ^Yhat was that Hght that shone out of the dark wall ? 
 Nay, as he looked he now saw there were two lights, bright, 
 racing out into the darkness of his room. He tried to think ; 
 tried to collect his senses and think. There was no opening 
 in that wall. He had seen before it grew dark that it was a 
 long wall of oak wainscot. And there was no room behind 
 this that he was in. He knew this room was at the top of 
 the old tower, and filled its whole space. 
 
 ^^^lat could those lights be ? As he stared at them they 
 no longer seemed lights, but two dreadful eyes. Yes, they 
 were eyes glaring and flashing upon him. Some horrible 
 creature was there. 
 
 He tned to recollect everything Mr. Russell had said to 
 him about the folly and even crime of believing in spectres, 
 witches, and the terrors that ahnost all the people about 
 believed in. He tried to remember that everpvhere we are 
 in the presence, under the hand, of an almighty, all-good 
 Father, who wills not that His children should be the sport 
 of malignant spirits. Those were Mr. Russell^s teachings. 
 
04 THE CAREWES. 
 
 But in spite of all he could do, dreadful images came crowd- 
 ing into liis mind, and stories he had heard from nurse and 
 from Woodruffe, who firmly heHeved in ^^dtchcraft, rose up 
 one after another to his memory. Still, the effort he had 
 made was not lost upon him. It gave him courage, and he 
 was naturally brave, so he started up and walked fast towards 
 those eyes, with a desperate resolution to find out what they 
 were, and to end this state of horror which was worse than 
 any certainty. 
 
 He knocked himself violently against the wall before he 
 was aware, and the eyes vanished. He retreated a step and 
 saw no longer the eyes, but two very small specks of bright 
 light. 
 
 "Were they glow-worms or some other luminous insect ? 
 He put his hands against the wall and could feel nothing, . 
 and yet he had covered up the lights. He removed his hands, 
 and saw the lights again. 
 
 His headache had gone in his excitement, and now tliat 
 his panic fear had vanished, he could think clearly. These 
 lights must proceed from little holes in the wall, and there 
 must be some hollow place behind it, though how it could 
 be light there, it was impossible to conceive. 
 
 He took out his knife, and began to try to push it into 
 one of the holes, but the knife was much too large to go in. 
 Then he took out a small sharp-pointed tool that he used in 
 carpentering and building little ships and boats, and found 
 that he could push that in. He had a second of these tools. 
 That also he took out and pushed into the other hole, and 
 then began to work them up and down, screw them round, 
 and dnve them farther in. 
 
MORE MYSTERIES, 9$ 
 
 Suddenly, as he was thus employed, lie felt the floor give 
 way under liis feet ; he broke through a wooden box or some 
 structure that was too thin to bear his weight, and fell down 
 a great depth ; a whirring noise in his ears ; flapping and 
 beating of cold damp things, like bats' wings about his face ; 
 thumping and banging against projecting points to which he 
 clung to save himself; still falling down, down, till at last 
 he came ^s^th force to the ground, and found himself in daz- 
 zling light, and saw a man dressed in black who was pointing 
 a large pistol at him, and who cried out in a thundering 
 voice, '' Stop ! whoever thou art. One movement towards 
 me, and thou art a dead man ! " 
 
 Henry lay gasping on the ground, half buried among 
 those damp cold things that had fallen with him, and so 
 bruised and shattered by his fall that he was quite unable to 
 move, even if this fearful threat had not kept him as still as 
 a stone. He lay there with his eyes fixed on the apparition 
 before him, neither moving hand nor foot, and so dazzled by 
 the light, and so giddy from his rapid descent, that this 
 apparition seemed to wheel and quiver before his eyes, with- 
 out his being able to see distinctly what it was like. He 
 saw, however, to his comfort, that it lowered the pistol in half 
 a minute, and then it spoke again, in quite a different voice. 
 
 " Eh ! what ! how ! In the name of mercy ! Poor 
 boy ! Thou art hurt surely ! How earnest thou here ? Is 
 it possible ? Surely thou art little Henry Carewe ! " 
 
 " And surely, sir," said Henry, greatly relieved, " you 
 are Dr. Osbaldeston ? I saw you at Westminster school 
 when Valentine was there. " 
 
 " Have a care ! have a care ! art sure no one came 
 
96 THE CAREAVES. 
 
 behind thee ? Hush ! say not my name again. Let me help 
 thee up. Why, what are all these papers and musty parch- 
 ments that fell with thee ? But no matter. Poor boy, thou 
 art greatly hurt. ^Vhy didst come ? " 
 
 " Oh, sir,*' said poor Henry, " I meant not to come. I 
 know not how I came or why ; but I am hurt in my arm 
 very much, and cannot move.*' 
 
 Dr. Osbaldeston, for he indeed it was, spake not another 
 word, but lifted Henry tenderly off the ground, taking the 
 utmost care so as to give him as little pain as possible, and 
 carried him to a couch which stood in the corner of what 
 Henry now perceived to be a comfortable small room, with a 
 bright foe of logs in a wide chimney, a lamp on the table, 
 and some books and papers by it. He would have wondered 
 very much at ever5H:hing, but he had no time. The pain he 
 suffered as he was moved, added to all he had endured before, 
 made him turn suddenly sick and giddy, and he fainted dead 
 away. 
 
 The first feeling he had after this, was a cool harid laid 
 on his forehead, and another hand holding one of his and 
 gently pressing it. He had no pain, and it seemed so calm 
 and pleasant to lie so, that he did not open his eyes, but re- 
 mained in a sort of doze. Thoughts and recollections then 
 began to press upon him : His father's anger, Valentine's 
 baseness, these came first, and he sighed deeply and opened 
 his eyes. 
 
 " My dear boy ! Henry ! you know me ? " 
 
 It was Mr. Russell's voice, and now Mr. Russell's face 
 was there, looking earnestly and very kindly at him. All 
 that about dreadful eyes, a heavy fall from a great height, a 
 
MORE MYSTERIES. 91 
 
 man vdth a pistol, and Dr. Osbaldeston, was nothing but a 
 dream, then ! 
 
 Ilem-y tried to move and look round, and instantly sharp 
 pains that made him moan, they were so bad, came on. 
 
 " Keep quite still, my boy ! " said Mr. Eussell. " Thou 
 art badly hurt, but all will be right soon, ii' thou keep still.'' 
 
 Mr. Russell moved to arrange something better for him, 
 and then Ilenry saw what had been hidden before by his 
 kind fi'iend's bending over him, the little room, the bright 
 fii-e, the lamp on the table, and Dr. Osbaldeston sitting at it 
 turning over numbers of papers. It was not a dream, then. 
 
 " Jubilate ! lo triumphe ! " cried the doctor, and he 
 held a parchment up in one hand, and beat it with the 
 other. 
 
 " My good friend ! Doctor ! What is there to rejoice at ? '* 
 
 "The charter! our excellent Sir Arthur's charter. 
 Plere it is ! Ilenricus E " 
 
 " Is it possible ! " cried Mr. Eussell rushing to the table. 
 " Keep still, Henry ! It is ! it can be no other. This is won- 
 derftd ! This is most fortunate ! The trap through which 
 Henry fell, was then the secret place in which his grandfather, 
 Sir John Carewe, had hidden it, and which his sudden death 
 prevented his revealing ! To have found it at this moment 
 is a thing we can never be too grateful for." 
 
 "My good young friend," said Dr. Osbaldeston addi'ess- 
 ing Henry, " if thou bruised thyself from head to foot, broke 
 thy skin in various places, gave thyself a dangerous con- 
 tusion on the head, and nearly frightened me to death, last 
 night, it has been well worth while. Thou hast saved thy 
 father's chase." 
 
98 THE CAREWES. 
 
 Henry was too weak and shattered to bear tliis joyful 
 news. He became deadly pale again and closed his eyes. 
 Mr Russell was by him in a moment bathing his forehead, 
 soothing him, gi"s^ng him some refreshing drink ; and he soon 
 opened his eyes again, and saw the doctor's face close to his, 
 staring A^ildly and^^\ith -sWde-open mouth and so dismal an 
 expression, that though it was very ungrateful of him, he 
 could not help laughing. 
 
 " That is well ! that is right ! Now we shall do ! " said 
 the doctor. " You must take this to Sir Arthur immediately, 
 Russell!'' 
 
 "What is the hour?" 
 
 "Five in the morning. We have been up all night. 
 When you have safely gone, I shall be glad to sleep. I grow 
 tired, and our good young fi-iend must sleep also again." 
 
 " I msli we could discover the egress into the room above 
 by which Henry fell. I fear going out, now that it must be 
 quite light, by our usual way, lest some one should see me. 
 Give me the lamp." 
 
 Mr. Russell took the lamp, and standing on a stool, began 
 to examine the roof of the room, continuing his search for 
 some time. 
 
 " This trap is so admirably contrived," said he, " and the 
 spring that works it must be so excellent, that I search in 
 vain. After opening as it did last night eveiything has 
 closed again as tightly as before. No ! I think I have dis» 
 covered it.'^ 
 
 He pressed on a board where two square openings had at 
 last struck his eyes, and a trap-door instantly opened down- 
 wards, disclosing a >\'inding spiral staircase made of iron. 
 
MORE MYSTERIES. 99 
 
 " Look up, doctor ! " said he. ** No wonder he was hurt ! " 
 
 They held the lamp and looked up. The stairs wound 
 round like a screw, and ended close to a trap-door above. 
 
 " Let me light my lamp, and ascend," said Mr. Russell. 
 "I may find the opening above. Tell me, Henry, how 
 didst thou find it ? " 
 
 Henry told him about the light he had seen, and how 
 he had pushed the tools into two small holes, and that in- 
 stantly it seemed to him as if the world was coming to an 
 end and everything falling in ruins over his head. Mr. 
 Russell then cautiously ascended, the doctor watching him 
 anxiously. 
 
 " What art doing, Russell ? " he said presently, in a low 
 whisper. " Why dost thou come back ? " 
 
 *' I hear some one in the chamber above. We may be 
 discovered if I open the trap. I see how to do it." 
 
 The doctor turned as pale as death. " We are already 
 discovered perchance ! Let me descend into the dungeon. 
 I may yet escape and hide in the woods." 
 
 " I cannot think that any one is there but Lady Care we, 
 or it may be Sir Arthur himself ; yet we must be cautious. 
 I will ascend again very softly and listen." 
 
 Henry beckoned to Mr. Russell to come to him. 
 
 "If it be indeed my father and mother," he whispered, 
 " pray of them to think the best of me they can. You trust 
 me, Mr. RiLssell?" 
 
 *' I do trust thee ; and I had a message to thee from 
 thy sister. Mistress Edith, who suffers bitter grief on thy 
 account. 'Tell my dear Henry,' she said, 'that Edith 
 trusts him.' " 
 
16© THE CAREWES. 
 
 Hemy's tears were rolling over his checks. Mr. 
 Russell wiped them away for him, kissed his forehead, 
 said, " Bless thee, my dear boy ! All will be well with us 
 soon," and again went to the stairs, where the doctor was 
 growing impatient, and e^ddently in a state of nervous 
 agitation. 
 
henry's generosity. 101 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 When Mr. Russell, creeping up the stairs as silently as pos- 
 sible, and without his shoes, reached the top, his head touched 
 the floor above. The stairs were constructed in a round shaft 
 of very narrow diameter, and the floor he touched with the top 
 of his head contained an iron bolt, no doubt communicating 
 by a spring mth the holes above. If he withdrew it, he 
 doubted not the floor would open. There were the remains 
 of a small japanned cabinet adhering to it, which had proba- 
 bly contained the papers and the charter, and which Henry 
 had broked to pieces in his fall. He listened, and distinctly 
 heard Sir Arthur speaking in a low tone ; and the voice 
 that repHed was that of Lady Carewe. He hesitated not, 
 therefore, to tap gently on the floor above. 
 
 "Whoever thou art," replied Sir Arthur instantly, 
 ** fear not to speak. There is no one in this room but Sir 
 Arthur Carewe and his wife, and the door is locked. No 
 harm shall happen to thee, on the honour of a gentleman." 
 
 " Sir Arthur !" replied Mr. Russell, " it is I — your chap- 
 lain ; remove to a considerable distance, even as far as the 
 window, for the greater safety. I vnW then endeavour to 
 open a communication between us. All is safe, doctor !" 
 
102 THE CAREWES. 
 
 " We are botli now standing by the window/* said Sir 
 Arthur's voice. 
 
 Mr. Russell touched the bolt. The effect was startling 
 even to him, prepared as he was. The floor parted above 
 his head with the same whirring sound as had happened 
 when Henry fell through it, and ha\ing remained open about 
 half a minute, closed again. 
 
 " Remain where you are. Sir Arthur," cried Mr. Russell ; 
 *' I see that I must fasten the bolt back after touching it." 
 
 " We remain where we were," replied Sir Arthur 
 immediately. 
 
 Mr. Russell now touched the bolt again. Again the 
 floor opened, and he quickly clasped the ii'on work into a 
 groove made to receive it. The hole above now continued 
 open, and he raised himself with some difficulty sufficiently 
 high to see into the room. The morning sun was shining 
 through the bars of the window. Sir Arthur stood a little 
 in advance of Lady Carewe, who, ghastly pale, leaned against 
 the wall. 
 
 *'Io triumphe !" shouted a voice, sounding hollow, from 
 the depths below. 
 
 Lady Carewe started and trembled visibly, but her 
 quivering lips were able to articulate the word ** Henry!" 
 
 " Safe ! I have left liim but this moment," replied 
 Mr. Russell, who was now in the room. 
 
 She pressed her hands on her heart and looked up, her 
 pale face lighted with joy and gratitude. 
 
 "Now may Heaven be praised !" said Sir Arthur reve- 
 rently. "Wliat owe we not to thee, my friend? Pray, 
 sit do\Mi, my dear wife. Thou art totally overcome." 
 
103 
 
 " Sir Arthur," said Mr. Eussell, *' I liave yet more to 
 tell you. Look upon this parcliinont." 
 
 Sir Arthur took in his hand the parchment which Mr. Eus- 
 seU held out to him, and looked up absolutely speechless vdth. 
 amazement. Lady Carewe had seen it before he was able 
 to command his voice. The lost charter! It seemed as 
 though miracles had not indeed ceased. 
 
 " The accident which made Henry discover the secret 
 place where doubtless your father. Sir John Carewe, had 
 hidden it, shall be explained to you. It caused his fall do^vn 
 the stairs by which I ascended ; but though the fall was from 
 a great height, he is mercifully not seriously injured. No 
 bones are broken. He is, however, wounded and bruised 
 from head to foot, and requires extreme quiet to preserve 
 him from any increase of fever." 
 
 " Let us go to him instantly," said Lady Carewe, hurry- 
 ing to the opening ; but when she saw the steep stairs which 
 the light from below made visible, and thought of Henry's fall, 
 she nearly fainted, and would have sunlc on the floor had not 
 Sir Arthur supported her. 
 
 She quicldy recovered herself, however, but asked in a 
 bewildered tone, *'Tell me what dreadful voice I heard 
 from do-i^Ti there. Who is with Henry, if indeed I am to 
 find my boy there ?" 
 
 " Vale, vale, amicus mens !" cried the doctor. 
 
 Lady Carewe with difficulty suppressed a shriek. 
 
 " No wonder thou art alarmed, my ^dfe ; thou who know- 
 est not our secret. It is but our good friend Dr. Osbaldeston 
 who speaks to us. He hath been concealed for a week in 
 the safe room thou knowest of, between which and this, a 
 
 H 
 
104 THE CAREWES. 
 
 communication, totally unknown to mc before, exists, as thou 
 seest, and with him thy boy is safe." 
 
 " Dr. Osbaldeston, the master of Westminster school, 
 concealed ! For what reason ?" 
 
 " He hath drawn on himself the vengeance of Archbishop 
 Laud, for some indiscreet expressions used in a letter, and 
 wliich have been betrayed by a servant. Being sentenced, 
 besides a fine, to branding and the pillory, he fled, and 
 happily reached this house, where but for adding to thy 
 already too great load of care, we would have told thee he 
 was received and sheltered. Mr. Russell alone knew of it 
 besides myself. He hath nightly \isited him with food and 
 other necessaries, and thus doubtless he found Henry." 
 
 " It was just so,'* repKed Mr. Russell ; " I waited here 
 in vain for an hour before I went forth to malvo my way into 
 the secret chamber, intending to return. All I had found 
 was a note lying on the table, which I overlooked before." 
 
 "Ah, yes! It almost broke my heart," said Lady 
 Carewe. 
 
 " He sent a message to his father and mother even 
 now," said Mr. Russell. It was, " ' Pray of them to tliink the 
 best of me they can.' " 
 
 " We do indeed ! We have reason to believe some 
 fatal falseness is at the root of all this. I have heard of 
 things from Woodruffe this night during my watch that 
 have much shaken me, though as yet I know nothing. 
 Lead the way, Mr. Russell, and prepare Henry to see us." 
 
 A slow and careful descent into the strange room below. 
 Sir Arthur guiding and supporting Lady Carewe the A\'hole 
 way, brought them into the presence of the triumphant 
 
 I 
 
105 
 
 doctor, full of congratulations about the charter mixed Tv^th 
 
 the deepest reverences to her ladyship, and lamentations that 
 
 so lovely a lady should have to make a descent into so dark 
 
 a place, ^vith something about Eurydice, in which he stopped 
 
 suddenly, as if he could scarcely compare himself to Orpheus. 
 
 They had been so full of thoughts about Henry, that 
 
 in truth they had almost forgotten the charter. But now 
 
 Sir Arthur began to feel the greatness of his good fortune 
 
 in ha^-iug recovered it. Lady Carewe was already by Henry. 
 
 *' Thy mother is come, my dear, dear boy V she said, 
 
 folding him in her arms so gently and carefully that even his 
 
 poor wounded frame was not hurt by it. " She will not leave 
 
 thee ; thou slialt have her care and love by thee, day and 
 
 night ; but do not speak, keep very quiet, that thou mayst get 
 
 well, to be a blessing to thy father and to me." 
 
 Sii' Arthur was there now, blessing him, telling him to 
 think no more of yesterday's sorrows, for though as yet he 
 knew nothing, lie believed and trusted the truth would be 
 cleared up soon. 
 
 Henry could not utter a word for a good while. He only 
 pressed the hands that were clasped in his, and looked at the 
 two faces that beamed so lo^dngly at him, and felt ver}^ happy. 
 But a ti'ouble came into his heart soon. 
 
 " My father," he said, " can you indeed trust me ?" 
 It was impossible to mistrust that open, sincere face. 
 Sir Arthur assured Henry he did trust him, though nothing 
 had been explained. 
 
 "Then, my father, if you would grant me this one 
 request I should be so grateful, oh, so grateful to you ! Do 
 not try to have anything explained. Leave it all as it is. 
 
106 THE CAREWES. 
 
 It is done, and cannot be undone. Will you, indeed, not ask 
 
 more questions of any one, and only think the best you can 
 
 of me r 
 
 In bis earnestness Henry's face bad become flushed, and 
 
 his eyes wild and bright. Mr. Eussell laid his hand on Sir 
 
 Arthur's arm, and said, *^ Promise him ! "We risk his life 
 
 by this excitement." 
 
 *' I promise Avhat thou askest, and will faithfully keep 
 
 my promise, my boy," said Sir Arthur. 
 
 Henry closed his eyes and smiled. His mother laid her 
 
 hand on his forehead and put her finger on her lips. They 
 
 were all perfectly quiet for some minutes, and then his 
 
 regular breathing showed that he was asleep. 
 
 Mr. Eussell now motioned to Sir Arthur and the doctor 
 to ascend the stairs \\dth him, leaving Lady Care we in entire 
 
 •quiet by Henry. It was then settled among them that Sir 
 Arthur must instantly take horse for London, carrying the 
 precious charter with him, and lay his claim to have the 
 chase restored to him before the Forest Court. Dr. Osbaldcs- 
 ton might make the agreeable change from the room below 
 to the more airy one he was now in, and might imme- 
 diately lie down on the bed that had been prepared for 
 Henry, and take the needful sleep he had not yet been able 
 to enjoy. Mr. Husscll must, in the best way he could, ex- 
 plain to Edith, in the first place, that Henry was ill and 
 nursed by her mother, and kept apart from every one else 
 as yet, though her fixther would have patience and ques- 
 tion no more now about the act of disobedience he had 
 committed, and might also tell her the joyful news of the 
 recovered charter. She was to be charged to acquaint Va- 
 
leutine with all she knew ; but neither to her nor to Yalcn- 
 tine must the secret of the room nor the presence of Dr. 
 Osbaldeston be revealed. With Edith these matters would 
 have been safe ; but the fewer who knew of them, the better. 
 To her was to be intrusted the care of the children, and 
 ordering of the household, which, with the assistance of 
 nurse, of Freeman and Goodwifc Freeman, and Woodruffe, 
 would not be too difficult for her. Mr. Russell would bring 
 to Lady Carewe all that was needed for the patient. He 
 was a skilful physician and surgeon, ha\T.ng studied medicine 
 in his youth, and was accustomed to practise among the 
 poor. He had abeady bound up the wounds carefully. 
 
 " Thou must descend before thou doest aught else, my 
 young friend Russell ; thou must descend, and see that the 
 lovely lady below hath what such a place, grievously unfit 
 for her, though it was a palace of refuge for me, can afford 
 for her solace. See that a repast is spread for her. Remove, 
 I pray, those musty papers ; put on more logs ; it is ever 
 cbilly there, though a pleasant warmth pervades the chamber 
 we are in, where Sol sheds his kindly beams ; trim the lamp ; 
 and above all endeavour to arrange for some seat formed of 
 the cushion thou didst so kindly bring to me that she may 
 repose." This speech was made by the doctor as he settled 
 himself in bed, having taken off his ^vig, and put on, in its 
 place, a knitted night cap, which he always kept in his 
 pocket. " Descend and obey my words, my young friend and 
 pupil of former days, and rejoice with me that our worthy 
 host's charter and my ears are safe." 
 
 Mr. Russell accompanied Sir Arthur to the door of the 
 chamber, and carefuUy securing it on the outside, went 
 
108 THE CAREWES. 
 
 below with him, and before long had returned mth a repast 
 for the doctor himself, Avhich, though he had quite for- 
 gotten that he needed it, he really did need so much that he 
 was unable to fall asleep for want of it. 
 
 ** Ah, benedicite, my friend, as our kind archbishop of Can- 
 terbury might say, though haply he might fear thus to expose 
 his papist predilections ; I wanted this I I wanted this ! 
 But wait not tiU I finish. I can do very Avell. Go and 
 see to my lady, and all Sir Arthur spoke of. There is 
 much to do. Above all, be careful and risk no discoveries. 
 Till I be ' beyond Canterbury ' there is no safety for me. 
 Ha ! ha ! a merry jest that ! Eh ! my young Mend ? '* 
 
 And Mr. Russell, who was glad that the poor doctor could 
 in his precarious state be merry about anything, left him to 
 enjoy his repast, sitting up in bed in his nightcap. 
 
 The task of informing Edith of what had occurred, and 
 of what was expected of her, was very easy. She was too 
 full of thoughts of Henry and his illness to question about 
 aught else ; and only said that she was sure, since her father 
 would have patience, and not Avish to question more now, 
 that the truth would be discovered in time. The news of 
 the recovered charter made her veiy happy, but about it she 
 asked no questions, so no explanation was given to her. She 
 was trained to perfect obedience, and set about her duties 
 with cheerfulness. She had no difficult}^ in fulfilling them. 
 All the servants, from the highest to the lowest, would have 
 done anything in the world for sweet Mistress Edith, and her 
 little brother and sister were always good and happy with 
 her. The only person on whom her influence seemed quite 
 powerless was Valentine. He indeed expressed, as he fel 
 
 1 
 
henry's generosity. 109 
 
 tlie greatest joy at tlie recovery of the charter, and said he 
 was delighted that his father would have patience and not 
 question Henry now, though he blushed with shame as he 
 said so. But for the kind message his father had left for 
 him, with his blessing and farewell before starting for Lon- 
 don, he Avould have been seriously alarmed lest his forbear- 
 ance meant that sometliing against himself had been dis- 
 covered. A conflict of contradictory feelings was going on 
 within him. One moment he was wretched about Hemy, 
 whose illness he believed to be omng to the violence of 
 Morley and Wilmot in the chase, and the death of Lion, and 
 all the sufferings of that wretched day, aggravated by the 
 unjust suspicion and imprisonment in a lonely room to which 
 the poor boy had submitted for his sake. The next, he 
 was in a fit of excitement about the Queen ; impatience for 
 the message from Windsor she had hinted at ; dread lest a 
 discovery of the truth about that affair in the chase, should 
 so irritate his father as to put a complete bar to the ambitious 
 schemes he had in his head. 
 
 Unable to bear Edith's affectionate manner, and unable 
 either to look or to feel at ease with her, he kept aloof 
 therefore ; pretended he had studies for next term to attend 
 to in his own room, and afterwards rode out alone. He dreaded 
 also to meet Mr. Eussell, who, it was easy to see, suspected 
 the truth ; but Mr. Russell was much engaged with all his 
 cares for the inhabitants of the secret chambers, and. besides 
 carefully avoided any questionings, remembering the promise 
 made to Henry. 
 
 The day passed over in this manner, and the following 
 morning arose bringing little change, except that Henry was 
 
no THE CARE WES. 
 
 better, and Lady Carewe able to leave liim for a little 
 wbile to overlook her bouseliold and comfort Edith ^vitb tbe 
 hope of his speedy recovery. Yalcntine, as soon as he heard 
 that she A^'as in her o^vn apartment, avoided her by walking 
 aAvay through the bowHng-green, and wandering in the re- 
 mote parts of the park, so guilty and suspicious of every one 
 did he feel. In the afternoon of the next day, when Edith 
 again expected her mother might leave Henry, he rode away, 
 unconsciously taking the road towards ^Vindsor. 
 
 He was going on at a slow pace, thinking sadly of all 
 that had happened, and looking on the ground, when he was 
 roused by hearing a horse's feet close behind him coming up 
 at a brisk trot, and a voice cried, — 
 
 " This dull and gloomy mood scarcely befits a cavaHer so 
 lately honoured by the touch of the fairest and noblest hand 
 in England." 
 
 " My Lord of Holland ! " replied Yalentine, starting 
 from his reverie, " I have had much cause for sad thoughts 
 since that bright moment in my life." 
 
 ** Thy presumptuous ari'ogance in attacking his gracious 
 Majesty's servants, has met A^ith a rebuke, which, let us hope, 
 has given thee a salutary lesson, young sii'," rejoined Lord 
 Holland. 
 
 " I knew not — how could I know, my lord ? — that they 
 were servants of our king and master. Had I known it, I 
 would have respected them, hard as it might be to sec my 
 rights A-iolated." 
 
 '* Thy rights, as thou dost call them, are now restored 
 through the gracious clemency of oui- sovereign ; who is ever 
 but too ready to waive his prerogatives. The appeal made 
 
in 
 
 to liim is successful, and the Forest Court tas reversed its 
 decree." 
 
 " Our eternal gratitude Anil be due to our sovereign for 
 this favour," said Yalentine; forgetting it was simple justice. 
 
 " Alas ! Master Carewe ! gratitude to our sovereign 
 master is a rare virtue in England. Far readier are his 
 churlish subjects to deny liim his clear rights as their 
 divinely- appointed lord and king, and to carp and cavil at 
 liis decrees, haggling and bargaining over the petty subsidies 
 he demands, than to think of gratitude ! " 
 
 Valentine felt that this was aimed at his father, and kept 
 an embarrassed silence. 
 
 " See, now, these forests," continued his lordship, " en- 
 croached upon in every direction ; the ancient forest laws 
 nearly fallen into disuse, simply from fear of the mutinous 
 disposition of the common herd who now carry on their 
 squalid trades and mean occupations where once the game 
 roved free, and kings and nobles enjoyed the royal pleasures 
 of the chase. Yet because our king hath but resumed his 
 0T\Ti in a few instances, there is a clamour as of a thousand 
 jackdaws." 
 
 " In some cases, there have been rights to the lands granted 
 by charter of earlier kings," said Yalentine, trpng to rally. 
 
 " In very few; and even in these few, small matter were 
 it to }ield to him that which he asks. Such sports as these 
 compensate to him, in some degree, for the toils and cares of 
 government. "NYert ever in France ?" 
 
 " Never," said Yalentine. " I have great wish to travel, 
 and above all, to see France, the country of our beautiful 
 queen." 
 
112 THE CARE WES. 
 
 " Ah ! there thou wilt see what it is to be a king ! 
 There thou wilt see royal sport in good earnest ! Ah, the 
 grand hunts I have joined in there I the herds of deer, the 
 fierce boars, roaming in those vast forests ! 'Tis sport, 
 indeed, to pierce the grisly monster, his tusks foaming and 
 bloody, the dogs pinning him to the earth, while others that 
 he has disabled lie howling out their lives." 
 
 " We have, indeed, no sport to match it here." 
 
 " Yet it might be tried. I see not why a few of the 
 Westphalia breed might not be introduced ; but I well 
 believe the dastard cowardice of our English knaves Avoidd 
 never stand it. They would attack a wild boar, that might 
 seem to them to put the lives of their pitiful offspi-ing in 
 peril, with pitchforks and axes, spite of the law, do what we 
 might. Ma foi, if the canaille in France were so to pre- 
 sume, the nearest tree would be the word. Ah, the king of 
 France is a king indeed !" 
 
 *' Often have I longed to see the French court," said 
 Valentine. 
 
 " Thou shouldst see our o^\ti first. Then wouldst thou 
 be able to compare the two, and 5-' -^ how circumscnbed is the 
 power of our king, and how vain tl.c babblings of those men 
 who grudge him even that poor measure of power he hath ; 
 forgetting that what they presume to call their privileges 
 have arisen from his toleration, not from theii' right." 
 
 "The virtues of our king," said Yal ^ntine, blushing a 
 little at his own tacit agTeemcnt in this f;.. hionable doctrine 
 of the time, which Lord Holland himself entirely deserted 
 in a year or two, "will continually decrease the number 
 of those who oppose his royal \n411, which, because he is 
 
UOYAI. ULNTINO IX FRANCE. 
 
113 
 
 virtuous, must needs be exercised for the good of Lis 
 people." 
 
 " So may it prove ; and that thou wilt swell the ranks of 
 those true and loyal hearts, I am well assui'ed. I do indeed 
 believe thee to be made of the true metal. Thou art intended 
 to shine in a cornet ; to stand foremost among the foremost in 
 loyalty and honour. The ancient chivalry of England, ^vith 
 its devotion to our church and our king, yet lives. It hath 
 yet many a worthy representative. Among these thou ^^nlt 
 shine. It is thy destiny to redeem thy name and house from 
 the blemish which hath fallen on it." 
 
 "I do, indeed, long to serve my king," said Valentine. 
 " I have often burned to add my sword to those already drawoi 
 in the quarrel of his nephews." 
 
 " Why not first seek a place in his court ?" 
 
 " Above all things would it be my ambition ; but my 
 hopes have scarcely, tiU that bright moment you began by 
 rehearsing, mounted so high. Since that, indeed — " 
 
 " What wouldst say if I had pemiission from that queen 
 of love and beauty to whom thou then didst homage, to enrol 
 thee among her pages ?" 
 
 " Mock me not, my lord, with such words !" 
 
 " Yet is it true. Forgi^dng thy turbulent behaviour, of 
 which she hath heard since that period, she mils it so to be. 
 Meet me at this time, and in this place, two days hence, 
 and the introduction shall be made. Till then, adieu !" 
 
 So sajang, and without waiting for a reply, Lord Hol- 
 land set spurs to his horse, and vanished down a glade of the 
 forest, his two attendants, in their gay court liveries, at his 
 heels. 
 
114 THE CAREWES. 
 
 The whole interview had been so sudden, so short, that 
 Valentine remained stupified and bewildered, but in such a 
 state of intoxicating joy that he forgot his father, his brother, 
 and all else, except his own brilliant prospects, and the 
 beautiful queen to whom his life should henceforth be 
 devoted. 
 
115 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 valentine's confession. 
 
 Lord Willoughby came again to Crewliurst the following 
 day. He had heard of the serious losses that threatened his 
 friends, and had hastened to them immediately. He had found 
 Tsv-ith pleasure that things looked much brighter than had 
 been expected, in consequence of the recovery of the lost 
 charter; but Lady Carewe was much depressed in spirits, 
 having many anxieties on her mind, and was still in nearly 
 constant attendance on Henry. It necessarily devolved, 
 therefore, on Yalentine to entertain their distinguished guest ; 
 but Valentine sank into long reveiies, leading him far away 
 from everj'thing around. 
 
 *' My father may not have returned before the hour of 
 my appointment to-morrow," thought he. " What shall I 
 do ? I have never told him of my meeting with the queen, 
 fearing he would scarcely like it ; and if he comes, and I tell 
 him, how strange and sudden ^vdll this, my high fortune, 
 seem to him ? Then there is Henry. As yet he is confined 
 to a lonely room and ill. I cannot see him ; indeed, I hardly 
 wish it. What could I say to him, or he say to me, that 
 would not perhaps agitate him and make him worse ? It is 
 miserable to go and leave him in this state ; but, on the 
 
116 THE CAREWES. 
 
 other hand, if I tell my father the truth of that unlucky day 
 in the chase, and if he is, as assuredly he will he, very much 
 irritated against me, he ^vill withhold his consent to my great 
 appointment. That I could not bear." 
 
 "While Valentine thus pondered, a courier had arrived 
 bringing letters for Lord Willoughby, who was deeply 
 engaged in reading and replying to them. Yalentine, there- 
 fore, was left at liberty to muse continually over his posi- 
 tion and prospects, and the same round of thoughts and 
 struggles went on within him, with the addition of a fresh 
 struggle, something that had never occurred to him before — 
 the possibiHty of being so rebelHous as to ask no consent of 
 his father, but act for himself. "Wlien he looked up, after a 
 long interval, in which he had been totally absorbed in 
 himself, he was struck by Lord Willoughby's appearance, 
 who strode up and down the room, his face agitated and 
 pale. 
 
 Yalentine rose astonished. " Is aught amiss, my lord ? 
 Have I been so unfortunate as to oifend ?" 
 
 " Would that were all, boy," replied Lord Willoughby. 
 " Tliat would be a small matter to move me thus. "We live 
 in e\al days, Yalentine. Mayst thou be worthy to take thy 
 noble father's place, when he is summoned to leave this 
 troubled world, wherein to be noble, and to have an English 
 heart and spiiit, means to be persecuted." 
 
 "But do not over many now seek to circumscribe our 
 king's lawful power ?" asked Yalentine, echoing Lord Hol- 
 land's words. 
 
 " Ah ! is that thy feeling ? Let me tell thee, Yalentine, 
 the king's power would be boundless over his subjects did he 
 
valentine's confession. 117 
 
 but use it lawfully. Never was a more loyal people than the 
 English. They are not the king's friends, but his bitterest 
 foes, who preach up his prerogative. They should be telling 
 him of his people's sufferings and his people's rights instead, 
 and teaching him how to reign in their hearts, not how to 
 tjTannise over their wills." 
 
 ** But hath the king, in aught, shown this tyranny ?" 
 
 *'Hath he not even now permitted such power to his 
 courts of High Commission and Star Chamber, that only for 
 printing sentiments against stage plays, which have offended 
 the queen, on the one hand, and arguments against episco- 
 pacy, which have angered the archbishop, on the other, Mr. 
 Prynne, a barrister, learned in the law, and of irreproachable 
 life. Dr. Bastwick, a physician, and Dr. Burton, a popular 
 preacher, have stood in the pillory, lost their ears, been 
 scourged, and cast into jail !" 
 
 '^ Poor men !" said Yalentine. 
 
 *' Ay, and poor country ! where such things are done. 
 True, they were all Puritans ; I like not their sour doctrines ; 
 but what then ? they are sincere men. See, I mil read thee 
 the accomit I have here : ' When Dr. Bastwick mounted the 
 scaffold, his wife, immediately following, came up to him, 
 and like a lo^dng spouse, saluted each ear with a kiss, and 
 then his mouth; whose tender love, boldness, and cheerful- 
 ness, so wrought upon the people's affections, that they gave 
 a great shout for joy to behold it.' " 
 
 " And what did Bastmck ?" 
 
 " I am ad^T.sed that he replied, * Farewell, my dearest ; 
 be of good comfort. I am not dismayed.' Ay, these things 
 will raise a spirit in England that will not be laid. 'Tis said 
 
nS THE CAREWES. 
 
 there were afterwards, among tlie people, great crjdng and 
 lamenting when the cruel mutilations began, more especially 
 in the case of Dr. Burton." 
 
 " But why must they print their sour, libellous words ?" 
 
 " See that words so pent up bear not fruit in worse deeds. 
 IN'ow must no man put forth aught without the censor's 
 imprimatur. Besides these, here is Osbaldeston persecuted, 
 condemned to piUory, and branding and loss of all his 
 freehold." 
 
 *' '\^^at ! my good and honoured old master of West- 
 minster ?" 
 
 " And only for indiscreet sapngs in a letter." 
 
 " But my poor master ! I loved him weU." 
 
 " Thou art moved, then, for him ? He hath escaped, no 
 man knows whither." 
 
 " I am right glad of that. I would not have had liim 
 injured." 
 
 " There is rumour, besides all I have told thee," con- 
 tinued Lord Willoughby, " that the Scots have risen in open 
 rebellion, because the Liturgy hath been forced on them 
 contrary to the promise made them. If it be so, we shall be 
 forced into an unnatural war with them, or worse still, 
 become a divided rebellious country ourselves. May I die 
 before that day !" 
 
 Valentine stood amazed at the depth of feeling he Avit- 
 ncssed. It was so unlike all he was conscious of in himself, 
 and all he was accustomed to in his companions, that he 
 could not understand it. 
 
 Lord Willoughby spoke again, in a more agitated tone. 
 ** But it was not this, not even all this, bad as it is, that had 
 
 I 
 
valentine's confession. 119 
 
 moved me so deeply when you spoke. It was a thing I have 
 learned, almost too hateful for me to repeat ; yet I do repeat 
 it, for I would fain rouse thy spirit to stand in the ranks 
 with those who try to stem the tide that sets so strong 
 against our ancient Hberties. Thou knowcst that the long- 
 pending trial of Hampden for refusal of ship-money will 
 soon come on before the twelve judges. Hear what Lord 
 Wentworth hath wiitten of him : ' In truth, I still wish Mr. 
 Hampden, and others to his likeness, were well whipped into 
 their right senses. And if the rod be so used that it smart 
 not, I am the more sorr}^' And this is Wentworth, the 
 king's prime counsellor, all powerful Arith him ! Whither 
 are we tending ?" 
 
 " It was ill written," said Yalentinc, frowning. " Mr. 
 Hampden is a noble gentleman, of great fortune and ancient 
 descent, and my father's friend. It was shame so to WTite 
 of him." 
 
 " But it is not because he is of fortune and high descent, 
 though both claim honour from me ; and it is not because he 
 is thy father's friend, that I would have thee feel indignant. 
 It is that he is the fr-iend of England ; that his great quali- 
 ties outweigh even his large possessions and his high descent ; 
 that he hath stood forward a mark and martyr for liberty's 
 sake, and to save our constitution from overthrow." 
 
 " But the tax he was asked for was so smaU^ that, it 
 seemeth to me, he might have paid and never felt it." 
 
 " The more noble he ! The tax was nothing to him, in 
 mere money, but the rights of property, which its imposition 
 would destroy, were much. Hampden refused it not on selfish 
 grounds. It was for the cause of law and justice !" 
 
120 THE CAREWES. 
 
 Lord Willoughby left tlie room as he spoke these words, 
 and Yalentine remained in a strange maze of feeling. But 
 he had soon forgotten Hampden. His thoughts were busy 
 with the beautiful queen, splendid masques, court revels, and 
 a life in London. He went out to walk alone again, to 
 indulge these reveries, and his heart beat quick as he loft the 
 door, to hear the somid of horses' feet approaching. Was it 
 his father ? 
 
 He was soon relieved from the anxiety this idea had 
 thrown him into. It was a courier bringing do^m the 
 decree of the Forest Court for the restoration of the chase to 
 Sir Arthur Carewe, and letters from his father announcing 
 his return before the following night. 
 
 Lady Carewe's face grew joyous again, at the hope of 
 seeing him so soon, and at the good news he sent. Henry, 
 too, was better, and she looked forward to his being able to 
 bear removal from his strange sick-room before many days 
 were over. Many an anxious thought she had, of which she 
 said nothing. The poor doctor had received secret intima- 
 tion, through Mr. Russell, that he might be conveyed to 
 Holland, coidd he reach Portsmouth in safety, and had left 
 his hiding-place to try to accomplish this by walking through 
 the woods and by-paths by night and hiding in them by day, 
 Mr. Russell serving as guide, and they had set forth. ^lany 
 a time she was, in fancy, far away with them in wild and 
 remote places, di-eading discovery, yet hoping the best. 
 
 Towards evening she invited Lord Willoughby to go 
 with her, Yalentine, and Edith, to \'isit the tillage and con- 
 firm the glad news of the morning, with very different feel- 
 ings to those she had when last she went there. Alread}- 
 
 I 
 
121 
 
 gladness was in every cottage. The guards were removed 
 ft'oni the farm. The spinning-wheels Avere humming at the 
 doors, or by the chimney corners, as the busy hands twdsted 
 the threads ; the weavers were at their looms, and proud to 
 show the strong linen cloth woven out of the yam sent down 
 from the Ilall, that was spun by my lady's maidens the last 
 year ; and prouder still, to show the beautiful damask table- 
 cloth, with the family arms and motto woven in it, that was 
 nearly finished, and was all of the fine thread spun by my 
 lady's own fingers the last winter. Not many could spin 
 such thread as that ! 
 
 AVoodruffe came out of his cottage Avitli cheei-ful face, 
 but was occupied nearly all the time in asking questions 
 about Master Heniy. " Was he better? When was he to 
 be out again ? "\Yhat ailed him ? He was grieved for his 
 dog, it might be ! 'Twas pity Master Yalentine would take 
 no denial." 
 
 WoodrufFe had got on such dangerous gromid that Yalen- 
 tine hurried liLs mother on, under pretence of wanting to 
 hear the music that was sounding from the farm. When 
 they reached the door, and a serving maid opened to their 
 knock, they saw a pleasant sight, very difierent to that 
 which might lately have been seen when the rude soldiers 
 were quartered there. The fanner and all his family were 
 assembled, and singing their evening h^-mn in parts ; while 
 Dame Rudd attended to the cooking of the supper, and 
 joined her voice to the rest at the same time, A^ith her 
 youngest boy on her knee. I^ady Carewe would not suffer 
 the peaceful party to be disturbed, but stood reverently by, 
 her heart joining in the devotion, with all the gratitude she 
 
122 
 
 THE CARE WES. 
 
 felt for the blessings tliat had been granted, and the escape 
 from so much evil and sorrow. 
 
 And she was followed by the blessings of the people on 
 her way homewards. 
 
 " Yes, yes, bless her, and all the good family," said the 
 farmer. " They do not desert us in distress, and they love 
 to see us happy ; they do. Bless and prosper them !" 
 
 Nurse was full of questions, as she waited on Edith at 
 night, about the people, and whether they had fallen into 
 their old ways again, and was pleased to hear how contented 
 and industnous they L)oked. " Why, indeed and in truth," 
 said nurse, " so they be, as good and orderly a set of people 
 as any king would wish to have to rule over. What can he 
 be thinking of, saving his grace and majesty that I should 
 say so, to fancy that stoats and rabbits, squirrels and foxes, 
 
VALENTINES CONFESSION. 123 
 
 and sucli like goodly gear, can serve Mm, and figlit for him 
 and love him as his people can ! He's thought better of it. 
 Oh, he was sure when Sir Arthur went and spoke to him 
 and showed him his errors ; I knew Sir Arthur could right it, 
 and so Woodruffe said. And now, good night, my sweet 
 pet ; and we're to have Master Henry soon, my lady says. 
 He*s safe, and AveU too, with my lady to take care of him, so 
 his poor old nurse won't fret about him. Good night, my 
 pretty love." 
 
 It was growing towards afternoon on the following day, 
 when Valentine asked admittance to his mother's room. 
 She was alone, and feeling happy in the prospect of the 
 family being soon again united once more. But Yalentine's 
 agitated face disquieted her. He closed the door carefully ; 
 then kneeled at her feet and kissed her hand. 
 
 " Valentine ! what hath moved thee thus ? N'o ill news 
 of thy father ! " and she started up in terror. 
 
 *' I have heard nothing of my father. It is of myself 
 only I come to speak. Be seated again, my mother. I grieve 
 to have alanned you thus. I have a confession to make to 
 you. Pity me, and say what you can to my father for me." 
 
 " Thy father is ever indulgent to thee, Valentine. Thou 
 ncedest not any mediator with him ; but speak all that is in 
 thy mind. Oh what awaits me ? "What hast thou to confess ?" 
 
 " I have wronged my brother by concealing the faults of 
 my friends, and I cannot longer bear the weight of my dis- 
 comfortable reflections on it. He is ill, and, it may be, will 
 never recover while he pines under the suspicion that he did 
 wrong, if, indeed, he hath not himself already told you of all 
 that happened to him that unfortunate day." 
 
124 THE CAHE^VES. 
 
 " He hath, told nothing. He ever preserves entire silence 
 on the events of that day — that unfortunate day, as thou 
 too truly dost name it. He hath even drawn a promise from 
 his father, not to inquire more or ask any questions about it 
 of any one, but leave it as it is, and thmk, our poor Hemy 
 saith, * the best you can of me.' " 
 
 Valentine's cheeks burned with shame at the contrast 
 between this conduct and his own. He might now have con- 
 cealed the truth, and tried to lull his mother's suspicions 
 again, but he had caught a generous impulse from Henry, 
 and resolved to clear him at once. 
 
 " Henry did deliver my father's commands not to enter 
 the chase, resolutely, clearly, and resisted our disobedience 
 to the last. Morley and "Wilmot dragged him in by main 
 force, and it was not till they had dragged him so far that 
 he saw Edith's stag the prey of the huntsmen, that he ran 
 forward mth his own mil. Then came his dog to his 
 rescue, and they killed poor Lion ! I have told you all, my 
 mother !" 
 
 " Ah yes ! ah yes ! All, indeed !" she said, in a voice 
 of anguish. 
 
 " I only went in to please my friends," Valentine went 
 on. " I cared not to have gone myself, and when I saw 
 them use unseemly \dolence to my brother, I was angry and 
 forbade it. I had gone on first in pursuit of the stag, and 
 saw them not begin it." 
 
 " Say no more ; no more." 
 
 " And canst thou forgive me ? Say thou dost forgive 
 me, my mother !" 
 
 " I pity thee, my son. I pity myself and thy father. 
 
125 
 
 Ah, Yalentine ! It is not my forgiveness thou shouldst ask ; 
 thou shouldst cry to a Higher than I — ^ create in me a clean 
 heart, and renew a right spirit mthin me.* Oh ! how 
 cowardly hast thou heen !" 
 
 " Cowardly !" cried Yalentine, reddening and starting to 
 his feet. " Did I not draw in my brother's cause to avenge 
 his dog, and risk my life for his sake ?" 
 
 "Ay, but there is a courage thou knowest not of; 
 a courage that is nought akin to brawls and violence. Oh 
 that I could see that courage in thee! — I will say what 
 I can to thy father for thee." 
 
 Valentine moved towards the door, but turned and looked 
 at his mother, and seeing her in a passion of tears, rushed 
 back to her, seized her hands, kissed them fervently again 
 and again, then hurried away. 
 
 In ten minutes he was riding at a furious rate on the 
 road to Windsor. 
 
126 THE CARE WES. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THREE DAYS AT CREWHURST. 
 
 The great cliainber is prepared as if for honoured guests. 
 Freeman, with important face, has spread the finest damask 
 table-cloth, set out the plate and the Venetian glasses, and 
 spread the carpets for the feet. The bell is sounding and the 
 company is ushered in. ; 
 
 There walks in first, Lady Carewe, holding by each 
 hand little Alice and Martin, and followed by nui\se, who 
 must wait upon them. The children look very happy, but 
 rather grave, impressed with the wonder of taking diimer in 
 the great chamber Avith their father and mother. Behind 
 comes Sir Arthur, who leads in one hand Edith and in the 
 other Henry. It is Henry's birthday, and the first day that he 
 has been sufficiently strong to leave his own room. This is the 
 festive occasion, for which the great chamber is prepared. 
 
 Sir Arthur presses Henry's hand, says kind words to 
 him, and looks lovingly in his pale face ; but what a change 
 has come over Sir Arthur ! It is but t^^o weeks since he 
 returned from London, a strong man, of high and proud 
 bearing, prosperous with his recovered i)roperty. Those 
 two weeks have done on him the work of twenty years. His 
 head is bowed, his eye is heavy, a settled melancholy sits 
 
 I 
 
THREE DAYS AT CREWHURST. 127 
 
 on his face. The desertion of his eldest son, the darling of 
 his heart, and worse still, the tardy confession that went 
 before it, the conviction forced on him that his pride and 
 confidence in that son were all misplaced ; that there is no 
 sympathy between them, that they have different principles, 
 opposite aims, that a gulf has opened between them, with 
 dark and dreary Avaters, ever to flow, ever to widen ; all this 
 has broken his heart. He is a strong man still — ^lie will do 
 his work and his duty ; but the glory has j)assed away from 
 his life. 
 
 How tenderly and sweetly Edith looks at him as he 
 places her by his side, and how deep and fuU is Henry's love ! 
 If only his father could see into his heart, what consolation 
 Avould he find there ! Henry has suffered so much since 
 last he sat in that room, that on him too the weeks have done 
 almost the work of years. He is but a boy, but he feels like 
 a young man in his ardent desire to be to his father sometliing 
 approaching, at least, to that which Valentine was. "When, 
 in his niness, his mother told him of Yalentine's confession, 
 liis pity and love for his brother became so strong, and his 
 yearning to see him again and make all right with him so 
 great, that the necessity to reveal Yalentine's entrance into 
 the queen's household, sooner than otherwise would have 
 been necessary, followed. Henry had been educated in the 
 strictest principles of reverence and obedience to parents. 
 To him, therefore, Yalentine's conduct appeared unnatural 
 and dreadful, inspiring something like horror. Now that he 
 had recovered his health, he had left off thinking so much 
 of Yalentine, and had fixed his thoughts on his father. If 
 only he could behave so as to please liim, to be a comfort to 
 
128 THE CAREVV^S. 
 
 him, make Hm look happier, that was Henry's great wish 
 and hope now. This day, his birthday, when he was restored 
 to health again, seemed the day to begin a new Hfe. 
 
 Hardly had they taken their seats when the door opened 
 to admit another guest. Henry started up in joy. It was 
 the very friend he had longed for, his guide and helper in 
 the new course he was to begin — Mr. Russell. He had 
 returned that morning, and this pleasant surprise for Henry 
 had been determined on among them. The good doctor 
 was safe in Holland. 
 
 Mr. Russell had learned all that had happened from Lady 
 Carewe already ; there were no painful explanations to go 
 through. Dinner passed in pleasant talk, and Henry's health 
 was drunk in heartfelt earnest love by eveiy one. His little 
 brother and sister were enchanted to have him again -^dth 
 them ; Edith looked bright once more ; his mother, who 
 knew so well what was in him, looked from him to his father 
 vdih eyes which, though they were tearfril, were full of joy 
 too, because she knew that it could not be long before a true 
 affection, founded on mutual rectitude and sympathy of 
 character, would arise between them, and if she sighed for 
 her lost son, she ventured to say nothing of him yet. No 
 one dared even to mention his name to his offended father. 
 
 After this day, the autumn glided on ver}^ peace- 
 fully, and before winter there was a large addition to the 
 family. Sir Valentine Knightly and his lady, the father and 
 mother of Lady Carewe, had come out of Northampton- 
 shire on a visit, to spend Christmas at Crewhurst; and 
 with them their eldest daughter, the sister of Lady Carewe, 
 and her husband, Mr. and Mistress Cope, proprietors of 
 
 I 
 
THREE DAYS AT CREWHURST. 1:9 
 
 the ancient -pnory of Canons' Ashby. They brought a whole 
 bevy of children, of all ages from five to fifteen, so that there 
 was a great meeting of cousins, and many a merry laugh re- 
 sounded through the hall. 
 
 Lady Carewe had hoped that this friendly gathering and 
 the approach of the season that usually draws families 
 together, would have softened Sir Arthur towards Yalentine, 
 and brought him an invitation to visit his home once 
 more. But it was not so. Twdce had Yalentine written, 
 humbly craving forgiveness, and begging to be allowed, 
 if he could obtain leave from his royal mistress, to visit 
 his home for a short time ; but Sir Arthur returned no 
 answer. He did, however, though unknown to Yalentine, 
 maintain some watch over him, through Lord Falkland, who 
 was much in London, and noticed and patronised the son 
 out of friendship for the father. He sent good reports 
 of Yalentine^s conduct at court. He was there observed for 
 gentlemanly behaviour, and had not joined the set of reckless 
 and extravagant courtiers, but rather the more orderly. The 
 acquaintance with Lord Morley had been interrupted by that 
 nobleman's absence in Paris. 
 
 Christmas-day was kept at Crewhurst Avith all the old 
 hospitality and rejoicing. Great branches of holly, of yew, 
 and laurel, not forgetting the mistletoe, were brought in the 
 day before by the foresters, and with these the church first, 
 then the little private chapel, and afterwards the great cham- 
 ber, were decorated. Lady Carewe and Goodwife Freeman 
 had been busy for a week pro\'iding abundance of good 
 cheer. Every cottage in the village must have a substantial 
 dinner on Christmas-day sent in, sufficient to make a feast 
 
130 THE CAREWES. 
 
 for all its inhabitants. Not a beggar must be turned away 
 from the door mthout a good meal. The tables in the 
 servants' hall were laid for a party of fifty. The large nur- 
 sery was to be filled mth as noisy and merry a set as any 
 of the others ; and the great chamber would be in all its glory, 
 for the principal guests. 
 
 The weather was completely seasonable, the ground was 
 covered with snow, and "icicles hung by the wall;" but merrily 
 rang the bells from the church steeple on Christmas- eve, 
 sounding clear through the frosty air, and the wassailers came 
 and sang outside and the waits played at midnight. At six 
 in the morning the bells rang again. Then all rose and 
 dressed, and wished " Merry Christmas " each to the other ; 
 and now they assembled in chapel, a large party, so large 
 that the door must be left open, and far beyond it the wor- 
 shippers joined in praise and thanksgi\'ing for the return of 
 the blessed day, and full swelled the Anthem to the organ. 
 
 Then as they sat do^n to breakfast there were voices 
 without that struck up the old carol — 
 
 " "Was not Christ oiu: Saviour, 
 
 Sent unto us from God above, 
 Isot for our good behaviour, 
 
 But only of His mercy and love ? 
 If this be true, as true it i", 
 
 Truly indeed, 
 Great thanks to God to yield for this. 
 
 Then had wo need. 
 
 " This did our God for very troth, 
 To train to Ilim the soul of man. 
 And justly to perform His oath 
 
 To Sarah and to Abraham, 
 That through his seed, all nations should 
 Most blessed be, 
 
 I 
 
THE WASSAIL BOWL. 
 
THREE DAYS AT CREWHURST. KU 
 
 As in due time performed, He would, 
 All flesh should see. 
 
 *' Which wondrously is brought to pass. 
 And in our sight already done, 
 By sending, as His promise wa-», 
 To comfort us. His only Son. 
 For other gifts in many ways. 
 
 That God doth send. 
 Let us in Christ give God the praise, 
 Till life shall end." 
 
 Henry led the way, followed by a whole tribe of cousins, 
 to see who the singers were, and invite them in to break- 
 fast. There, be sure, was Tbomas Boult, and there was 
 Lawrence, and Michael Protheroe, and about ten more. 
 They were highly applauded, ushered in, and then after a 
 good bout of snow-balHng, in which the young gentlemen 
 pelted each other, they shook off their white peppering, and 
 went up to breakfast with due order and decorum. 
 
 Now must all go to church, for the bells have begun 
 again. The party from the hall was so large that the great 
 pew which filled all one side of the gallery was full, and so 
 were the two pews for the servants below ; and when service 
 was over, the vicar joined them, for he must dine at the Hall 
 to-day. The ^icar is an elderly gentleman, and unmarried, 
 and was not very friendly, because he belonged to the court 
 party, and was a favourite of the archbishop ; but there must 
 be no thought of cold politics and church parties to-day. 
 
 When dinner was over the games began. There was 
 merrj^-making everywhere, in hall and bower, in cottage and 
 farm, and an universal holiday. Nor at night was the old 
 custom of burning the Yule-log forgotten. Woodruife and 
 
13: 
 
 THE CAREWES. 
 
 Thomas Boiilt dragged it to the chimney, assisted hy Henry, 
 who i^uUed with all his might. 
 
 
 ..^s2^.-^^i^.. 
 
 So passed Christmas. Then came the new year of 1638, 
 a year that hegan dismally in London, with a return of the 
 pestilence that had raged at the time of the king's accession. 
 The court was at Oatlands, and so Valentine was out of the 
 danger, and at Crewhurst all was peaceful ; and in due time 
 the frost and snow vanished, and spring came round again. 
 
 May-day came fresh, bright, and breezy. The nightin- 
 gales filled the air with their songs, the ground was gay with 
 wild flowers, and the blossoms of the hawthorn, though not 
 fully out, were yet to be found on sunny southern slopes, so 
 
THREE DAYS AT CREWHURST. 133 
 
 the tall May-pole on the green at the village was decked by 
 early morning gay mth streamers and garlands. Amy Rudd, 
 the farmer's pretty little daughter, was to be queen of the 
 May, and Edith Avas down at the village before the sports 
 began, to deck her with a lovely crown of violets and prim- 
 roses that she had made for her, and a sceptre all set thick 
 with cowslips. There were two tents : one larger than the 
 other, containing a feast sent down from the Hall. There were 
 syllabubs, cui'ds and whey, cheeses, cakes, and much more 
 substantial fare. The smaller tent was for Sir Arthur and 
 Lady Carewe, and some friends they expected. My Lord 
 Falkland and a party of ladies and gentlemen were to rest 
 that day at Crewhurst, on their way into Oxfordshire. 
 
 Henry, who entered into merry-makings with all his 
 heart, dressed up as Robin Hood, and made his appearance 
 with bow in hand and quiver at his back, and a train of his 
 cousins and friends behind him, as Friar Tuck, Little John, 
 and aU his merry men ; Margaret Cope, the eldest of the 
 family, was Maid Marian, and dressed with Edith's best 
 skill ; AHce was a fairy all in green, mth a white willow 
 wand in her hand, and a wreath of lilies-of-the- valley in her 
 hair ; and Martin was Puck. They hardly knew what he 
 ought to look like, to be like Puck, so all they could do was 
 to decorate him with the brightest colours they could think 
 of, and he ran about among the rest, and laughed, and jumped, 
 and rolled about, so that did very well. Edith had been too 
 busy dressing every one else, to think of herself, but when 
 she came down the avenue leading all the maids from 
 the HaU, she looked the prettiest and loveliest there, as 
 Woodruffe and nurse declared ; and when, retiring into the 
 
134 THE CAREWES. 
 
 tent, she was obliged by Eobin Hood to put on a black 
 visor, because now a " merrie masque " must begin, they 
 complained of having lost the sight of her sweet face. 
 
 But the masquers were very merry. Two fiddlers hired 
 by my lady struck up, and there was dancing round the 
 May-pole, and plenty of laughter and fun. Robin Hood, of 
 course, had a trial at archery, and proved worthy of his 
 great name, being a first-rate marksman. Then was a great 
 game at prisoners' -bass, and when that was over, the pro- 
 cession of the May-pole began. Everybody present was col- 
 lected ; and then Edith, leading out the little May-queen, pre- 
 sented her to her lorag subjects. She placed herself at 
 their head, and they, walking behind her in one long string, 
 went round and round the May-pole three times ; then she 
 was throned on a seat made of dry moss, at the foot of the 
 May-pole, and there she sat looking on at the dancing for a 
 little while, till Robin Hood led her out, and she danced as 
 merrily as the rest. 
 
 The expected party was now seen approaching through 
 the chase. Among them were two or three young cavaliers, 
 who, catching the humour of the scene, drew up at a short 
 distance, sent a servant to borrow \dsors, then dismounted 
 and joined in the dance. Lord Falldand with the elder 
 members of the part}% were received by Sir Arthur and Lady 
 Carcwe in the tent ; but among the ladies was one of whom 
 Henry was so fond, that he left the dances to hasten to her 
 side. Lady Willoughby had taken advantage of this pleasant 
 escort to come to Crewhurst ; and the love between them 
 was mutual, as he was an especial favourite with her. They 
 were in full talk directly, and she soon asked him to lead her 
 
THREE DAYS AT CREWHURST. 155 
 
 among the revellers. He asked the names of the young 
 gentlemen who had joined the dance. 
 
 " One is young Mr. Yorney, another Mr. Gage.'' 
 
 " But who is the taU one, who stands aloof, or walks 
 alone quite away fi'om the crowd ? See, he now stands near 
 Edith. I guess that if I saw his \isor off I should see his 
 likeness to you, and then should I know his name." 
 
 " He is not my hrother, and he is far handsomer than I." 
 
 " That I beHeve not." 
 
 " So thou art learning to flatter already, Henry ?" 
 
 " !N'o, I only say what I believe." 
 
 She smiled, but told him he would see his mistake when 
 the visor was defied. Edith came to her to greet her, led 
 by the tall gi-aceful cavaHer. 
 
 Lady Willoughby spoke to him. 
 
 " I wait but for Lord Falkland's signal," he replied. 
 
 Henry started at the sound, and seized him nervously by 
 the hand. 
 
 " Come away ! come apart ! here under the trees, and 
 let me see thy face. Yalentine ! my brother, I know thee 
 before I see thee, but let me look upon thy face again." 
 
 His face was uncovered, and Edith and Henry held him 
 fast in their arms. 
 
 Oh, how handsome he was ! He had grown taller and 
 broader, and his features were more formed, his eyes more 
 brilliant, his dress, air and manner, courtly and graceful, and 
 he looked at them with a smiling face, as if half amused at 
 their excitement, though there was trouble in his face too. 
 
 " Why, Henr}^ ! " he said, " thou art grown into a young 
 gallant, instead of a rough boy. Thy woodland di'ess becomes 
 
136 THE CAREWES. 
 
 thee, and thy chestnut curls suit thee well. Thou art not Kke 
 a Puritan now, and I doubt much if I could put thee into a 
 passion by nicknames, thou dost look so sage and manly. 
 But my pretty Edith ! prettier than ever. I must have thee 
 at court ; 'tis shame to leave thee to rusticise here." 
 
 " I will have none of the court," said she ; " I love it not, 
 for that it hath taken thee away from us." 
 
 " Far rather do thou come home to us, my brother," 
 said Henry earnestly. " Our father will then look happy 
 once again ! " 
 
 At this moment Lord Falkland, issuing from the tent, 
 held up his hand. Valentine faltered and turned pale. It 
 was the signal that he might go to his father and mother. 
 'No one was present at that interview. 
 
 It lasted a long while. The dances were done ; the guests 
 had departed, some to their cottages, others to the hall, and 
 the moon was rising in the evening sky, when they issued 
 from the tent with, theii' son. There were traces of tears on 
 Lady Care we' s cheeks, and the settled melancholy on Sir 
 Arthur's face remained unchanged. Yalentine's was agitated, 
 but whatever he felt was not deep. A court ball would 
 smooth his brow again in a few hours. Now he wallvcd 
 silently, supporting his mother on his aiTn. 
 
 Before Henry went to rest that night, he was summoned 
 to his father's private room, and there he found not only his 
 father, but his mother. Lord Falkland, and Mr. Russell. 
 
 " This, my Lord Falkland," said his father, as he 
 entered, " is my son of whom I have spoken to you. He is 
 worthy, though so young, to hear the news you have brought 
 us. Suffer me to present him to you. If, as I trust, his 
 
 I 
 
THREE DAYS AT CREWHURST. 137 
 
 character as a man answers to the promise of his bo3^hood, 
 he will serve his comitry on the like upright principles that 
 the noble wife of Judge Croke has led her husband to fol- 
 low ; fearing nothing save to do that which his conscience 
 disapproves." 
 
 Lord Falkland held out his hand, and received Henry 
 kindly, and even affectionately, as he bent respectfiilly before 
 him. 
 
 " The intelligence I have brought to thy father," said 
 he, "concerns Mr. Hampden especially, but also greatly 
 affects all who Avish well to their country, its ancient mon- 
 archy, and Hberties ; and among all, none more nearly than 
 our beloved king himself. I reckon it, although at the 
 moment he ^ill be angry at it, a great gain to him. For it 
 must much import his majesty that his judges judge wisely 
 and with integrity, and that the course of his affairs is so 
 ordered that those who ^^sh. well to their country may see 
 all differences healed, and Kberty established under his 
 peaceful sway. This trial of Mr. Hampden, w^hich hath so 
 long agitated men's minds, has now been decided." 
 
 " And is judgment then given in his favour ?" asked 
 Henry. 
 
 " Not so. That, alas ! would be beyond our hopes. No. 
 The majority of the judges have given judgment against my 
 noble friend. But that which I have to tell thee hath 
 gi'eatly influenced the cause for which he hath stood forward, 
 by sho^sdng the party, who by their evil counsels are drag- 
 ging our king on to dangerous extremities, that there is 
 strength in those who would stem the tide of tyranny. It 
 appeared, at one time, as though an unanimous verdict 
 
188 THE CAREWES. 
 
 would be given against Mm, but Judge Croke hath, made it 
 otherwise. He, like the rest, had resolved to deliver his 
 opinion for the king, and against Hampden, and to that end 
 had prepared his arguments, yet a few days hefore he was to 
 argue, he, on most serious thoughts and discourse with some 
 of his friends, did alter his mind on the matter. Then spoke 
 his lady, and heartened him, and said to him, that she hoped 
 he would do nothing against his conscience, for fear of any 
 danger or prejudice to him or his family, and that she would 
 be content to suffer want, or any misery mth him, rather 
 than be an occasion for him to do or say anything against 
 his judgment and conscience. On this, he suddenly altered 
 his purpose and arguments.'^ ^ 
 
 " She was a noble lady to say so !" said Henry; '' but itH 
 seemeth to me a very strange thing that her husband shoul^^ 
 need such words, and he a judge! How could he ever 
 think to argue that which seemed contrary to truth ?" ^1 
 
 "Thou knowest not the world, my young friend," replied™' 
 Lord Falkland. " Judge Croke hath, in delivering a judg- 
 ment against the king's ^s^oll, to face the consequences 
 thereof. They may be loss of place, or even a prison to him- 
 self, and want and poverty to his family I" 
 
 Henry looked very grave. " And is he the only judg^ 
 who hath given a judgment for Mr. Hampden ?" he aske 
 presently. 
 
 " No ; in this lieth the great importance of liis resolution. 
 Inspired by his courage, Justice Hutton hath also given ^| 
 judgment against the king ; and Justice Jones, though not^| 
 going so far, hath much qualified his opinion; and Justice 
 Denham, being sick, hath sent a A\Titten judgment in favour 
 
 i 
 
THREE DAYS AT CREWHURST. 159 
 
 of Hampden. These things will greatly shake the extreme 
 party in their course; and therein my friend, though he 
 loscth his cause, yet gaineth his purpose/' 
 
 "And would all those judges, hut for the example of 
 Justice Croke, have given judgment against conscience?" 
 asked Henry. 
 
 " Indeed it seemeth likely." 
 
 Henry looked, in his perplexity, towards Mr. Eussell, to 
 whom he usually carried such difficulties. 
 
 " Thou art trouhled, Henry, and no wonder," Mr. Russell 
 replied to his look. " The times are evil, and tempt men to 
 do e^il from want of courage to endure the suffering that 
 rectitude hrings upon them. Let it never he so mth thee. 
 Keep firm in the narrow way, narrow as it now is, and enter 
 by the strait gate, let the consequences to thyself be what 
 they may. Be truth ever thy guide ; and walk in the thorny 
 path that leads to God. Let me feel that when thou art a man, 
 thou wilt be true to the di'eam of thy youth ; so shall I leave 
 thee \vith happy mind, deep as my sorrow is to leave thee." 
 
 " Leave me !" 
 
 " Yes, Henry. It is even so," said his father. " I have 
 for some time known that this blow was hanging over us, 
 but had hoped to avert it. The order has gone forth against 
 keeping of private chaplains, which is thought to favour 
 separation from the church. I have petitioned to be per- 
 mitted to retain Mr. Russell, who is a friend so loved and 
 valued by us all, not as chaplain, but as my secretary and thy 
 tutor. Lord Falkland has exerted himself much for me ; 
 but in vain. He tn-iII leave us early in the morning, in Lord 
 Falkland's company." 
 
140 THE CARE WES. 
 
 Heniy was completely overcome. He rushed away, not 
 being able to command himself. The bitter grief he felt 
 was such that he could bear no comforting, and even the 
 consciousness that Valentine was in the house, scarcely 
 helped to lighten his load of sorrow. By morning he was 
 calmer, and able to listen to Mr. Eussell, who was in his 
 room very early. He impressed on Henry that the duty he 
 now had to perform was so important, that if he indulged 
 in gnef and sank into idleness, he would be criminal. 
 
 "Thy father loses his secretary in me," said he; " thou 
 must supply my place. His melancholy in losing liis eldest 
 son, is even increased by the inter^dew they have had ; thou 
 must cheer him and supply to him the place of two sons, 
 will be thy tutor ; a better thou canst not have. His learnii 
 far exceeds mine. Give him the joy of finding a diligei 
 pupil in thee. So shalt thou best console him, and make thj 
 mother happy ; and so best console me who suffer much- 
 more than thou canst know." 
 
 "I promise to fulfil your words. I will never forget 
 them. And whither do you go ?" 
 
 " To Italy, to join that friend of whom you have heard 
 me so often speak, and whose grand poetry you and I have 
 read and enjoyed : Mr. Milton. God will bring us together 
 again in His own good time." 
 
 They went down together. For the last time, the organ 
 swelled through the chapel under Mr. Russell's hand ; for 
 the last time, his voice led the prayers ; in an hour he was 
 gone ; and Valentine also went with the rest of the company. 
 
WOODRUFFE. 141 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 WOODRUFFE. 
 
 A YEAR and a half has passed since that hurried and un- 
 expected visit of Valentine to his home. There is a gray 
 and stormy November sky, and the wind sways the branches 
 of the tall trees in the avenue of Crewhurst, and howls 
 among the ancient oaks of the chase, as Henry walks slowly 
 towards the thicket where he buried his faitliful dog, leaving 
 marks of his footsteps in the tliin covering of snow which 
 had fallen in the night, a spade and pickaxe in his hands. 
 
 Outside the thicket Woodruffe is waiting for him, and 
 they enter it together. 
 
 " I hope the stone is what you would have it. Master 
 Henry," said Woodruffe, taking the canvas covering off a 
 small tombstone that lay on the ground. 
 
 Henry examined it, and slowly read the inscription to* 
 see that it was right. 
 
 " This stone is Sette up, 
 
 NOV^''- T., MDCXXXIX, 
 
 To the Memory of my 
 
 Trustie and Trewe 
 
 Dog Lion, 
 
 Who died in defence of his Master 
 
 From cruel Men, 
 
 Aug»'. VII., MDCxxxvir,, 
 
 By me, Henry Carewe." 
 
142 THE CAREWES. 
 
 " It is well, and as I -snslied, AVoodi'uffe. No ; do not 
 take the pickaxe. I buried him myself, and I would not 
 other hands but mine should move the earth above him." 
 
 Henry, handling his tool mth vigorous arms, had soon 
 dug to a sufficient depth, and then he and Woodruffe fixed 
 the stone in its place, he shovelled in the earth, replaced the 
 turf, and stood silently leaning on his spade and looking at it. 
 " Thou T\^lt see that it do not get mossy nor overgrown, 
 Woodruffe ? Thou wilt look to it for me ?" 
 
 " That you may be well assured of. Master Henry.'' 
 " Thou wilt also, I know well, take special care of the 
 little falcon my sister loves, and thou wilt see when the heron 
 that little Mistress Alice Avatched in spring on the tallest elm 
 makes her nest, and take heed that no one harms nor disturbs 
 her nor her nestlings." 
 
 " Yery sure may you be of all that. Master Henry ; but 
 if you go on i' this strain, I shall soon play the woman Avith 
 my eyes. Of a surety you and all the good family -sdll 
 return by spring. 'T^WU be sad days with all hereabouts till 
 they see them back ; and there be not a man, woman, nor 
 child in tho \411age, nor about the place, that will not miss 
 your kindly eye and cheery voice every hour o' the day, 
 Master Henry ; and this I know too, there's not a man nor 
 woman that's kept in their service nor that's left in the lu 
 that will not do the work and see to the property in dooi 
 and out as if the eye of the master and the lady was upoj 
 them. Tliere's not one of us but will stand by your goc 
 family and serve them by day or by night. ^Vc love ye al 
 and among ye all, I don't know but what it's }'our very sel 
 Master Henrv, we love best of all." 
 
WOODRUFFE. 143 
 
 Henry held out Ms hand and grasped Woodruffe's with 
 a firm and long pressure. It was some time before he could 
 master his voice. 
 
 " I hope we shall come back in spring, Woodruffe ; and 
 well I know thy words are true, and that all we leave here 
 will be cared for, and safely kept for us. I must not stay 
 longer, but thou wilt walk to the Hall with me. I know my 
 father hath business for thee." 
 
 They emerged from the thicket, but Henry ran back for 
 one minute alone. Then they walked at a quick pace up 
 the avenue. 
 
 " And may I make bold to ask. Master Henry, if it 
 seemeth to you, as a man may say, a likely thing that Master 
 Valentine may come home with you in the spring ?" 
 
 " Indeed we hope it will be so." 
 
 " It would be more pleasant and natural like, everyway, 
 ^Master Henry. "When we down here heard from Will 
 Scraply, as brought back the bay nag from Lunnon last March, 
 (it was on Lady Day, as I remember well), that Master Va- 
 lentine was going with my Lord Holland's cavalry to fight 
 the Scotch, we none o' us liked it." 
 
 '' Neither did I like it." 
 
 " It was not as we should ha' grudged our best blood i' 
 the service o' king and country, nor yet that we wouldn't be 
 no ways backward nor cowardly in a fair fight, but we none 
 of us liked the notion o' fightin' the Scots. We'd no 
 stomach to it. See here, now ! There's old Duncan Carr as 
 came in wi' King James, and settled i' these parts, there's 
 I not a quieter, honester, nor more hard-working man than he ; 
 land he's a Scotchman. He do speak outlandish a bit, but what 
 
144 THE CAREWES. 
 
 then ? He don't speak more outlandish than a Yorkshire- 
 man, and we seem brothers like, and don't like the fight no 
 how, and all the more because the king's majesty's a Scot 
 himself, and to go and try for to slay and harry his own 
 people, seems an unnatui-al thing." 
 
 " You're right not to like it. It's over now, and I hope 
 we shall hear no more of it." 
 
 " I promise you wedon'tlike it, though, that wayneither," 
 said Woodruffe. " It's not right pleasant to think our lads 
 ran away." 
 
 " No, no, not quite so bad as that ! " 
 
 " You see. Master Henry, Duncan Carr saith so ; and not 
 Will Scraply nor Ditchly, nor one that ever comes from 
 Lunnon, can say ought to gainsay it. Duncan saith that 
 when my Lord Holland showed his face at Kelso, and that was 
 Duncan's own country thereabouts, the canny Scots just tauld 
 him he'd best turn aboot and gae hame again, and he e'en 
 took their advice." 
 
 Henry could not help laughing at Woodruffe's imitation 
 of the Scotch " outlandish " language. 
 
 " And then what's it aU about ? Duncan, ye see, he gets 
 budgets o' news by the carriers A^d' their pack horses as come 
 by Carlisle, and he laughs, and we don't like it. What's 
 it all about ? I say again. If the Scots don't Hke bishops, 
 and do very well mthout them, what then ? The king 
 knows very well, so Duncan saith, that they never did hold 
 by bishops. They're his own people, and who should know 
 if he don't? It don't look well to go and fight with his own 
 people. It won't thiive." 
 
 " They have made an agreement now without fighting," 
 
WOODRUFFE. 145 
 
 said Henr}' ; " and I hT)pe they will keep to it. The Scots 
 have got the king's promise to leave them to worship God in 
 their own way, and the Scotch have given him back his castles, 
 and forts, and ships." 
 
 " But then they had taken them away ! There must 
 have been fighting some time or other. *' 
 
 " No, the lords that manage their matters made haste 
 and took possession before the king had time to prevent them, 
 directly they heard he was coming." 
 
 " I don't think the king gets properly served," said 
 Woodi'uffe. '' That be not the way I should look after my 
 master's rights. What were those about as looks after his 
 matters ? I'm sure he pays them well, to judge by the mort 
 o' money he's always wantin'. No end o' loans, and ship- 
 money, and fines. The country's harried wi' them, and I'm 
 sick o' hearing o' them, for my part." 
 
 Henry sighed. He was sick of hearing of them too. 
 
 " But, after all, it was about Master Valentine I began, 
 and it's about him I want to hear the rights o' the thing. 
 You see. Sir Arthur would raise no troop himself." 
 
 " No, the war was against his conscience." 
 
 *' And a heavy fine he had to pay, and so, they say, had 
 many an other." 
 
 " Yes, my Lord Brooke, and Lord Say and Sole, and many 
 others." 
 
 " But, for all that. Master Valentine goes to the war with 
 my Lord Holland. That's what we cannot make right no 
 how." 
 
 Henry was troubled at this speech, but after a few minutes' 
 silence, he spoke, resolving to try to put this point at rest if 
 
146 THE CAREWES. 
 
 lie could, and feeling that he ought not to be angry mth this 
 old and faithful servant for putting it. 
 
 " My father/' said he, " is not one that will force any 
 one to think as he does. My brother likes to serve in the 
 court, and to take arms at the king's bidding. My father, 
 therefore, though it would please him better that it were not 
 so, lays no force upon him to prevent it." 
 
 " Just so. But if you mil not be angry with me. Master 
 Henry, I have only one more question to ask. Is it true, as 
 the story goes in the country now, that going to the war has 
 not thriven with Master Valentine, no more than with the 
 king?'* 
 
 '* What story is going in the country ?" asked Henry. 
 
 *' Why, you know. Master Henry, that many a gentle- 
 man and nobleman hereabouts furnished troops for the war, 
 though Sir Arthur did not, and since they're disbanded, they 
 told us here many stories about it ; and some o' them say how 
 Master Valentine turned among the first, and rode post to 
 Carlisle, and so to Lunnon. But others, and far the most, say 
 how my Lord Morley called my Lord Holland to task because 
 he turned, and how Master Valentine had a regular stand- 
 up fight with one Colonel Lunsford, that's a mighty favourite 
 with the king's majesty, thereupon, and called him coward. 
 However that be, they say my Lord Holland was in a regular 
 towering tip-top passion, and dismissed Master Valentine 
 from the service." 
 
 Henry bit his lip. He was vexed that tliis story had got 
 abroad. Full of mistakes as it was, it was so far true, as to 
 be one of the chief causes that took Sir Arthur to London. 
 It was quite true that Lord Holland, who had originally 
 
 I 
 
WOODRUFFE. 147 
 
 favoui'ed Valentine so much, had now become his enemy, 
 and that the wish to secure the heir of the Carewes to the 
 coui't had become indifferent to him now, as he was himself 
 veering towards the liberal party ; and it was quite true that 
 Valentine had insidted Colonel Lunsford. To remove Va- 
 lentine from the post he held, now that he had lost his friend 
 and protector, before farther quarrels or any evil conse- 
 quences resulting from the hatred of a man like Colonel Luns- 
 ford, was important. 
 
 " You must contradict flatly all they say about deserting 
 his colours," said Henry. *'My brother would never do 
 that. As to a fight, they have got that all ^vrong too, but 
 it's too long to put right. You may say, if you like, that my 
 brother has quarrelled with Colonel Lunsford, Avith very good 
 reason, and is very likely to come home soon. If you add, 
 that his father and his brother are very glad of both, you 
 will only say the truth." 
 
 " Thank you, Master Henry. I see how it has been, I 
 think. We are getting nigh the Hall now. "Would you 
 mind coming round by the stables to see how forward the 
 grooms are with their horses for the momin' ?" 
 
 Henry consented, and they went straight to the court- 
 yard, which they found full of the bustle of preparation for 
 an early departure next morning. A waggon stood ready 
 packed with furniture, boxes, and hampers. Two waggons 
 had already been sent on. The coach was in like manner 
 packed with many of the smaller things. Straw, canyas, 
 and ropes were strewed about. It might have looked 
 melancholy to some eyes, but it raised Henry's spirits. 
 He liked the change, he liked going to London, which he 
 had only seen on short visits, and he longed to see Valentine 
 
148 THE CAREWES. 
 
 again ; so he felt light and gay at heart, and went into the sta- 
 bles and patted and stroked the horses as they ate their corn. 
 
 There was many an empty stall now. There were only the 
 four coach horses, and four saddle horses, and Yalentine's bay, 
 which was to be led to London for his use. " To-morrow 
 the stables mil be empty,'* said "Woodruffe, sadly, as they 
 walked away. 
 
 " But thou must come and visit us in London, Woodruffe,'* 
 said Henry. " There are brave sights there. My father 
 has hired a house by the river, and we shaU see the barges 
 and boats, and many a gallant pageant, so they tell me. 
 And then there is the king's palace of "Whitehall, and the 
 Palace of Westminster, and St. Paul's, and the Abbey. Thou 
 shalt come and see them all." 
 
 " Thank you. Master Henry, and if I can think it right to 
 •leave all here in charge of Leeson and Boult, I should like 
 it right well. Shall you see Mr. Russell in Lunnon now ?" 
 
 " Oh no ! no such good fortune. He's far away in a 
 country called Italy, with a dear friend of his." 
 
 " Is that a good country, that Italy ?" 
 
 " It's a beautiful country, with rare and grand cities, and 
 marble palaces, i iid beautiful pictures, and great riches, but 
 they cannot be good men there." 
 
 ** And why so, Master Henry ?" 
 
 " Why, Mr. Russell told me in a letter he wrote to me, 
 that he and Mr. Milton — that's his Mend, you know — had 
 just been to visit a good old man in prison ; a very clever, 
 great man ; kept there only for speaking the truth." 
 
 " That's bad. And what was that good man's name P" 
 
 " Galileo." 
 
WOODllUFFP:. 
 
 141) 
 
 " A quaint name too ! Not one I ever heard afore. And 
 Avliat was tlie truth he told them and they didn't like ? I 
 suppose he told them o' their sins now, or the like o' that ?" 
 
 " No. He only told them that the sun stood still, and the 
 earth we live on moved round him." 
 
 Woodruffe clapped his hands to his sides, and laughed 
 till the echoes rang again. 
 
 " Ah ! you may laugh," said Henry, 
 
 but it's no laugh 
 
 ing matter to him." 
 
 " To think, now," said AYoodrufFe, suddenly turning grave 
 and almost angry, *' what de\ices men may be for contriving ! 
 The earth going round I the sun standing still ! Don't I feel 
 
150 THE CAREWES. 
 
 the steady ground under my feet ? It don't run away from 
 under me. Don't I see the sun run his daily course ? Mustn't 
 I believe my own eyes ? They'll tell one next this holly 
 bough I pick up with its red berries is a birch broom, fit 
 for a witch to ride on I" 
 
 *' But, Woodruffe, Galileo knows the truth of what he 
 says." 
 
 *' You think so, perhaps. Master Henry ; but for my part, I 
 think that same Master Gallio, or whatever his name may 
 be, don't know the moon from green-cheese. Belike he 
 never got up to breald'ast, else he'd have seen the sun rise o' 
 one side, and travel round and set o' th' other." 
 
 " For all that," said Henry, '' Mr. Russell has taught 
 me the other way." 
 
 " Ay, ay," said Woodruffe, " you're young, and mil be- 
 lieve anything Mr. Russell says ; and Mr. Russell he goes 
 on a studpn' and a studyin' of indoors, and a worritin' and 
 a worritin' of outdoors, visitin' sick people and dying people, 
 and one thing or another, till his brains is wellnigh addled, 
 it may be. But don't tell me ! I wouldn't put that poor 
 Gallio in prison. AYhat's the use on't ? I would bid him 
 get up o' mornin's and look about him, and he'd soon know 
 better. He would see the sky grow red and then golden i' 
 the east, and then up comes the sun, and mounts i' the sky, 
 and then stands most overhead at noon, and by evenin' sinks 
 i' the west in gold and crimson, like unto his state when he 
 rose. Where be that Master Gallio' s eyes ?" 
 
 "Now, Woodruffe, listen to me. This great stone shall 
 bo the—" 
 
 " No ; if that poor good man could tell us now what the 
 
WOODRUFFE. 151 
 
 sun does wi' himself all night now, and how he gets round to 
 th' other comer o' the world, ready for momin' again, that 
 would be something like." 
 
 " Mr. Russell could tell you all about that." 
 
 WoodrufFe smiled, and patted Henry gently on the back. 
 
 " You think so, I dare to say, Master Henry; but wait till 
 you're as old as me, and you'll know better. Mr. Russell, 
 now, was great i' teaching us the Gospel, that I -^all say. 
 Many a time I've listened to him when he was talkin' to old 
 Dame Leeson. She never could fancy the new translation 
 o' the Scriptures ordered by King James. She quarrelled 
 mightily wi' it, and never went to church wi' good will be- 
 cause the vicar read out of it. 'Twas his orders, you know. 
 What could he do ? * Appointed to be read in all churches,' 
 that's the orders. So Mr. Russell he used to say to her, says 
 he — I can't go for to pretend I can go for to say it just in 
 his exact words, but says he, * What matters for a word here 
 and a word there ? Do as well as you can what you think 
 the words really mean,' says he ; and * I think that will 
 serve,' says he. In that, I thought Mr. Russell spoke well ; 
 but as to that other matter o' the sun and the world going 
 round" — and Woodruffe shook his head and smiled again 
 contemptuously. 
 
 " Well, I mil not say any more about it now. Some 
 day, if Mr. Russell comes back, he wiU tell you himself." 
 
 " No, no. In teaching the Gospel, as I have said, and in 
 putting do^Ti fanatics now, there he was great. That last 
 Christmas time he was here, comes a preacher from Norwich, 
 and stands on th' green, and reproaches us for the holly 
 boughs and misletoe, and for singing of our carols, after the 
 
152 THE CAREWES. 
 
 good beef and ale my lady sent, and Mr. Russell talked well 
 to liim. I warrant lie beat him dead at his arguments, and 
 brings him in to my cottage after, and seats him by the fire, 
 and gives a look to my old mother, and she brings out as 
 good a slice o' beef and as foaming a tankard o' ale for him, 
 and he enjoys it as well as ever fanatic did. And Mr. Rus- 
 sell's no papist neither, not he. But besides that matter of 
 the earth slipping from imder our feet, he's mightily behind 
 about witchcraft. ^N^o use to tell liim of a witch. See if he 
 wouldn't go to the stake himself, sooner than some arrant old 
 witch should burn !" 
 
 "Here we are at the door. I must go in, and your 
 supper must have been ready this half hour. But come in 
 and sup at the Hall." 
 
 " Xo, thank you kindly. Master Henry. I must be home. 
 Mr. Russell won't meet wi' the Pope in any of those foreign 
 parts, will he ?" 
 
 " If he do, never fear," replied Henry laughing. " He 
 will not turn papist. I will be answerable for him." 
 
 " Good night, then. Master Henry." 
 
 " Good night, Woodruffe. I shall see you, I know, be- 
 fore we mount in the morning." 
 
 " Of that you may make sm'e. Good night, and bless 
 you, and all the good family, wherever you be." 
 
LONDON IN 1639. 153 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 LONDON IN 1639. 
 
 Before the sun liad been an hour up on the following 
 morning, the family of Crewhurst Hall were some miles on 
 their way to London. Lady Carewe had had a sore parting 
 to go through. She had left her little Martin behind, under 
 the charge of nurse, whom she could trust as herself. She 
 would not risk taking him at his tender age into the un- 
 healthy air of London, nor into danger of small-pox, which 
 was the terror of all mothers, and which the rest of her 
 family had happily gone through. But she would not brood 
 over sorrows. Her task now was to do her part to reclaim 
 Valentine, and bring him back to his family. 
 
 In the coach were Lady Carewe, Edith, and Alice, and 
 Mistress Cicely, as she was now called, because she was pro- 
 moted to the rank of my lady's ot\ti woman, and waited also 
 on Mistress Edith. Without sat Alice's nurserymaid Mary, 
 and one of the housemaids : Good^vife Freeman and another 
 had gone by the waggon before, to see the house made ready, 
 and get all the furniture and goods that were sent in properly 
 placed, for Avith themselves the family moved all they should 
 require. Freeman, and WilHam the serving man, sat be- 
 hind ; the horses were driven by postilions. Sir Arthur 
 
154 THE CAKEWES. 
 
 and Henry rode, followed by two grooms ; all, including 
 Freeman, well armed. 
 
 A party so strong as this was in no danger from robbers. 
 But it was not in tbeir power to escape bad roads. It was 
 very late in the season for a journey. Nothing but the 
 sudden change in Valentine's position would have made Sir 
 Arthur resolve on taking it now. He had intended, how- 
 ever, to go in spring, when all men now looked for a ParHa- 
 ment; and this journey in November had been hastily 
 resolved on, because to manage Yalentine's retirement well 
 would not be easy, and would require time. The roads then 
 were very bad, the more as the snow had melted and left 
 them soft and muddy. On Sir Arthur's o>vn property, and 
 in his immediate neighbourhood, they were tolerable, and the 
 coach got on at the rate of six miles an hour ; but there was 
 a swamp between Crewhurst and Windsor, where the ruts 
 were so deep that Sir Arthur had directed Farmer Eudd to 
 send two of his strong plough horses and two men to wait 
 there and help the coach on. Lucky it was he did so. 
 
 As soon as the heavy coach got into the narrow track 
 that ended in this swamp, the men made their appearance 
 from a little roadside posting-house, and yoked their good 
 powerful horses in front, one mounting his horse, the other, 
 with a long pole, walking to push behind, or to one side, or 
 to lift up, or whatever the case might require. The jolting and 
 rocking of the coach were so great that thejadies would 
 gladly have got out, for they were shaken terribly, but the 
 mud was so deep they could not possibly walk, and had to 
 bear it as well as they could. Alice, who cared little for 
 being shaken, was constantly laughing, but Cicely was very 
 
LONDON IN 1639. 155 
 
 frightened, and, but for her lady's presence, which kept her 
 quiet, would have shrieked and exclaimed continually. Sir 
 Arthur and Henry, floundering through as well as they could, 
 their horses sinking sometimes nearly to the knees, had 
 enough to do to get through themselves. The whole party 
 were therefore very glad when they reached the town of 
 Windsor, and put up for an hour to rest the horses. 
 
 The road between Windsor and London was one of the 
 best in England, so that their worst troubles were now over, 
 and as they rested one night at Hounslow, at the house of 
 their friends, Mr. and Mrs. Bellasis, they made an easy 
 journey on the second day, though not without much jolting 
 and some very bad passes, and came within sight of London 
 early in the afternoon. The weather was bright and fine for 
 November, and there lay not then over the city such a cloud 
 of smoke as now we see ; besides that the extent of London, 
 and the number of its inhabitants, have so immensely in- 
 creased since that time, there was very little coal used then. 
 There was a prejudice against it for domestic purposes, and 
 wood and charcoal were the common fuel. 
 
 Sir Ai'thur and Henry rode by the windows of the coach, 
 pointing out all the objects of interest to Edith, who had 
 never been to London before, and Alice, who was full of life 
 and questions. 
 
 They were travelling along a road between fields and 
 hedgerows, and were admiring the beautiful wooded hills of 
 Hampstead and Highgate to the north ; and now they turned 
 down a winding lane, now called Park Lane, and saw a long 
 line of road before them, with grass fields of the finest green, 
 dotted with cattle and sheep. 
 
156 THE CARE WES. 
 
 " Now, look out, Edith, and you will see the distant roofs 
 of Westminster Abbey and Westminster Hall." 
 
 " I see them. They are beautiful. That is the abbey. 
 I should know it by the picture Henry made of it for me 
 when he went to London -snth my father last year. But 
 what is that dark, gloomy, large house beyond the field, 
 where the sheep are feeding, and nearer to us than the abbey 
 and hall of Westminster ?" 
 
 '' That is the palace of St. James's,'' said Henry. '' Thou 
 dost not describe it very royally, methinks." 
 
 " It is not pretty at all," said Alice. " Methought palaces 
 were all of gold and marble, not ugly dark houses." 
 
 *' Wait a little while, Alice," said Henry ; " you shall 
 see Whitehall soon. Then thou A\dlt see a palace." 
 
 "To-morrow she shall see ^Yliitehall," said Lady Carewe. 
 " To-day we shall not pass it." 
 
 They went on through fields till they reached a \'illage 
 of some size, which Sir Arthur told them was the village of 
 St. Giles's, and he said there seemed to be so much building 
 going on about it since last year even, that it would soon 
 become a part of the to^vn if so it went on. The houses 
 were mostly of wood, and the road here was very bad, 
 jolting them as much as any road they had passed through 
 that day. 
 
 Now they came to St. Martin's Lane, and a hum and 
 bustle was round them. There were houses all the way on 
 one side, and a quickset hedge on the other, bordering the 
 fields. Many people Avere walking to and fro on the cause- 
 way. Carts jumbled along, and coaches, drawn by two 
 lean shabby horses, and in shape very like oui' omnibuses, 
 
LONDON IN 1639. 157 
 
 but even more like batliing-inacliines. These, Sir Arthur 
 told Lady Carewe, were hackney coaches, and plied for hire, 
 taking passengers about at a certain sum per mile. It was 
 a new invention since she had been in London. 
 
 They came then to the village of Charing, and turned into 
 the Sti-and. There was but one solitary house between 
 Charing and St. James's Palace ; but when they turned into 
 the Strand, they had left the coimtry behind them.' 
 
 " Oh, now I like London," cried Alice. " It is pretty 
 now." 
 
 " Thou dost not see London yet, but thou hast seen 
 Westminster. The Strand lies between them, and that is 
 where we are,'' said Lady Carewe. 
 
 The number of riders, and of coaches and foot passengers, 
 had prevented farther talk at the window by this time. Sir 
 Arthur and Henry were obliged to fall behind, and the pos- 
 tiHons had to guide their horses carefully to avoid running 
 against the many vehicles of all kinds they met, besides that 
 the road was very bad, and dirty and muddy in the 
 extreme. 
 
 But the scene was lively and beautiful. On the right 
 hand, as they drove along, was the river Thames, no longer 
 the narrow though lovely river they knew it at Windsor, but 
 wide and full, and sparkling under the rays of the setting 
 sun, and glimpses of it were seen between the large houses 
 and palaces of the nobilit}^, with fine gardens that stretched 
 down to its banks. The river was gay, too, with numbers of 
 boats, some of them wherries, shooting along under the 
 vigorous strokes of the watermen, others gliding under white 
 I sails. They drove on, meeting many riders, on spirited 
 
158 THE CAREWES. 
 
 horses, generally dressed in a style of show and expense 
 which astonished the country visitors, and though Edith and 
 Alice were quite unaware of it, their bright complexions 
 equally astonished these London gallants. They passed 
 many coaches filled with ladies, dressed also in rich garments, 
 sometimes of Genoa velvet trimmed with fiu's, for the weather 
 was cold enough to require warm clothing. These coaches 
 were di-awn by four, sometimes by six horses, and the hack- 
 ney coaches that drove about in the throng looked very 
 shabby beside them. But the coaches did not go fast, even 
 with their six horses, because of the holes and ruts full of 
 black mud of which the road was full. Even on this 
 November day, therefore, many people, and even many fine 
 ladies, preferred the river to the road, and several boats 
 might be seen convepng them on their way from one part 
 of the town to another. 
 
 But now the way was stopped by a handsome carriage 
 standing at one of the grandest of the noblemen's palaces, 
 and a train of courtiers and ladies richly dressed, to attend a 
 banquet at Whitehall, issued from the door, and descended 
 the steps to set forth in it. Edith and Alice did not lose the 
 opportunity to examine the jewels and satins, and all the 
 bravery of this party ; but it pained them, and made Alice 
 ciy, to see that while one footman stood at the carriage- 
 door mth long cane in hand, another used his to beat 
 away a crowd of miserable beggars who had beset the 
 carriage. 
 
 Lady Carewe soon called attention to Temple Bar, sav- 
 ing, that was one of the gates of the city of London, and that 
 the large building just within it was the Temple, that 3! 
 
 
i 
 
 lA m.: 
 
 
 k 
 
 \^ 
 
THE CARKA%^ 
 
 vssed in a style of show 
 tibe ex)untry Tisitors, and thoi 
 
 'r bright 
 
 'lants. 
 
 J. 
 
 ■ also iix rich gannt 
 
 »y four, sometimes by six horses, and the h 
 that drove about in the throng looked 
 If them. But the coaches did not go fast, 
 with their six horses, because of tJie holes and ruts fii 
 
 red the the road, and several h 
 
 ^ om one 
 
 andsome cai. 
 id descc ' 
 
 aw^ vv^d of miserable beggars who had 
 
 car 
 
 lewe soon called attention to Tod. 
 
 i :i ::. that was one of the gates of the city of Loi 
 
 ' lilding just within it was the Ten 
 
A LONDON COACH. 
 
LONDON IN 1639. 159 
 
 Henry Yane had told them about, where the lawyers studied 
 and lived. 
 
 "But now, why are we stopping? Why do we not 
 drive through the gate and go into London ?" asked little 
 Alice. 
 
 '^Ah, Yalentine, my dear brother!" This exclamation 
 came from Edith. They had stopped at a handsome house. 
 The door was open, and Valentine on the steps. Henry had 
 jumped from his horse, given it to the groom, and had 
 hurried to him as he handed out his mother. They had 
 arrived at their home for the ^\dnter. 
 
 Used to the spacious entrance-hall and wide oak stair- 
 case at Crewhurst, it looked very mean and little to them at 
 first in tliis London home ; but no matter. It was London : 
 and from the windows of the mthdra^dng-room, to which 
 the servants ushered them immediately, there was a view of 
 the river. A small garden, with green grass and some trees, 
 only separated them from it. 
 
 There, in the afternoon, after they had had time for rest 
 and refreshment, did the whole family assemble on a balcony 
 that projected beyond the house, and looked out on the 
 wonders below, with Yalentine as showman. Yalentine did 
 not look so happy nor so well as he did when he came to 
 Crewhurst on that bright May-day ; but whatever sadness 
 had got into his life, he soon shook it off, and, dehghted with 
 the wonder and admiration of Edith, Henry, and Alice^ 
 became as gay as ever. His melancholy moods never lasted 
 long. At first Alice thought his face was not so " lovely 
 and so sweet as it used to be," because he had a dark 
 moustache on the upper lip ; but when he took her on his 
 
160 THE CAREWES. 
 
 knee, and she found this moustache was perfumed as sweetly as 
 his hair, she became reconciled to it. And then she told 
 him she liked his blue and silver suit ; it was very pretty ; 
 and she liked his ruffles and large white lace collar, with its 
 sweet points, and Henry must have one too. 
 
 , Alice would have gone on longer admiring Yalentine in 
 a strain which even made Sir Arthur laugh, but for the 
 questions that Edith and Henry were beginning to ask, which 
 drew her to the window. 
 
 " What was that crowd of people about, and where were 
 all the boats going ? There must be a hundred boats. What 
 were so many wanted for ?" 
 
 "That is Temple Bridge." 
 
 " But a bridge goes across a river ; this place only juts 
 out a little way into it. You have shown us London Bridge. 
 There it is a good long way off to the left. It goes all across 
 the river, and has houses on it, and boats go under its archflfl 
 and there is no other like it." ^' 
 
 " Ah yes ! this is called Temple Bridge, but it might 
 just as well have been called Temple Stairs, or Temple ^Yharf. 
 It is a place where people take boat, and land, and all those 
 boats you see, are waiting to be hired ; and the numbers of 
 men standing about are watermen." 
 
 " What numbers of them there are !" 
 
 " I believe there are forty thousand of them in Londoi 
 including the private watermen belonging to the court and 
 nobiHty." 
 
 " Oh what a number !" cried Alice. 
 
 " Dost sec that grave gentleman, Alice ?" said Yalcnt 
 " He has just called a boat, and is handing his respectable lac 
 wife to the steps to get in." 
 
LONDON IN 1639. 161 
 
 " And see, there is another waterman wants them to get 
 into his hoat ; and they are pushing so, the lady looks quite 
 frightened/' 
 
 " Now they are beginning to fight, I believe,'* said Henry. 
 
 " Oh, they will hurt one another — ^they wall tumble into 
 the water !" This exclamation came from AHce. 
 
 " But now," said Henry, " the old gentleman and lady 
 are rowing off in a third boat with another waterman, and 
 laughing as they go.*' 
 
 " Look to the right, and you will see Essex Stairs. There 
 are again many people and boats ; and further on is West- 
 minster Gate ; that is another landing place, and Whitehall 
 Stairs. There are boats and people at all these.'* 
 
 " I see. How many people there are ! How busy they 
 all seem !" 
 
 " Then see the stairs besides that belong to the gardens 
 of the great houses. There is no crowd on them, only a few 
 watermen in handsome liveries, and a few gaily-painted 
 wherries and barges. The nearest to us belongs to my Lord 
 of Essex ; farther on Hes the Duke of Buckingham's, and 
 beyond the Earl of Northumberland's. One of my Lord of 
 Northumberland's barges is passing even now. I know his 
 liveries." 
 
 " How beautiful is the river !" said Edith, " with aU 
 these palaces on its banks, on either side, with their turrets 
 and pinnacles among the lofty trees. The grandest are on 
 this side, but there are some very fine too on the other. All 
 who live on the other side, must then cross to London by 
 London Bridge or in a boat ?" 
 
 " Surely yes, but either way is easy. There are many 
 stairs, as you see, on the other side." 
 
162 THE CARE WES. 
 
 *' Oil look upon the lovely swans !" cried Alice. " I can 
 count twenty, tliirty, forty. What numbers !" 
 
 " Now you must turn the other way. You can see that 
 fine cathedral rismg above all the houses near it ? That is 
 St. Paul's. And what is that in the far distance beyond, 
 thinkest thou, Edith ?" 
 
 " I know well, if thou meanest that with the four turret 
 tops. That is the Tower of London. Henry brought me a 
 dramng of that. Ah, how much we have to see ! But here 
 comes Mary to take away Alice to rest, and I am well assured 
 the little girl needs it." 
 
 Alice indeed had begun to grow sleepy, but the two 
 brothers and Edith continued to sit at the window, after she 
 was gone and after their father and mother had retired to their 
 private room, and as darkness fell over the scene, Yalentine re- 
 membered the splendours of former days and recounted them. 
 
 ^* It is dull now in town," said he. " This season men 
 are thinking over-much of the troubles with the Scots and 
 of the disaffected at home ; but last summer had you seen the 
 entrance of the queen's mother, Queen Mary de, Medici ! 
 That was a brave sight : our king, who went to meet her, 
 to do all honour to the mother of liis consort, seated by her 
 side in one of his coaches with eight of his beautiful hors^Bj 
 to draw it ; the streets lined with his guards and the people 
 crowding to see the sight. She was magnificently entertained. 
 Men say that her allowance from our king was a hundrdB 
 pounds a day ! " 
 
 " Her large attendance of Jesuits and priests has not 
 been pleasing to the people," said Henry ; " so my father hath 
 told me." 
 
 I 
 
LONDON IN 1639. 163 
 
 "No, and, *tis said, not to tlie king neither. But I 
 would thou hadst seen a braver sight yet than tliis of her 
 entrance. It was a masque given to her majesty our queen 
 by the gentlemen of the Inner Temple and Gray's Inn at 
 court. Hadst seen how they took barge at Winchester 
 Stairs, and landed at Whitehall in most triumphant manner, 
 wdth torches and wax lights, and how the queen danced with 
 some of them ! " 
 
 " I thought a queen was too lofty in station to dance 
 with the young lawyers of the inns of court ! " said 
 Henry. 
 
 " Ah, thou hast still some of thy precisian notions about 
 thee. It hath been much objected to our queen ; but in truth 
 she cares little for that. She must have her way and her 
 vnR, whatever that be, and mil bate none of it. She loves 
 gay revels, and above all, dancing, and wiU not be restrained 
 in it ; and why should she ? In her own country, no man 
 dares to object to that which at court they please to do, 
 and she is too proud and hath too high a spirit to permit it 
 in England ! " 
 
 ^^Tiatever argument might now have commenced between 
 the brothers, was inten-upted by a loud knocking at the outer 
 door. Edith started up and turned pale. 
 
 The noise was indeed enough to startle any one, but 
 Edith's alarm only made Valentine laugh, so that he could 
 not speak for some time. 
 
 " It is but the w^atch ordering us to light up," said he 
 at last. " Come to the windows facing the roadway and you 
 shall see.'' 
 
 Another loud and impatient knock sounded as they 
 
1«4 THE CAREWES. 
 
 opened a window over the house door and looked out, and 
 then they heard besides a loud ringing, and saw the watch- 
 man with his lanthorn and bell. The servants had now 
 opened the door, and the watchman called out in a loud 
 monotonous sort of song — 
 
 " Lanthorn and a whole candle light ! 
 Hang out your lights ! Hear!" 
 
 Yalentine ran down to explain the matter to the country- 
 servants, and set his own serving man, who was in attend- 
 ance on him, to show them what they must do, and accord- 
 ingly a lanthorn with a whole wick candle in it was speedily 
 hung at each side of the door, and the watchman proceeded 
 to the next house, and so on to one after another,''repeatiQg at 
 each his loud knock, the ringiag of his bell, and his monoto- 
 nous song — 
 
 "Lanthorn and a whole candle light! 
 Hang out your lights ! Hear !" 
 
 At the summons, the inhabitants of one house after 
 another hung out their lanthorns, some only one, the larger 
 houses two, and thus all along the Strand -a poor glimmcriag 
 light, like darkness visible, was by degrees thrown on the 
 causeway. 
 
 '* And what when these candles are burned out ?*' askc 
 Henry. 
 
 " Oh, by that time the darkness may have its way. Thi 
 order is only that from All-hallows to Candlemas, the lighl 
 must be hung out from six to eleven ; when it is not moonJ 
 
 light." 
 
 " It must be dark enough in London streets after eleven 
 then ! " 
 
 I 
 
LONDON IN 1639. 166 
 
 " Dark enough ! and I would advise thee never to be 
 out then nor even after nine. 'Tis not safe, I promise thee. 
 Robberies and murders have ever been frequent in the 
 streets, and methinks are on the increase." 
 
 " That is di-eadful, Valentine ! " said Edith. " I would 
 we were safely back at Crewhurst. Thou goest not forth to- 
 night?" 
 
 No, this night Yalentine had leave to remain at his 
 father's house. 
 
 " Even were it not for the gangs of robbers," continued 
 Valentine, " and of riotous drunkards who mean no harm, 
 but may much annoy an unaccustomed stranger, the way is 
 too foul to walk in without Hght to assist in avoiding the pits 
 and sloughs, very perilous and noyous to foot passengers. 
 In this fashionable quarter of the Strand thou knowest but 
 little of it, though even here, thou didst cry out upon the 
 mud in coming. But in quarters which also are very 
 favourite and frequented by many of the nobles and gentry, 
 such as Covent Garden and Drury Lane, the streets are 
 narrow, and many of the houses, built of wood, project over 
 the causeway, and the Avind hath little power to dry up that 
 which is cast there." 
 
 " Truly," said Henry, laughing, " thou needst say no 
 more. I will on no account venture to tread those streets in 
 darkness." 
 
 " What bright lights are these I see rapidly advancing ?" 
 asked Edith. 
 
 " 'Tis a coach with two footmen behind carrying flam- 
 beaux." 
 
 " It comes very near and stops at the next house. Look 
 
166 THE CARE WES. 
 
 at the pretty lady so bravely dressed, wlio gets out and goes 
 up the steps." 
 
 " She has been at some party, or it may be the theatre 
 and has come home. See the footmen put out their flam- 
 beaux in the iron extinguishers by the door and follow her in, 
 and the coach drives away." 
 
 Our party were now summoned to supper, and left the 
 window. 
 
 ( 
 
THE CITY AND THTE COURT. 107 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE CITY AND THE COURT. 
 
 On the following morning, because the weather continued 
 bright and clear, and because Valentine was still with them 
 to act as guide. Sir Arthur proposed for his family a drive 
 about the town, and first into the city, whither he himself 
 had business, and was about to ride on horseback. It was 
 fixed that they should meet him by waiting at the portico of 
 St. Paul's, where he would be found by Valentine or Henry 
 in Paul's Walk ; this Paul's Walk, as the middle aisle of 
 the cathedral was called, being a place of common resort, 
 both before and after noon, for lords, merchants, and men of 
 all professions. 
 
 They therefore set forth in the coach, which was of 
 ample size for all five, and passed at once into the city 
 through Temple Bar, driving up Fleet Street and Ludgate 
 Hill, busy and populous quarters, containing many houses of 
 the principal merchants, as substantial and large as those of 
 the aristocracy. As they drove on, they began to pass various 
 shops, but these were not, as they now are in those streets, 
 splendidly set out with rich goods of all kinds. They were 
 generally low, and without any show in their mndows ; and 
 to make up for this want of attraction, the master of the 
 
168 THE CARE WES. 
 
 shop walked up and down before his door, crying, *' What 
 d'5^e lack ? What d'ye lack ?" and proclaiming, in a loud 
 voice, all the articles he had to sell. When he was tired, 
 his apprentices came out and supplied his place, calling out 
 quite as loudly as he, though sometimes in a shriller tone, 
 " What d'ye lack ?" and occasionally, when they thought 
 they might venture it, stopping passers-by and trjdng to get 
 them into the shop and persuade them to buy. The bustle 
 and noise of the streets were considerably increased by these 
 'prentices, and they afforded immense amusement to Alice as 
 the coach slowly jolted along. 
 
 At last it came completely to a stand still, and there was 
 such a noise and tumult in front, that even Lady Carewe 
 would have been alarmed had not Valentine, who alighted 
 to see what was the matter, assui'ed her it was only occa- 
 sioned by a party of courtiers, who had just landed at Paul's 
 wharf, probably from Greenwich, having insisted on taking 
 the wall of a worshipful city magistrate, followed by six of 
 his 'prentices, and pushed him into the mud. The cry of 
 " 'Prentices ! clubs !" was indeed heard resounding along 
 the streets, and croAvds came running up to the scene of 
 action. A fight between the 'prentices and the servants who 
 attended on the young gallants had begun, but some of the 
 city constables coming up soon ended the fray, and the pas- 
 sage became clear again. 
 
 Soon afterwards they stopped at the splendid portico of St. 
 Paul's, as it existed before the fire of London, and Sir 
 Arthur, who had been watching for them, came out to them, 
 and made them admire the beautiful Corinthian columns, 
 though, as he said, he could not admire the taste which had 
 
THE CITY AND THE COURT. 169 
 
 been shown in adding such a portico to a gothic cathedral ; 
 but Lady Carewe reminded him that as Inigo Jones had done 
 it, we must suppose it was right. 
 
 He mounted his horse and rode along Cheapside with 
 them. This was a street of noble substantial houses, now 
 inhabited by the great merchants, but until lately very much 
 liked by the people of degree, who had now gone farther 
 west to such places as Covent Garden. Here the din and 
 Babel of tongues, mixed mth the throng of passengers and 
 of carts and coaches, quite bewildered the country party. 
 On every side, the masters and 'prentices were crying, 
 " Wliat d'ye lack, sir, or madam," bells were ringing, hack- 
 ney coachmen were trying to persuade city madams "to 
 ride," instead of walking through the mud, and among all, 
 the merchants, with grave faces full of business, were throng- 
 ing to be on 'Change at twelve o'clock. 
 
 The postilions were directed to drive homewards by 
 Holborn and Bloomsbury, which was a quieter quarter, and 
 then once again passing down St. Martin's Lane, they drove 
 by Charing down AYhitehall to see the palace. Even little 
 Alice, high as her expectations had been, said it was very 
 beautiful. She saw no gold nor marble, but still it was like 
 a palace. The finest part of it was the banqueting house, 
 built by Inigo Jones, and the only part that now remains. 
 
 Before a week was over, London had become tolerably 
 familiar to our part}^ They had visited the Tower, and had 
 rowed down to Greenwich ; had been to Westminster Abbey 
 and seen Westminster Hall, and the outside of the deserted 
 Houses of Parliament, and the dreaded Court of Star Cham- 
 ber ; and now they began to feel settled and at home, and 
 
no THE CAREWES. 
 
 received frequent \dsits from Yalentine. Sir Arthur was 
 much 'engrossed by business, and often rode away in the 
 morning and did not return till evening. At last his face 
 became less anxious. Towards the beginning of December, 
 he succeeded in securing his son's retirement from court 
 without gi\^ng offence, and made arrangements to place him 
 in the suite of Lord Arundel, who was shortly to depart for 
 the Continent. He knew that Yalentine would not be con- 
 tented at home, and was anxious, while he removed him from 
 a place that had now become dangerous for him, to give him 
 the advantage of seeing other countries and other customs 
 imder favom^able circumstances. 
 
 This prospect was so agreeable to Valentine, that he 
 ceased to regret giving up his life at court, "with all its attrac- 
 tions, and began to long for the time when he should begin 
 his new career. But the last evening of his service at White- 
 hall, there was to be a court ball, and he mshed that Henry 
 should see something of it. He proposed, therefore, to take 
 him in and station him in one of the galleries, or ante-cham- 
 bers, and afterwards bring him into the state apartments, if 
 if he should lind it practicable. 
 
 Henry was well pleased to sec the grandeur and bravery 
 of which Yalentine had talked so much, and ha^dng obtained 
 his father's consent, prepared to take advantage of the offer. 
 Early in the afternoon, therefore, dressed quite to Alice's 
 satisfaction, ha\'ing on a suit of green silk slashed mth white, 
 and one of those lovely pointed collars which she admired 
 so much, he was conveyed in the coach, in tliis new character 
 of a young courtier, to "VYliitehall, his mother and sisters 
 accompanying him there and setting him do^Yn, Henry had 
 
THE CITY AND THE COURT. Ill 
 
 already learned "to sit in a coach like a daintie ladye," but 
 this was the first time he had been dressed like a courtier, 
 and he joined very heartily in the laughs and jokes that his 
 companions in the coach made on his splendid appearance. 
 Valentine wasjn waiting for him, as they had agreed that he 
 should be, in the outer court, and as the coach drove 
 away the two brothers, standing side by side, Avith uncovered 
 heads, made in sport low reverences to their mother, bow- 
 ing almost to the ground, then turned and entered the 
 palace. 
 
 "Our Henry grows tall, and, to my thinking, handsome 
 too," said Edith. 
 
 " He will never have the regular features of Valentine," 
 replied her mother. ^' But I can well believe there may 
 be many who, like our dear Lady Willoughby, even prefer 
 his stronger and more marked cast of face ; and for sincere 
 and earnest expression of eye, none can exceed him." 
 
 " And his expression tells the truth, my mother." 
 
 *' He well deserves thy love, Edith. It joys me to see 
 what a comfort he is to his father, and what love has groA\Ti 
 up between them. Thou knowest how, when he was a boy, 
 I often grieved to see how little thy father cared for him, 
 and how completely Valentine had all his affection. It is 
 different now. He loves Henry and knows his worth, but 
 yet he yearns after Valentine, and well I know the sacrifice 
 he makes in sending him abroad. But thy father thinks 
 only of the good of others, never of his o^^ai pleasure." 
 
 '^ We must all do our utmost to make my father cheer- 
 ful, and make his home happy to him." 
 
 " Thou art never wanting, my daughter. Thy sweetness 
 
172 THE CARE WES. 
 
 is thy motlier's joy and stay ; and with thee and Henry, I 
 were wicked to repine." 
 
 " Dear mother, you make me happy by saying so ; and 
 there is little AHce, besides, to cheer you." 
 
 Thus happy in each other, they returned home, while 
 Henry was initiated by Valentine into the pomp and splendour 
 of the court. 
 
 It was nearly the hour of the evening banquet or supper 
 before the ball, and Henry, after waiting for some time in a 
 gallery, was brought into the grand hall, and stationed near 
 the door, by Valentine, who then returned to his place in 
 attendance upon the queen. It was a splendid sight. 
 
 The king and queen were seated at table, with their lords 
 and ladies in waiting, and pages behind their chairs, while 
 the young prmces stood opposite. Some guests of dis- 
 tinction were seated at other tables. A concert of exqui- 
 site music was going on all the time. The walls were hung 
 with some of those magnificent pictures ^nih. which Charles 
 the First enriched his palaces. Henry was not a judge of 
 art ; and on him the wonderful Titians, Correggios, and 
 RaiFaelles, and the master-pieces of Rubens, were lost in 
 great degree ; but the grand picture of his present majesty 
 on horseback, by Vandyke, caught his eye. He looked from 
 the head in the picture to the king as he sat in his place, 
 and saw the accuracy of the likeness, and the remarkable 
 manner in which the painter had caught the very spirit of 
 his subject. As he looked, he felt a glow of loyalty aristug 
 within him. That proud, melancholy face, the whole bear- 
 ing and manner, seemed to him suited to a king. He could 
 understand now why Valentine was devoted to Kiag Charles, 
 
THE CITY AND THE COURT. 173 
 
 — why he seemed ready to forget injuries done to himself 
 and his family, and loved to serve the king better than any 
 other service. The queen did not please Henry so much. 
 To his eye she was not even handsome, though she was 
 generally reckoned a beauty. Her jewels sparkled and her 
 eyes sparkled too ; but there was an expression in them that 
 he did not like, and her manner was imperious and haughty, 
 not dignified, or such as he fancied a queen's should be. 
 
 He saw Lord Falkland at one of the tables, but he knew 
 no one else. Many ladies there were, but he did not admire 
 any of them. The colour in their cheeks was bright, but 
 fixed ; it did not come and go like Edith's. He felt sure they 
 were painted, as he had heard fine ladies often were. Then 
 the little black patches on their faces troubled him ; never 
 having seen the fashion before, he disliked it extremely. 
 
 Still the whole scene was gay and gorgeous, and for the 
 moment Henry was delighted with it, and began to regret 
 that Yalentine was so soon to leave it. 
 
 The banquet being nearly over, Henry stood aside among 
 the throng, having observed a signal from Valentine that he 
 should do so, and was soon obliged to follow in the train with 
 the rest. He now remained for a time in a corridor, and saw 
 the company begin to arrive. Numbers were in sedan chairs. 
 It seemed very appropriate for ladies to be carried so, and 
 set down in the very corridors leading to the rooms of state, 
 in warmth and light, when the door was opened, instead of 
 being exposed to the cold air, as those who came in coaches 
 must be ; but his disgust was great whenever a chair, being 
 set down by its two sturdy porters, a young gallant appeared 
 jseated in it, and daintily stepped forth, smoothing down his 
 
174 THE CAREWES. 
 
 curls, and spreading perfumes of musk and ambergris through 
 the air, carrying in his hand his jewelled gloves, much too 
 fine for use. To Henry's farther disgust, several of these 
 gentlemen had the fixed red colour in their cheeks, and the 
 little black patches that he had disliked so much in the 
 ladies. He decided that he would much rather be one of 
 the porters than one of these gentlemen, whose great aim 
 seemed to be to look as like affected fine ladies as possible. 
 
 Wliile he was fuming inwardly at the sight of these fops, 
 a party of a very different order entered the corridor. They 
 were a group of three or four men, with high intellectual 
 countenances, whom he at once set down as some of those 
 artists or authors whom the j^resent king patronised and 
 liked to have about him. If Henry had had any one to tell 
 him their names, he would have heard that he had seen 
 among them the great painter Rubens. Three men v/ith 
 blustering manners and martial air, dressed in military 
 uniform, came next. They walked along with a swaggering 
 gait, jingling their swords, and maldng all the noise and 
 bustle they could. They wore on their faces, not little 
 round black patches like ladies, but large ones, some square, 
 some lozenge-shaped, some like half-moons. 
 
 Wliile Heniy was looking after them, half-laughing at 
 the absurd appearance they made, a young gentleman ad- 
 dressed him by name, and said he was deputed by h^ 
 brother, Mr. Carewe, to conduct him into the ante-room, 
 whence they would shortly be admitted to the ball-room. 
 
 "You are amused," said he, " at the appearance of thoso 
 worthies.'* I 
 
 ** AVho are they ?" asked Henry, " and what makes thenf 
 
THE CITY AND THE COURT. 175 
 
 decorate their faces in so strange a fashion ? They seem 
 to have been in the wars." 
 
 " Ay, or they would have us think so ; but their patches 
 would in that case be wanted for their backs, not for their 
 faces. As to who they are. Colonel Lunsford knows better 
 than I. He took them to Kelso, and finds them useful as a 
 sort of reformados, or, to speak more plainly, bullies and 
 bravoes.'' 
 
 *' Colonel Lunsford ! He is little better than a rc- 
 formado himself, if report speaks true. Was he not out- 
 lawed, or am I mistaken ?" 
 
 "Hush, there he is!" 
 
 " In the uniform of an officer ?" 
 
 " Ay ; he has passed on now. Shall we follow to the 
 ante-room P" 
 
 An officer of state here presided while the company 
 assembled. Again Henry was struck with the splendour of 
 the room, hung, like the large hall, with fine pictures, and 
 brilhantly lighted and decorated with evergreens, in honour 
 of approaching Christmas. 
 
 " Sm^ely that is Lord Morley," said Henry. 
 
 " It is. He has not appeared at court before since the 
 campaign in Scotland." 
 
 Henry had never seen him since that day, the very recol- 
 lection of which made him shudder. 
 
 Scarcely had Lord Morley passed up the room, when a 
 tumult arose in the direction in which he had disappeared- 
 There were loud voices and the clashing of swords; and a 
 sudden rush of all the company backwards, almost drove 
 Henry on to the staircase. But he caught a glimpse of 
 
lev 
 
 1 
 
 174 THE CAREWES. 
 
 curls, and spreading perfumes of musk and ambergris through 
 the air, carrying in his hand his jewelled gloves, much too 
 fine for use. To Henry's farther disgust, several of those 
 gentlemen had the fixed red colour in their checks, and the 
 little black patches that he had disliked so much in the 
 ladies. He decided that he would much rather be one of 
 the porters than one of these gentlemen, whose great aim 
 seemed to be to look as like affected fine ladies as possible. 
 
 Wliile he was fuming inwardly at the sight of these fops, 
 a party of a very different order entered the corridor. The 
 were a group of three or four men, with high intellect 
 countenances, whom he at once set do^\ii as some of tho 
 artists or authors whom the present king patronised ani 
 liked to have about him. If Henry had had any one to tell 
 him their names, he would have heard that he had seen 
 among them the great painter Eubens. Three men with 
 blustering manners and martial air, dressed in military 
 uniform, came next. They walked along with a swaggering 
 gait, jingling their swords, and maldng all the noise and 
 bustle they could. They wore on their faces, not little 
 round black patches like ladies, but large ones, some square, 
 some lozengc-shapcd, some like half-moons. 
 
 AVliile Plenry was looking after them, half-laughing at 
 the absui'd appearance they made, a young gentleman ad- 
 dressed him by name, and said he was deputed by hi^ 
 brother, Mr. Carewe, to conduct him into the ante-room, 
 whence they would shortly be admitted to the ball-room. 
 
 " You are amused," said he, " at the appearance of tho.M 
 worthies." 
 
 ** Who are they ?" asked Henry, " and what makes the: 
 
THE CITY AND THE COURT. 175 
 
 decorate their fliccs in so strange a fashion ? They seem 
 to have been in the wars." 
 
 '* Ay, or they would have us think so ; but their patches 
 would in that case be wanted for their backs, not for their 
 faces. As to who they are. Colonel Lunsford knows better 
 than I. lie took them to Kelso, and finds them useful as a 
 sort of reformados, or, to speak more plainly, bullies and 
 bravoes." 
 
 " Colonel Lunsford ! He is little better than a re- 
 formado himself, if report speaks true. Was he not out- 
 lawed, or am I mistaken ?" 
 
 "Hush, there he is!" 
 
 " In the uniform of an officer ?" 
 
 " Ay ; he has passed on now. Shall we follow to the 
 ante-room ?" 
 
 An officer of state here presided while the company 
 assembled. Again Henry was struck with the splendour of 
 the room, hung, like the large hall, with fine pictures, and 
 brilHantly lighted and decorated Avith evergreens, in honour 
 of approaching Christmas. 
 
 " Surely that is Lord Morley," said Henry. 
 
 " It is. He has not appeared at court before since the 
 campaign in Scotland." 
 
 Henry had never seen him since that day, the very recol- 
 lection of which made him shudder. 
 
 Scarcely had Lord Morley passed up the room, when a 
 tumult arose in the direction in which he had disappeared- 
 There were loud voices and the clashing of swords; and a 
 sudden rush of all the company backwards, almost drove 
 Henry on to the staircase. But he caught a glimpse of 
 
176 
 
 THE CAREWES. 
 
 three or foiir men struggling at the spot whence the sounds 
 came, and among them he fancied he saw Valentine. 
 
 He pushed his way therefore into the room again, throng 
 the retreating crowd, and found the tumult incroasinj 
 There were loud cries of "The king!" *' Make Avay'^ 
 
 " Shame ! In the very presence of their majesties V 
 
 Amidst these cries, still went on the angr}- voices and^ 
 clashing of swords, and again, in the midst of the swaying- 
 and struggling mass, who now occupied the entire end of the 
 ante-room, for eveiy one else had fled, he saw Valentino 
 distinctly. 
 
 Henry rushed madly into the very midst of this struggling 
 and saw Tiord ^lorlev standing ahove some one 
 
 throng, 
 
THE CITY AND THE ( Ol'llT. i i i 
 
 A\ liom he had knocked down ; while Yalentine, with drawn 
 sAvord, kept at bay two of those patched warlike blusterers 
 whom Henry had noticed before. It was the third who lay 
 on the floor. 
 
 In a moment a number of the guard had rushed in. 
 Lord Morley and Yalentine were seized, disarmed, and 
 huriied down the room towards the stairs, and Henry, follow- 
 ing, cried madly upon Yalentine, and besought the g-uard to 
 release him. 
 
 No one heeded him, till, as he continued to run after the 
 guards, one of them seized him, and told him to stay where 
 he was, and mind his o^vn affairs. 
 
 " Let me go ! I toill see what they are going to do mth 
 him. Let me go with my brother, I say," cried Henry, 
 struggling vdth. the man. 
 
 " Why not let the poor boy go ?" said a veiy handsome 
 gentleman who had just come up the staircase. *' "VYho is 
 he?" 
 
 "He must be a son of Sir Arthur Carewe," said an 
 officer of the guard, in reply, "as he calls the prisoner his 
 brother. Young Carewe has got into a brawl in the very 
 presence of their majesties." 
 
 " Let the boy go, then ! His face speaks for him." 
 
 " No man ought to know more about faces than yourself. 
 Sir Anthony. Loose the young gentleman !" 
 
 " Let him have my coach," said Henry's advocate. "Sir 
 Anthony Yandyke's coach for Master Carewe." 
 I " Sir Anthony Yandyke's coach !" was shouted from 
 lacquey to lacquey. " Sir Anthony Yandyke's coach for 
 Master Carewe I" 
 
178 THE CARE WES. 
 
 But Henry thouglit not of coach nor lacqueys. All Lis 
 soul was occupied with. Valentine, and the danger into which 
 he had fallen. He continued to seek among the throng at 
 the outer entrance till he saw, by the light of the flambeaux, 
 a party of soldiers of the guard, with Lord Morley and 
 Valentine in the midst of them. Two hackney coaches 
 drove up directly. He saw Lord Morley thrust into the 
 first, with two men of the guard inside and two outside, and 
 into the second Valentine was forced. 
 
 *' Take me ! Let me go with him !" cried Henry. 
 
 In vain! He was pushed back and knocked do^WTi 
 among the crowd. It was raining, and he was covered mth 
 mud from head to foot ; but that he cared nothing for, so 
 that he could keep sight of Valentine. He scrambled up 
 again ; forced his way through the people, crawled under 
 the horses' legs, and got clear into the middle of the road. 
 Then he ran with aU his speed after the coach, caught it, 
 and hung by the back, as it went on, much as boys often 
 do now. In time he worked and coiled himself up so as to 
 sit on the bar at the back, without being perceived, as jolt- 
 ing, splashing, and rolling, the clumsy coach drove on. 
 
 I 
 
179 
 
 CHAPTER XY. 
 
 A NIGHTS ADVENTURES. 
 
 The way was very long. The rain and wind beat against 
 Hemy, and the mud splashed up over him. His court dress, 
 little fitted for such work as this, was wet through, liis head 
 was uncovered, and his hair dripping wdth water, but the 
 anguish of his mind was such that he was quite unconscious 
 of his woful plight. All he wished was that he could make 
 Valentine aware that a friend was near him ; that he was 
 not totally alone in this extremity. But it was vain to 
 wish. The back of the crazy, jumbling coach as efiectually 
 separated them as if they had been miles apart. 
 
 They passed along the Strand. He could see his home 
 with the two lanthoms by the door. It was about half past 
 eight o'clock now. If his mother had known how near to 
 her, and in what a wretched condition, her sons were, what 
 would she have felt ? He thought of her, of his father, and 
 sisters, but no thought of getting off the back of the coach, 
 and getting safe in, entered his head. He could not leave 
 Valentine in his danger. 
 
 The coach jumbled on, passed through Temple Bar, and 
 drove along Fleet Street. Then turned into a narrow winding 
 street where mud and holes and noisome odours were worse 
 
180 
 
 THE CAREWES. 
 
 than ever, and stopped at last. They were at tlie gates of 
 large stone building. 
 
 One of the guards got do^ii and rang the bell by the 
 gates. It was opened instantly, and Henry saw within a 
 court dimly lighted. He got down, crept quietly round to 
 the window, and said in a distinct voice, " Henry is here ! " 
 
 He thought he heard an exclamation, but was instantly 
 pushed aside so rudely that he was not sure. 
 
 There was scarcely any delay. The door of the coach 
 was opened. Yalentine was made to get out, and a guard 
 seizing him by each arm, he was hurried within the gate. 
 Henry then heard bolts, bars, and the clank of chains ; the 
 guards laughed, talked, and got into the coach to escape the 
 rain ; it drove off, and he was left standing alone. 
 
 Never in all Henry's life, perhaps, and he had many a 
 rough day in it, did he feel so desolate and wretched as at that 
 moment. In liis despair, he went up to the gate and rang 
 the bell. A small grating was opened in a door, and a fa( 
 appeared at it. Then a harsh voice asked " Who is there ? ' 
 " I am the brother of the prisoner, and claim to be ad- 
 mitted to him." 
 
 The grating was closed instantly, without a word. In 
 his rage at this insolence, Henry rang again and again loudl} . 
 The grating was opened again at last. 
 
 *' If thou dost not begone and let me go to sleep in peace 
 said the same harsh voice with a brutal oath, '* thou shalt 
 have the best floggmg thou ever hadst in thy life. The pri- 
 soner hath quite enough to do to mind his o^m matters 
 without being plagued with a cheating, lubberly beggar like 
 thee!" 
 
 i 
 
A NIGHT'S ADVENTURES. ISl 
 
 The words brought Henry to his senses. He became 
 aware that he could look like nothing else but a WTetched 
 beggar, and tliat to claim to be the brother of Valentine in 
 his splendid court dress must appear notliing but imposition. 
 Besides, what good would it do to be shut up in this prison 
 too ? for prison it was, without a doubt. '.Llie only thing to 
 be done was to find his way home, and see if his father could 
 get Valentine free. His father ! That name brought with 
 it all home fears and anxieties. By this time he had been 
 expected there for an hour. 
 
 Yes, he would find his way home. But how ? Beyond the 
 [)rison walls, against which a few lanthorns burned, everything 
 'W'as perfectly dark. The order to " light up" was imperfectly 
 obeyed in that and most other poor and neglected neigh- 
 bourhoods, and whatever lanthorns had been there had burned 
 out. To attempt to walk on was like running against a black 
 vraU, or groping into a hollow cavern. He knew only the 
 direction in which the coach had driven off, and that way he 
 walked slowly and cautiously, feeHng before him mth out- 
 stretched hands. 
 
 If he met any one he would give some money to be sho^\'n 
 the way. He put his hand to his pocket. It was turned 
 inside out. Purse, everything was gone. That hope was 
 vain. Happily, Henry had a stout heart of his o^Yll, or he 
 would have been ill off now. 
 
 Straining his eyes through the darkness, he caught the 
 glunmer of a light, and then he heard a bell. It was a 
 watchman. He would stand quite still till this man came 
 up. But while he determined this, a door opened close 
 behind him ; fumes of tobacco and strong drink flew out, 
 
182 THE CAREWES. 
 
 and a disorderly crew rushed forth pell-mell. Many of them 
 could not stand, and rolling over in the mud, were left 
 behind. Others separated in different directions, some dis- 
 appearing down neighbouring courts and alleys. Some held 
 on their way, singing, shouting, and pushing each other into 
 the kennel as they quarrelled for the wall. "With this rabble 
 rout, who had just issued from a tavern, Henr}- would have^ 
 been carried away or knocked down, but that the light of 
 the door showed him an iron raiKng by its side, and he clung' 
 to it so closely that they all passed him. Fortunately for 
 him, he had lost every appearance of a well-dressed youngj 
 gentleman, and only appeared to them like a beggar hoping] 
 for alms. One of the men, even, in a di'unken voice, asked] 
 biTTi if he would have a cup of arrack, and began fiimblingj 
 in his pocket for money, but forgot what he wanted before he 
 found any, and reeled on with the others. 
 
 These people carried lighted torches, and choosing the] 
 party that went the way he knew would lead to Fleet Street, - 
 Henry followed it. As to the watchman, he had prudently i 
 hidden himself in some safe nook till the crowd passed by,| 
 and was seen no more. 
 
 Having reached the comer of Fleet Street, after lon^ 
 delays and many stoppages, the drunken party disappeared] 
 do^Ti a lane, but Henry was now in a straight line Tvath hisj 
 home. No lanthorns, however, glimmered even here. He had i 
 heard the clock of St. Bride*s strike eleven some minutes since. 
 
 He stopped again, holding by the wall, and looking into 
 the black darkness the way he wanted to go. At a distance 
 he saw a red light close to the ground, and smoke rising. 
 What it might mean he could not imagine, but it served as a 
 
A NIGHT S ADVENTURES. 183 
 
 beacon to him. Groping his way slowly, often stumbling 
 over rough places in the causeway and knocking his head 
 and grazing his hands against inequalities in the wall, he 
 made towards the light, but he presently heard the tread of 
 many feet, though he saw no light, and heard no voices. He 
 again took his plan of clinging to the wall, but this time he was 
 pushed away fi'om it, and hurried in the direction he had 
 come from for some distance, by a body of silent men, before 
 he could extricate himself. Whatever these people were 
 going to do, they seemed to know their way Tsdthout any 
 light. But the darkness that shielded their purpose also 
 shielded him, and he managed to get out of their company 
 by dashing into the middle of the roadway, wading in mud. 
 Here he could see the red light distinctly ; but for it he should 
 have been utterly bewildered and lost his way. There were 
 no carts nor coaches at that hour. 
 
 At last he saw that the light was caused by a bonfire in 
 the middle of the road, and that there were many dark figures 
 moving about round it. When he came up he could distin- 
 guish a watchman, and a congregation of wretched, ragged 
 beggars trying to warm themselves at the fire. The watch- 
 man's duty seemed to be to heap it up with wood, but he had 
 to be on the alert to prevent all his wood being stolen. 
 Henry recollected having heard that it was considered useful 
 as a precaution against the plague to light bonfires in the streets 
 at night. The light helped him on a great way. When he 
 lost it he still held on, and only had one more alarm. He 
 was horrified by shrieks of "Thieves ! Murder!" and then saw 
 several watchmen with their lanthoms come out of comers 
 and nooks where they had been concealed. The mob dis- 
 
184 THE CARE^VES. 
 
 persed when they saw the lanthorns, and Henry caught fast 
 hold of one of the watchmen hy the arm ; but all he got by 
 this was a volley of oaths and abuse, and threats of the 
 stocks and a good flogging for a sturdy beggar, as he was. 
 
 Baffled in this last attempt at finding a protector and 
 guide, he began again as he had hitherto done to grope on 
 alone, following the glimmer of the watchman's lanthorn at 
 a distance. His eyes, now used to darkness, could just 
 distinguish the old archway of Temple Bar standing up black 
 against the murky air beyond. The watchman passed through, 
 and he followed, and saw to his relief the two lanthorns by 
 his father's door raying out into the night. They had been 
 replenished wdth fresh candles for liis sake. 
 
 He mounted the steps and rang, and then for the first 
 time felt that he was exhausted and faint. 
 
 The door was opened instantly by Freeman. He must 
 have been on the watch. 
 
 " Master Henry ! in the name of Heaven I You must 
 have been robbed and murdered ! " 
 
 A pale face behind Freeman brought back Henry's 
 strength at once. 
 
 ** My mother ! Fear not ! Valentine is safe, and I am 
 not hurt." She could not speak, but laid her trembling 
 hand on his shoulder. 
 
 *' My father ! " 
 
 " He is ill ; very ill. Thank Heaven ! thy ring woke 
 him not ; and Edith watches by him. He knows not of thy 
 absence. My boy ! thou art hurt ! thou art dpng ! " 
 
 ** No ! It is only that I am tired and cold." 
 
 She led liim in and made Freeman get him into bed, only 
 
 i 
 
A kight's adventures. 185 
 
 sending word to tlie anxious Editli tliat lior brothers were 
 safe. Tliey had suffered terrible anxiety, the coach, when 
 sent for hiin, having returned empty, and the servants hav- 
 ing been unable to get any account of their young masters, 
 probably in consequence of orders of secrecy. Lady Carewe 
 busied herself about him, bringing him food and cordials, and 
 "\\Tapping him up warmly. He quickly recovered under this 
 care. Such a night's adventures would have killed a fine 
 gentleman about to'VNTi, but he was a sturdy countryman with 
 good old English strength and courage to support him, so he 
 soon begged his mother to think no more of him, but to come 
 and sit by him while he told her about Valentine. Then as 
 cautiously and gently as he could he told her what had 
 happened. 
 
 She was dreadfully alarmed, evidently, but she controlled 
 herself for his sake, kno^sdng his need of rest. 
 
 " Try to sleep now, my son — my dear son," she said at 
 last. " In the morning thy father may have recovered 
 sufficiently to aid us with his counsel. His fever is greatly 
 abated. Thou must be strong to help in the morning ; 
 therefore sleep now. Thou dost deserve to sleep in peace. 
 But for all thy sufferings and exertions this night, we should 
 not have kno^Ti where thy brother was, and I have been 
 like the mother of young Mr. Gage, who was shut into the 
 Bastille, and she heard no tidings of him for months. Ah ! 
 it is not come to that in England yet, but we know not how 
 soon it mil be." 
 
 She kissed his forehead as she left him, and, utterly 
 exhausted as he was, he was soon asleep. 
 
 It was late the next monaing before he awoke from a 
 
186 THE CARE WES. 
 
 slpep SO sound that lie had forgotten everything ; but the sight 
 of his father by his bedside brought all the heavy truth to his 
 memory at once. Sir Arthur looked ill, but to Henry's anxious 
 inquiries he replied that he was sufiiciently well in health, 
 and wished to hear every particular of the events of the night 
 before. As Henry obeyed, he listened attentively, and taking 
 out his tablets noted all down, especially the fact of what the 
 young gentleman whom Yalentine had introduced had said 
 of those swaggering men, probably, as he observed, a set of 
 bravoes expressly employed by Colonel Lunsford to raise the 
 brawl. He also expressly noted Sir Anthony Vandyke's 
 interposition. When Henry had described the site and 
 appearance of the prison to which Yalentine was com- 
 mitted, he said it could be no other than the Fleet Prison, 
 to which offenders against the Court of Star Chamber were 
 committed. 
 
 Having taken notes of all these things, Sir Arthur, after 
 a short silence, said — 
 
 *' My son, thou art young in years, yet I feel so much 
 trust in thy discretion and courage, that I will make thee 
 acquainted with my present anxious position. So shalt thou 
 see best how to serve me. Art thou able to rise and dress ?" 
 
 " Quite able, my father. I am only a little stiff and sore, 
 but that wiU soon go off." 
 
 " Come to me, then, in an hour, in my study, and we 
 will confer together on this sad matter." 
 
 The hour had scarcely passed, when Henry knocked at 
 the door of his father's study, and there found both his 
 father and mother. 
 
 '*We are going to trust thee, my son, with all our 
 
A night's adventures. 187 
 
 anxieties/' said Sir Arthur ; " but it is in strictest confi- 
 dence. I do not doubt that Valentine will be brought 
 before the Star Chamber, and will incur a heavy fine. The 
 necessities of the king are so great, in this his last struggle 
 to avert a Parliament, that fines are laid on heavily. While 
 I feel thus assured, I am totally unable to pay it. Only 
 yesterday, I learned that, as far as the means to raise money 
 at this moment are concerned, I am totally ruined." 
 
 Sir Arthur, calm and firm as he usually was, seemed 
 unable to go on. His lips quivered, and he was silent for 
 some minutes. Lady Carcwe took his hand, and held it in 
 both hers. 
 
 " It is not the loss of money, as thou well knowest, my 
 dear wife, that moves me thus," he said at last ; " it is the 
 effect on our unhappy son. To what rigours they may 
 expose him, or to what lengthened imprisonment, in default 
 of payment, I know not." 
 
 " Oh, my brother !" said Henry, in a low voice of terror. 
 " But ruined ! How is it so ?" he added. 
 
 " Only yesterday, I heard in the city that Herbert, the 
 great goldsmith, with whom I lodged my rents, and from 
 whom I ever drew my money, has, with some others, lost so 
 large a sum in the mint that he is bankrupt. The king hath 
 seized, under the name of a loan, money lodged there by the 
 merchants and goldsmiths to the amount of £200,000, and 
 by this is Herbert bankrupt." 
 
 There was again a silence. 
 
 " I trust to thee to mention to no one this matter, as far 
 as it concerns me ; the public -will soon know of the fact 
 itself." 
 
188 THE CAREWES. 
 
 " I promise faithfully," said Henry. 
 
 " That we, that thy mother and we all, can cheerfully 
 face such privations as our circumstances require, I know 
 well. It is Yalentine for whom I fear ; and until his 
 examination is over, and sentence passed, I would faiQ keep 
 my necessities secret, lest the knowledge that they cannot 
 raise money from me should dri\'e his judges to greater 
 rigours ; and yet I think they dare not practise them !" 
 
 Sir Arthur rose in excitement, and his cheeks flushed 
 with a sudden colour, which quickl}' faded away. 
 
 " I will do all your bidding, my father.'* 
 
 *' I must not lose a moment in making what interest I 
 can for him ; the means to raise money must be an after 
 consideration. The information thou hast given me this 
 morning directs me well how to begin. Lord Falkland ^yil\ 
 assist me to resist the malice of Colonel Lunsford, and Sir 
 Anthony Yand}^ke may befriend Yalentine. It is also most 
 important that we know where ^^alentine is. While I do 
 my utmost in the quarters I have named, thou must go to 
 him in his prison. I have sent to endeavour to obtain an 
 order for thee, and expect it every minute. Without telling 
 him my misfortunes, for I dare not trust his discretion, 
 work on his mind so as to make him so comport himself 
 before the Star Chamber as to co-operate iivath me in conci- 
 liating enemies and making friends. I would have no dis- 
 honouiing concessions. Simply a quiet bearing, and an 
 acknowledgment that a brawl in the presence of their majes- 
 ties was an outrage requiring an apolog}\ Thou under- 
 standest me ?" 
 
 " I think I do, my father. I will do my best." 
 
A NIGHT S ADVENTURES. 189 
 
 " (^rdcr lliy horse, then, and take a groom to attend 
 thee, and God speed and bless thee, my son.'' 
 
 Henry was on his way, furnished vdt\i an order of admit- 
 tance to the governor of the Fleet Pnson, before half-an- 
 hour had passed. 
 
190 THE CARE WES. 
 
 CHAPTER XYI. 
 
 THE PRISONER. 
 
 The Fleet Prison has now entirely disappeared ; but it 
 existed as a prison for debtors from the date of the abolition 
 of the Star Chamber by the Long Parliament till a few years 
 ago, though the building itself was not the same as that 
 before which Henry dismounted on his father's mission. 
 That dismal structure was destroyed in the great fire of 
 London. It consisted of five storeys of cells, besides an 
 underground one, and was therefore of great height, and also 
 of great length and strength ; and seen by daylight, \nth the 
 dismal feeling that within it his brother was confined, it 
 naturally appalled poor Henry. He rang, and producing 
 his order, met with a reception very different to that of the 
 night before. After a little delay he was admitted. 
 
 It was Henry's first visit to a prison, and the gloom, as 
 well as the confined, unwholesome air, affected him deeply. 
 He was led up a staircase, and found himself in a passage so 
 dark that he could scarcely see the jailer before him, who led 
 the way jingling his keys. The passage seemed of intermin- 
 able length, running, indeed, the whole length of the prison, 
 and only seven feet wide, and lighted solely by a ^^^ndow at 
 each end. There were doors on either hand throughout the 
 
THE PRISONER. 191 
 
 wliole length, numbered outside. At No. 50, tlic jailer 
 stopped, and before unlocking the door, said — 
 
 " You will find the gentleman rather sulky. They be so 
 at first, generally. But he may have what food he wants, 
 or drink, or what it liketh him to say." He then unlocked 
 the door, and telling Henry that only an hour would be 
 allowed him, admitted him and locked him in. 
 
 " Valentine ! I am come to see thee, from my father !" 
 
 Valentine, dressed exactly as he was in the brilliant 
 rooms of "WHiitehall, started up from a miserable bed on 
 wliich he had been lying, and the two brothers stood fiice to 
 face, holding each other by both hands. Valentine was 
 completely prostrated by his misfortune. He had thrown 
 himself on the bed when he was first locked in, and there he 
 had lain, taking no heed of the jailer, who had already been 
 in this morning "with hopes of extorting money for some 
 "wretched comforts he ofiered. The high-grated "window 
 admitted little light, but Henry could see that he looked ill 
 and most dejected. The taint of the prison was upon him, 
 and the court suit he wore made him look the more wretched, 
 as it recalled the far different scene in which he had so lately 
 worn it ; the sumptuous rooms, the blaze of light, the 
 beautiful works of art on every side, the perfumes, the music. 
 What a contrast ! 
 
 It was some time before Henry could produce any effect 
 on him. His senses seemed stunned. At last he broke into 
 passionate exclamations against Morley for dragging him into 
 this senseless quarrel, and against the bullies who had tre- 
 panned them both. From rage he passed into bitter grief 
 at the ruin of his prospects in going abroad with Ijord 
 
]92 THE CAREWES. 
 
 Anindel. At last lie thought of his father, and the disgrace 
 and expense and trouble to him, and then consented to listen 
 to Henry. 
 
 The jailer returned at that moment, but on Henry re- 
 monstrating that the time could not be up, it was found that 
 the man had come again, to bargain about food, feeling sure 
 that money was to be had. Henry ordered breakfast for 
 his brother, and a fire to be lighted in the grate, to take off 
 the damp and chill. All these cells contained chimneys, 
 and were comfortable places in comparison mth the cells in 
 some other prisons, being usually occupied by persons of 
 some position in the world. Sir Arthur had sent money to 
 supply all necessaries. 
 
 Somewhat cheered in spite of himself, Valentine now 
 listened to Henry, but would give but little assurance of any 
 wise conduct on his own part. He had been shamefully used ! 
 To throw him into this dungeon for such a trifling offence, 
 into which he was inveigled unawares, was cruelty. They 
 would fine him. He was grieved about it ; but his father 
 would not grudge the money to redeem him from an imprison- 
 ment into which he had been cast by no fault of his own. 
 Henry left him when summoned away, with a feeling that 
 nothing but telling him the real state of affairs would s 
 ciently impress him to make him cautious. 
 
 A week of anxieties and delays had passed. No ace 
 to the prisoner had been allowed again, and Sir Arthui* co 
 get but little aid in settling the affair. Lord Morley w 
 tried mthout delay, and sentenced to a fine of £10,000, 
 a year's imprisonment. It was natural to suppose tha 
 Valentine's punishment would be lighter, only that 
 
 I 
 
THE PRISONER. 193 
 
 father's name was obnoxious to government ; if it approached 
 this large sum, the difficulty would be very great. 
 
 Of all to whom Sii' Arthur applied, he found Sir Anthony 
 Vandyke the kindest and most courteous. He was really 
 fond of Valentine, who had often been in his studio, and 
 listened mth so much interest, and expressed so much 
 sympathy for the poor young prisoner, as well as the younger 
 brother " who had shown such indomitable will" the night 
 of the arrest, that to him Sii' Arthur confided his heavy 
 losses and his consequent inability, at the present moment 
 at least, till he could sell some of his property, to meet the 
 demands of the Star Chamber. Sir Anthony seemed so 
 alarmed and distressed by this disclosure, that while Sir 
 Arthur was gratified at the kind feeling, he was himself more 
 alarmed for Valentine than he had been before. 
 
 There was little delay in the Court of Star Chamber. 
 Valentine was brought before it a few days before Christmas, 
 and after a short examination was punished as heavily as Lord 
 Morley. He was sentenced to a fine of £10,000, with im- 
 prisonment during the king's pleasure, in default of payment. 
 
 Henry, who was always on the watch, was waiting at 
 the door of the Old Star Chamber Court in Westminster to 
 hear the result. His father was in court and present at 
 the trial. 
 
 A stranger accosted him. 
 
 "Master Carewe, I think?" 
 
 "You are right. Sir." 
 
 " You will be permitted," said the stranger speaking 
 rapidly, and in an under tone, "to go in the coach with your 
 brother. Keep eye and ear open, and act promptly." He 
 
I'Jl THE CARE WES. 
 
 put a paper into Henry's liand ; moved away among a num- 
 ber of people standing about, and disappeared. 
 
 Valentine, guarded, was brouglit out immediately after- 
 wards, with complexion bciglitened by tlie taunts to which 
 he had been exposed. As he stepped into the coach that 
 was ready to take him back to prison, Henry pressed after 
 him, simply saying "By permission," and was allowed to get in. 
 
 There were no guards inside, but two behind and two 
 in front outside. When the flush went off Yalentine's face, 
 Ileiny saw the effects of the prison in his sallow, anxious 
 countenance, and with beating heart looked at the paper 
 ho still held in his hand, to see if there were hope or hel[) 
 there. 
 
 " Read, Valentine ! It is for thee !" 
 
 He read, "Thy father is a rained man, and cannot redeem 
 thee. Be ready !" 
 
 " What lie is this?" asked Valentine. 
 
 " It is the truth." 
 
 Valentine sank back almost fainting. Henry, remember- 
 ing the words of the stranger, kept eye and ear 02)en, and 
 was ready for what might happen. 
 
 It was evemng and growing dark, and snow fell at inter- 
 vals. There was a stoppage in Fleet Street, OAving to a larg ■ 
 cart containing beer barrels, which ^^-ere being delivered into 
 a tavern, having been drawn across the way, and the road 
 was so bad, it was impossible to pass by gomg round it. Tl: 
 driver of the coach swore at the carter, and he returned t\\ 
 oaths with interest. A crowd began to gather. 
 
 " Keep off !" cried one of the guards. " Move your cart, 
 or you shall be forced. "We are on the king's bushiess.' 
 
 i 
 
THE PRISONER. 195 
 
 Hca\Tly and slowly the cart was turned and left just room 
 enough for the coach to go on again. 
 
 They turned into the narrow street that led to the piison. 
 A waggon had broken dowTi and its contents and its wheels 
 and other heavy gear were strewed about. They came to 
 a stand again. There was fresh shouting, swearing and 
 threatening. It was impossible to pass. It grew darker 
 and darker. 
 
 " There's a lane to the right,'' said a voice in the crowd, 
 '' that leads out again into the end of this street." Ilenry 
 thought he knew the voice again. 
 
 ** Take that lane to the right," said the guard. 
 
 The driver obeyed. It was very narrow in the lane. As 
 they went on, another coach came driving towards them at a 
 iiirious rate. There was not width for two coaches. A noisy 
 quarrel began between the drivers, and a great crowd col- 
 lected. Some came to the horses' heads. The guard declared 
 mth a furious oath that it was a rescue — jumped do^\Ti, and 
 lired; the horses plunged, kicked, and broke the shafts. 
 Valentine was alive again. 
 
 '' Now, Carewe," said the same voice at the window. 
 
 Ilenry burst open the coach-door Avith a \4olent kick, 
 after a vain attempt to open it, and only saying, ^'Follow !" 
 jumped out, and crawled under the coach to the opposite side ; 
 saw there at a glance that Yalentine was close to him, and 
 they both got on their feet, and ran at full speed through a 
 whole net-work of courts and alleys. All sound of the 
 tumult they had left had ceased, and not a soul was near 
 them when they stopped. 
 
 " Where are we ?" 
 
196 THE CARE WES. 
 
 " Close to tlie Thames, as I tliink/* 
 
 And, indeed, dark under the snow, which now fell 
 tliickly, they saw the river flomng. They were near Paul's 
 Wharf. They made for it and looked for a boat. There 
 were only two watermen still there. It was too late, and the 
 weather too bad to expect fares. 
 
 " A guinea to row us a mile or two down the river !" 
 cried Valentine. 
 
 '' Get in, sir," said one. " Up the river, you meant, my 
 honourable young gentleman," he added, when they were 
 seated. " We can never shoot the bridge in this tide, and the 
 wind bloTving like that." 
 
 " Yeiy well. Up, then !" 
 
 The wind increased; the boat tossed as if in the sea. 
 The waterman said he must land them at the nearest stairs. 
 They were now close to Whitehall. 
 
 " Another guinea to pull us up higher," said Yalentine. 
 
 The waterman pulled away. Henry, who was a strong 
 and skilful rower, took one of the oars, and they got on 
 faster. But again the man protested against going on. 
 
 " Keep across to the Surrey side, then," said Yalentine. 
 
 The man obeyed, but stopped at the first staii's, sapng 
 he would not attempt Chelsea Reach for ten guineas. 
 
 They landed. It was so dark and lonely they felt as 
 they had nothing to fear. 
 
 " Are we at Lambeth stairs ?" 
 
 " Yes, my master. '* 
 
 " Ah. Here are two guineas for thee." 
 
 " Two more would not be over-much to keep a quiet 
 tongue in my mouth." 
 
 I 
 
THE PRISONER. 197 
 
 " AVhat matters a quiet tongue to us !" said Valentine? 
 [)rou(lly. " On, Henry ! No bribe we can give can buy him." 
 They dashed off into the darkness. 
 
 A hirge building, brilliantly lighted, was before them. 
 
 " The archbishop's palace !" said Valentine. " We have 
 I'un into the lion's mouth." 
 
 " The lion cannot see into his mouth," said Henry. 
 
 " Eight well suggested. No man could think we were 
 such fools as to come here." 
 
 They now found themselves getting into the midst of a 
 crowd of people ; beggars and cripples were mixed with a 
 number of decent, respectable, but mostly poor people, some 
 of them ^ith an air of decayed gentility, but all were stream- 
 ing one way, towards the open door leading to the servants' 
 offices in the palace. It was Christmas time, and charity 
 was administered in this way. 
 
 Acting on the principle that it was good policy for them 
 to run into the lion's mouth, Valentine proposed to follow 
 with the rest. They had both large cloaks on. Their liats 
 were so battered and soaked by the wind and snow, which 
 had now changed to sleet, and their whole dress so splashed 
 and disordered, that they looked sufficiently shabby to pass 
 muster. Henry, however, gave Valentine especial charge to 
 hide his face as much as possible, and to keep quiet. This 
 caution was necessary; for Valentine, true to his volatile 
 nature, and delighted with his freedom, was in high spirits. 
 Henry also took a warm cravat off his o\vti throat and 
 tied it round Valentine's, covering up his long curls en- 
 tirely. 
 
 In this manner they entered the archbishop's palace, 
 
198 
 
 THE CAREWES. 
 
 among the throng of his pensioners, and seated themselves in 
 as remote and quiet a corner as possible. 
 
 There was abundance of good cheer serving out. Great 
 rounds of beef, brawn, and chines of pork, and plenty of 
 strong ale. They both, Valentine especially, enjoyed it 
 extremely. He whispered to Henry that the air of the river 
 was mightily more appetising than the Fleet. Henry actu- 
 ally turned pale at his mentioning the word, and gave him a 
 kick under the table. 
 
 " Kough weather, my master !" said an old man, who sat 
 next Valentine. *' Sad it is for us poor folks that has to go 
 through it. 'Tis well for them as can live in palaces !^' 
 
 "Ay, ay, 'tis well for them!" returned Valentine, in a 
 whimpering voice. " But they give us good brawn and ale." 
 
 " Hold tliy peace !" whispered Henry. 
 
 Just then a sound of drums, trumpets, and clarions wa.^ 
 heard, and a voice proclaimed — 
 
 " Stand by and uncover ! His Grace's meat is served." 
 
 I 
 
THE PRISONER. 19i> 
 
 and a whole train of cooks and serving men passed through 
 from the kitchen and up the wide staircase, carrying up the 
 feast. 
 
 In the midst of the noise and confusion, Henry had a 
 minute to whisper, ^\ithout fear of being overheard — 
 
 " I have a wonderftd scheme in my head. Nurse's son, 
 the waterman of Yauxhall, married our pretty Cicely. They 
 would bo true to us through fire and water. We caimot be 
 far off. Can you find the way ?" 
 
 *' Surely I can. A good idea." 
 
 They moved to the door ; a crowd was passing. 
 
 " Best let the crowd pass by," said a lame old man to 
 Valentine. " 'Tis a hue and cry after two gentlemen running 
 from the bailiffs, they say !" 
 
 Henrj^'s blood ran cold. 
 
 "Ah!" said Valentine. " Eoystering, ill-living fellows, 
 that have cheated their tailors, I make bold to say. I have 
 a mighty feeling for those poor tailors." 
 
 '* Ha, ha ! I thought as much," laughed the old man. 
 " I thought thou hadst a smack o' the goose about thee." 
 
 " Which way did they run ?" asked Henry, while Valen- 
 tine tried to swallow this not very flattering remark. 
 
 ''Putney way, so I heard tell. I think we may go on 
 now, my masters, and thou mayest back to thy board. The 
 good cheer hath made me mighty merry, ha, ha !" 
 
 Well pleased to hear the pursuit was in the opposite 
 direction, they turned towards Vauxhall. It was only seven 
 o'clock yet, so rapidly had their flight been made. There 
 were plenty of people about in the low neighbourhood they 
 sought, and lights in taverns to help them through the maze 
 
200 THE CAREWES. 
 
 of lanes towards the stairs. Craiiy the waterman was well 
 known, and a little inquiry brought them to his door. His 
 house was more substantial than the common, and his 
 mother's good lessons, and Cicely's sa\angs and management, 
 were visible both outside and in. The waterman was seated 
 by a good bright fire, after liis day's work, A^ith a baby of a 
 year old on his knee, and the pan of fried meat that Cicely 
 had been cooking for his supper hissed and sputtered, and 
 filled the little room mth a savoury smell. She opened the 
 door herself, and Henry, instantly uncovering his head, to 
 show her who he was, put his finger on his lips, pressed in 
 with Valentine, and bolted the door inside. 
 
 He need not have bespoke silence. She was so astonished 
 that her voice utterly failed her, and, for a wonder. Cicely 
 had no words. But words soon came, and wonder gave place 
 to horror, both in her and her husband, at the words, 
 " Star Chamber," which Henry told them was Valentine's 
 danger, in order to show them the necessity of secrecy. To 
 be "Star Chambered" was di-eaded in those days like 
 death. 
 
 The earnestness to serve their young masters shown 
 both by man and wife, was boundless. They should be as 
 safe as if they were over the seas. They must sit down by 
 the fire and diy their wet clothes. They must eat and drink 
 only what was good enough for them ! 
 
 Thanks to the archbishop they wanted nothing but 
 warmth and rest. There was time to think now. In the 
 first whirl of the escape, the excitement and danger had pre- 
 vented all thought, but now Valentine's despondency had re- 
 turned. He had escaped from prison, it was true, but even 
 
THE PRISONER. 201 
 
 if he succeeded in avoiding recapture, how unfortunate he 
 was ! "Where were his hopes and prospects flown ? What 
 did those words mean, '' Thy father is a ruined man !" 
 Henry, on his part, had anxious thoughts also. " What 
 would his father think of this flight ? Would he not perhaps 
 condemn it ? If Valentine were retaken, would not all he 
 worse than ever? Oh that must not be ; He must not be 
 retaken.'* 
 
 They longed to be alone and to talk over their difficult 
 circumstances, and Cicely was already preparing a small 
 upper room for them, in which she made up a bed with all 
 the best bedding and linen in her small establishment. 
 Thither they retired, not to sleep, but to think what to do 
 next. They knew that Crairy and Cicely would be true to 
 them, but to remain long in this small house was impossible, 
 ■snthout discovery. Henry's wish was to get to Crewhurst 
 and hide Valentine in the secret room, the access to which 
 from Avdthout he knew. But how to get there, through a 
 neighbourhood where their faces were so well known ? An- 
 other anxiety pressed on him; the thoughts of home and 
 the fears and sorrows there. How to calm these mthout 
 danger to^ Valentine, he had not resolved when sleep over- 
 came him. 
 
 He awoke with the first stir of the noisy neighbourhood 
 in the morning, and now his head was much clearer. The 
 liver aff'orded an easy access to the neighboui'hood of Crew- 
 hurst. The last part of the transit there, between AVindsor 
 and his father's propert}% would be the most dangerous. 
 Scarcely could he see how to manage that, but it must bo 
 attempted. Before day-break he had despatched Crairy in 
 
202 THE CAREWES. 
 
 his boat to Temple Stairs, with directions to see Sir Arthur 
 himself, and deliver to his own ear the following message : 
 " We go whither thou and Osbaldeston wot of." He would 
 venture no more, nor would he send any written words. 
 
 The anxious thought now was how to disguise them- 
 selves. 
 
 " I could buy worsted stockings, stout shoes, and a freize 
 coat, dye my face, and look like a country lout well enough," 
 said Henry ; '' but thou art so completely like a fine gentle- 
 man, it would never do with thee ! We might sooner make 
 thee like a lovely young lady, if only thou wert not so tall, 
 than like a farmer." 
 
 " If I might make bold," said Cicely, who was waiting 
 on them at breakfast, *' to give my advice, I think Master 
 Yalentine might do well for a buxom dame ; say now, your 
 mother. Master Henry." 
 
 Valentine threw himself back in his chair, and laughed 
 immoderately. 
 
 *' I hold by my plan," said Cicely again. " He must let 
 me dress his hair 1 ke a woman's. Not like mine, but in rustic 
 fashion. I know how 'tis done ; and we must shave off his 
 mustaches — ^that's a matter of necessity. Then, if he would 
 let me buy him a proper suit — ^though how to get a petticoat 
 long enough ! Well, I must lengthen it myself; but I make 
 certain sure I'm right when I say that if he wore a high- 
 crowned hat, a good gray cloak, with a hood to draw over 
 his hat, because o' the cold, or it may be the rheumatis in 
 his head, and would let me paint his face like a ruddy 
 country dame, he would do well ; he would look, for all the 
 world, like one. Tall and buxom, to be sure, but what 
 
THE PRISONER. »)8 
 
 then ? I have seen some such i' the country ; yes, quite as 
 taU as he !" 
 
 Valentine continued to laugh, but would not consent to 
 this scheme at all. " How could he ride like a woman?" 
 
 *' But we would get Crairy to pull us up to Windsor in 
 his boat. Thou couldst sit in a boat like a woman. Only 
 how to land at "Windsor? 'Twould be too dangerous." 
 
 " Once i' the town, if you could but get safe in," said 
 Cicely, " you could go to Jacob Grindlay's hosteMe ; him as 
 married Woodruffe's sister." 
 
 " Surely we could. They would help us on and be true 
 to us in any strait. I know Jacob well, and any one belong- 
 ing to Woodruffe is sure." 
 
 " But I dread Master Valentine striding on in's petti- 
 coats. He must not have a chance to walk. He ought to 
 step out o' the boat on to his horse." 
 
 Henry thought of one place after another. There was 
 Walton-on-Thames, Weybridge, Shepperton. A good post- 
 ing-house at Shepperton, close to the stairs. There he 
 might hire horses. He must consult Crairy. Meanwhile, 
 Crairy did not return. Possibly Sir Arthur was out, or, sad 
 to think, he might be ill. As time went on, Valentine said 
 he would consent to any plan likely to get them off, for the 
 danger of remaining in this little place, in that crowded 
 neighbourhood, became more and more evident. Somehow 
 or other, they must be on their way to a safer hiding-place 
 before another day broke. 
 
206 THE CAREWES. 
 
 " But if he's caught," said Dame Grindlay. " Oh, the 
 powers, what then ? They'll pillory him, and, it may be, 
 cut off his handsome ears !" 
 
 " Never speak o' the like," said her husband, angrily ; 
 " I tell thee, dame, the Star Chamber, bad as 'tis, do not do 
 these things to gentlemen like him." 
 
 '*I warrant thee, then, and wasn't Master Prynne a 
 learned gentleman ?" 
 
 " And who ever said Master Yalentine was a learned 
 gentleman, dame ? I tell thee they Tvill not do those things 
 to Sir Arthur's son ; but 'tis a sore thing to think how they 
 may coop him up in the Tower, it may be to die there, like 
 Sir John Eliot. He's safe here to-night though, anyhow, 
 and let 'em have the best beds, dame." 
 
 Hemy thanked him, but begged no change might be 
 made in the order as to their beds. Let them have the two 
 little rooms they had chosen, and in the morning they would 
 tell their wishes farther. 
 
 They were very quiet all the morning, and in the afternoon 
 they were on the road again, as before, with Jacob Grindlay 
 for company, mounted on his old gray mare. They took the 
 road to Crewhurst ; skirted the chase, and entered it by the 
 road fi'om Oxford. When safe under the trees, in a very 
 lonely place, they dismounted, and Yalentine took off his 
 woman's dress, and appeared in one of the same description 
 as Henry's. His long hair, tightly rolled up on the top of 
 his head, was concealed under his hat. Tlicn they made up 
 the dress into a bundle, and filled it with, heavy stones; 
 took off the saddle and pillion and tied stones to them; 
 went to a large deep pond near, broke the ice on it, and sank 
 
 1 
 
THE FUGITITE. 207 
 
 them. Jacob then took the nag in hand, bade them a hasty 
 farewell, prayed God bless and preserve them, and rode off 
 while they continued theu' way through the chase. 
 
 "We cannot be traced, I think,'* said Henry, "if he 
 sells the nag at Reading," 
 
 " And that he's sure to do, as we charged him to hold 
 straight on there, and take anjihing he could get for it." 
 
 The sky was perfectly clear of clouds. The moon rose 
 and threw her silver light through the bare boughs, covering 
 the snow}^ ground ^^dth a network of shadows. They went 
 off the wide bridle track, through narrow paths that wound 
 among thickets of holly and ivy, under the gnarled and 
 knotted tree-trunks. They knew every foot of the ground, 
 and could thread their way anyAvhere in safety. 
 
 Suddenly they stopped in alarm. They heard a whistle 
 distinctly, and then a loud voice calling " Wolf!" 
 
 " That is Leeson !" said Valentine. " He would never 
 betray us !" 
 
 " We need not his help, and the fewer we trust the bet- 
 ter. Things are whispered unawares from one to another. 
 Keep close!" 
 
 " I will. King Solomon ! But Wolf scents us, and will 
 find us, do what you will." 
 
 Such shouting, whistling, and cracking of a whip followed 
 as showed how hard Leeson had found it to call in his dog, 
 and poor Wolf had to bear a punishment for it, as they heard. 
 
 They went on again ; climbed the park wall, and walked 
 by the heronry. There were no herons now ; all had migrated 
 long ago ; the swans were sheltering among the reeds on the 
 brink ; the water was frozen, and the cold moonbeams glim- 
 
208 THE CAREWES. 
 
 mered across it. All was very still and desolate. They 
 stopped and looked at the scene. They had halted on the 
 very spot where, little more than two years ago, Valentine 
 came home so gay and happy with his friends, and showed 
 them the heauties and glories of Crewhurst so proudly. 
 What a change there was now ! The cold desolation of the 
 scene was hut a tj'pe of their altered fortunes. 
 
 It was very silent in the park. The deer had gathered 
 under their sheds ; the cows and sheep were housed ; only 
 the owls hooted from time to time from some old i^ded 
 wall. 
 
 At last they came mthin sight of the Hall, passing by 
 the stables. All was silent there, too. I^ot a steed stood 
 in stall now. 
 
 They were winding round behind the stables, to get to 
 the secret opening which Henry knew, when he held back 
 Yalentine with a strong grasp, saying, in a whisper — 
 
 " We are watched ! Climb up after me !" and in a 
 minute they were high up among the branches of one of the 
 old cedars, and completely hidden from below by its thick 
 foliage. 
 
 Yalentine now saw to his dismay, as distinctly as Henry 
 had done, a number of people silently mo^ang among the 
 trees. They passed on beyond the entrance to the court of 
 of&ces, and continued to move towards the Hall. 
 
 ** "What can it mean?" whispered Yalentine. "I see 
 two women and a boy with them. They cannot be bailiffs 
 or sheriffs* officers !" 
 
 " The foremost man carries a drum. Can it be a party 
 of soldiers ?" 
 
I 
 
THE FUGITIVE. 209 
 
 *' But how then about these women ?" 
 
 *' Hush, they are coming under this tree !" 
 
 " What did the man say ?" 
 
 " He said, ' There's not a light in a single window.' " 
 
 " Ah ! they know of our plans somehow. Some one 
 has betrayed us. These women are showing them the way. 
 They are scouts, and have a strong party concealed." 
 
 " ^y}iiii are they doing now ?" 
 
 As Henry whispered these words, the drum began to 
 sound. A signal doubtless to the concealed party ! After 
 a pause it sounded again, their hearts beating time to it. 
 The i^arty had stopped in front of the tree. It was an awful 
 pause. 
 
 A great coughing and clearing of throats now began 
 below ; doubtless another signal ! 
 
 "They must have seen us, I fear!" whispered Henry; 
 " but keep still and silent for your life !" 
 
 The drum now, accompanied by a pipe, sounded again, 
 and the two performed the symphony to a well-kno^Ti carol ; 
 then all the party, raising their voices, sang the words, the 
 women and boys taking the high parts. The words were lost 
 in the distance, but after the music came a loud voice, 
 which they recognised as Thomas Boult's. 
 
 " God bless the good family, and send them home to us ! 
 and we've sang their wassail to the empty house. A cheer for 
 Sir Arthur Carewe and all his noble family ! " 
 
 Then came a good hearty cheer. 
 
 "It is worth while to be in adversity to make one know 
 what good hearts there are in the world," said Hcnr}% and 
 he had to dash away a teai' as he spoke. 
 
 o 
 
210 THE CAREWES. 
 
 " It is very dismal, though, and a great trouble, to be in 
 adversity. I do not Hke it at all/* said Yalentine. 
 
 The party below began to move away again ; but now 
 a light appeared in a window of the Hall. It was opened, 
 and old nurse's head, well "wrapped up in a handkerchief, 
 was put out. The party upon this moved towards the house, 
 and a short conference began. The two brothers in the tree 
 could hear nurse's shrill voice, but could not catch her words, 
 but as it ended in the light disappearing from the window, 
 and an opening of the door, and as after a short stay the 
 wassailers took their departure, and all became perfectly 
 quiet again, it was natural to infer that nurse had regaled 
 them with some good ale, wished them merry Christmas, and 
 they had gone home. 
 
 "Now we may slide dov»m and get into our hiding place," 
 said Henry. 
 
 " Sorry cheer we shall find there, I expect." 
 " I would I saw thee safe in it, for all its sorry 
 cheer." 
 
 They were on the ground again now, and Henr^' began 
 to lead the way. He went close up to the old tower, and 
 stopped before a large mass of i\^, which, half covering the 
 tower, was extremely thick, and projected a long way over 
 the grass at the roots. Pushing it aside at one place, he 
 crept in followed by Yalentine. They crawled along on 
 hands and knees, among the matted branches, till they came 
 to a place where the shoots of the ivy formed a little arch 
 over a hole in the ground, but the leaves overhead were so 
 thick that the moonlight did not get through. It was per 
 fcctly dark, and Henry only found the place by groping 
 
 I 
 
THE FUGITIVE. 211 
 
 with his hands. He let himself do^vn into the opening till 
 his feet rested on a block of stone below. 
 
 " Let yourself down after me steadily, and you will find 
 footing." 
 
 Valentine obeyed. 
 
 " Keep quite still while I strike a light, or you will fall 
 into the dungeon." 
 
 It took a little while to strike a spark with flint and steel, 
 and then Henry lighted a little horn lanthorn he carried in 
 his pocket. 
 
 The light showed down into a deep and dismal pit, the 
 old dungeon of the tower. They were on the highest of a flight 
 of stone steps that led down into it. Leaping from one to 
 the other, they got to the bottom. The feeble rays of the 
 lanthorn did not penetrate the whole of its gloomy dimen- 
 sions. 
 
 "^Yliat a horrible place!" said Valentine shuddering. 
 " It freezes me to the bone. This is not oui' place of refuge, 
 is it ?" 
 
 " No, no ; we are going up to a snug room. But, Valen- 
 tine ! men — and those our ancestors — have thrown other men 
 into this dismal hole to pine and die, and that's a dreadful 
 thought !" 
 
 " Well, do not think of it now. ' Tis quite enough to be 
 here ourselves. What is that sound ?" 
 
 " The dropping of water." 
 
 Hemy now led the way across the dungeon, to a small 
 opening in the wall, and crept through it, followed by Valen- 
 tine. Then they found themselves in a large square place, 
 which they crossed again, and began to ascend a very steep. 
 
212 THE CAREWES. 
 
 winding staircase hewn out in the wall. At the top they 
 found a landing place, and a strong door which opened by a 
 spring that Henry understood. Within, he was able to 
 secure it by a bolt, so that it could not be opened by any one 
 outside. They had reached their place of refuge at last. 
 
 "Now I have thee safe. We have escaped in truth !" 
 cried Henry exultingiy. 
 
 He set the lanthorn dowa on a table that stood in the 
 middle of the room. Its light fell upon many things that 
 brought back to his memory, in a moment, the events of 
 former days : his o^^^l sufferings, his mother's love, ]\±r. 
 Russell with all his goodness and strength, and aifection. 
 He had to rouse himself to action, or he could have sat dovm 
 and dreamed over it all. 
 
 There were many comforts in the room that had been 
 brought down by Mr. Russell for Lady Carewe's use, besides 
 what the doctor had before. It looked sumptuous to the 
 tired wanderers ; the air also was neither damp nor close, 
 though there was no window. The immense thickness of 
 the walls kept out cold and wet entirely, and besides many 
 openings for ventilation, there was a wide chimney com- 
 municating with the outer air, skilfiilly constructed in the 
 wall, and permitting the smoke to escape among the iv\' 
 boughs in such a manner that it had never yet excited obser- 
 vation. Nevertheless, in the day time, it was necessary to 
 be cautious in lighting a fire. 
 
 At present, however, there was no occasion to fear it, 
 and Henry, remembering where all the treasures were, went to 
 a gi-eat heap of dry wood in a corner, piled it up, and lighted 
 it on the hearth. The cheerful glow sent such a brightness 
 
THE FrOITIVE. 213 
 
 over everything, that Yalentine's spirits rose high ; he drew 
 a chair close to the blazing fire, began to laugh over their 
 adventures, and to pile up more logs. 
 
 " I^ow, then, for our supper ! " said Henry. " Come, 
 Master farmer ! turn out your pockets ! 'Tis mighty con- 
 venient to play the farmer and wear a frieze jacket for 
 the sake of these capital pockets." 
 
 They had soon spread on the table a supply of bread, 
 half a ham, and some cheese. 
 
 " But what are we to drink ?" asked Valentine, looking 
 up in consternation as Henry, who had been purveyor, took 
 out his last parcel. 
 
 " You cannot think the contriver of this good room 
 Ibrgot the need of water to drink?" 
 
 " Water ! Is that all we are to have ?" 
 
 " We could scarcely carry a barrel of ale, or even a 
 beaker of sherry-sack, I would suggest to your lordship." 
 
 " Well ! I knew it would be sorry cheer ! But where's 
 the water?" 
 
 " For that I must go do^vn into your favourite place, the 
 dungeon, again. Now for the pitcher we left." 
 
 He groped in a comer and found a water pitcher, and 
 with it prepared to descend the stair again. 
 
 " Thou mlt not come to look at the spring ?" 
 
 *' H^o, not to-night. I am so tired and the fire is so 
 pleasant. Make haste back. Thou ncedst not be long." 
 
 Hem-y was half way dow^i in a few minutes carrying his 
 pitcher and lanthom. When at the bottom he crossed the 
 dungeon to that comer whence the sound of dropping water 
 came that had startled Valentine. Here flowed a little 
 
214 THE CAREWES. 
 
 spring out of the dark rock on wliicli the tower was built, 
 glancing bright as a diamond in the light of the lanthorn. 
 He placed his pitcher beneath it, and waited while it filled, 
 and while waiting he held up the Hght and looked into the 
 depths where the water fell. It had worked a deep chasm 
 for itself. He threw in a piece of stone, and it sounded loud 
 and hoUoAY from the bottom. As he looked, the idea occui-red 
 to him that dreadful deeds might have been done there, and 
 that if he could fathom that gloomy pit, he might find hmnan 
 bones in it. The sound the stone had sent up even seemed, 
 to his imagination, as it echoed through the vault, to have 
 changed into hollow groans. A cold shudder ran through 
 him, and a feeling of superstitious dread and horror got hold 
 of him, so that he stood trembling there in the darkness, and 
 forgot his water pitcher, which was running over. 
 
 The lanthorn fell from his hand. This accident roused 
 him. Its loss would have been a serious misfortune. He 
 stooped and picked it up, and as he raised it, the light fell 
 again on the sparkling water flowing from the rock. It 
 seemed to say to him, " God is good. He ever gives good 
 gifts to His children flo^\ing from His heaven, like this pure 
 water. It is they who abuse His gifts, and turn them into 
 the means of crime and misery." 
 
 Plainly, as though the words had been spoken, did Henry 
 feel the heavenly message in his soul, and with it came words 
 that his mother had read to him the very last day he was 
 with her : " I will give thee that li\^ng water." He knelt 
 beside the spring, and out of the depths of that dungeon 
 rose his prayer, " Let me not abuse Thy gifts, oh Father ! 
 Open my heart to the living waters of His love, whom Tho 
 
 I 
 
THE FUGITIVE. 215 
 
 didst send to us. Forgive me, whom Thou hast blessed ^\ith 
 
 this great deliverance of my brother, for my faithless fears." 
 
 Then Henry rose strong and joyous, and scarcely felt the 
 
 ground beneath his feet, nor knew he Avas carrying a heavy 
 
 weight up difficult steps, till he heard Valentine's voice call — 
 
 " I thought thou wouldst never come back ! " 
 
 They ate and drank merrily ; deciding that though no 
 
 flourish of trumpets had ushered in the ham and bread and 
 
 cheese, they enjoyed their supper as much as if they had 
 
 both been archbishops. Then they piled on logs enough to 
 
 keep in the fire, put out their lanthorn, lay doAvn side by side 
 
 on the bed, and slept soundly for nearly twelve hours. 
 
216 
 
 THE CARE-VVTS 
 
 CHAPTEE XYIII. 
 
 THE EXILE. 
 
 The brothers spent their Christmas-day in their stranj 
 silent room, but not in any melancholy mood. They wei 
 glad to rest, and the feeling of security was delightful an( 
 sufficient for the day. They could at least burn their }iil( 
 log, as Henry said ; and as to their dinner, they must remem- 
 ber the good old saying, " Enough is as good as a feast," an< 
 they had enough, though none to spare. 
 
 So now when night was come, Henry must go forth anc 
 try to find "Woodruffe. He could be trusted like a brotherl 
 and it was to him they must look for a supply of food and 
 else they wanted. Above all, in Henry's estimation, we 
 Woodi'uffe's help necessary to communicate mth theii* familyJ 
 to tell them Yalentine was safe, and to receive their father'( 
 commands what to do next. 
 
 Henr}^ waited till eight o'clock to set out. • He T\ish( 
 that eveiy one in the tillage should be in bed and asleej 
 by the time he got there, and in that quiet place this hoi 
 was considered quite late enough to go to rest. He kne"\ 
 that they would all have had their Christmas beef and al^ 
 sent down from ^ the Hall, and he hoped they would slee] 
 soundly after it. He intended to go softly to Woodruffe'a 
 
THE EXILE. 217 
 
 \\Tiidow and tap at it and awake him. No one but Wood- 
 ruffe himself and his old mother, who was deaf, lived in his 
 cottage, and Henry hoped he could manage well. Though 
 he knew that every one in the village woidd be true and 
 faithful, he ^^'ishcd if possible to conceal the fact of Valentine's 
 concealment from every one but Woodruffe. Valentine al- 
 ways called him King Solomon, when he said so, but he did 
 not cai'e for that. He knew it was safer, because, however 
 faithful they were, some of them might be indiscreet. 
 
 It was a stormy night. The frost was breaking up, and 
 the clouds scudding across the sky, and, ever and anon 
 obscuring the moon, made alternations of darkness with her 
 silveiy Hght, as Henry, cautiously mo^dng aside the ivy 
 leaves, looked out over the snowy park. No liATng creature 
 was to be seen, so he crept out and stood upright. 
 
 The nearest way would have been to cross the park to 
 the avenue, but a dark figure moving across the white 
 ground would have been seen at a great distance there, when- 
 ever the moon shone out, if any eye was open and happened 
 to look that v»' ay ; so he made a circuit, keeping carefully 
 under the trees. 
 
 The way he took led him by the church, wliich, as has 
 been said, was close to the park wall, forming, in fact, a part 
 of its boundary ; and the burial vault of the Carewe family 
 abutted into the park, and had a separate entrance by a 
 narrow gi-ated door from it. All around it there was a tliick 
 plantation of yews and cypresses. 
 
 Henry thought that he was perfectly secure against meeting 
 any one in this path. No one would go near the vault, nor 
 even approach the grove of dark trees near it, after nightfall. 
 
218 THE CAREWES. 
 
 It Avas an age in which a belief in ghosts, witches, and 
 sorcery was nearly universal ; but Henry, with his earnest 
 purpose in his mind, and the strength that came the night 
 before, and wliich had set up a steadfast power Avdtliin him, 
 walked firmly on, fearing nothing. 
 
 The A^dnd whistled and moaned among the yew trees. 
 It moaned so like a human moan, that he could scarcely 
 believe it was only the Avind. Then a large owl flew clos 
 past his face, in its strange noiseless flight, and its A\dld un- 
 earthly cry came back on the wind like a sobbing wail. 1\ 
 was echoed by a groan from the vault. Yes, it was a gToan : 
 there could be no mistake about it ; and, strange to sa^ 
 the ii'on door was open, and a faint light glimmered mthii 
 
 Henry's knees shook under him. A cold sickly dret 
 crept over him. But it was only for a moment. Thi 
 strength that was in him supported him, and he shook ol 
 his fear ; walked on slowly but steadily, and looked into th^ 
 vault. 
 
 There was a dark figure within, and a torch set againsi 
 the wall ; and from the figure came words, mixed mth sobs 
 and moans. " Have mercy ! have pity ! Let not the youn{ 
 life be taken ! If one must die, let it not be Mast 
 Henry !" 
 
 ^'Woodruffe!" 
 
 The figure started round. It was AYoodi-ufle, but hi 
 seemed paralysed with terror. He spoke again. 
 
 " Oh, what wouldst have ? 1 will serve thee, living oj 
 dead, my dear young master !" 
 
 Henry rushed forward ; but "Woodruffe drew back, an^ 
 had reached the utmost end of the vault before Hem 
 
 ■■.! 
 
 I 
 
THE EXILE. 219 
 
 caught him by both hands. lie was trembling from head 
 to foot. 
 
 But now liis feared changed to extravagant joy. He 
 laughed, he cried, he shook Heniy*s hand, he clapped him 
 on the back, and at last found voice to declare that he cared 
 for nothing now, since it was Master Henry himself that was 
 come. 
 
 "I did tliink it was your spirit; and no wonder, after 
 what we had heard." 
 
 '' What have you heard ?" 
 
 '* But, Master Henry, why have you come to this fear- 
 some place ?" 
 
 " Come out of this place — come under the trees with me, 
 and I wiU teU you everything. I was in search of you to 
 teU you. But first, what had you heard ? Put out the torch, 
 and come under the trees and tell me." 
 
 Woodi'uffe obeyed, and at last ceasing to shake and 
 tremble, said — 
 
 *' Ditchly came yesternight, and told us the news from 
 Lunnon. Says he, * Master Yalentine's Star- Chambered !' 
 That was bad enough ; but I stood that, and hoped some way 
 he'd get off. *For trying to kiU Colonel Lunsford,' again 
 he says. He ^viU never let alone, thinks I in to myself, HUl 
 he 's done it, but I said nothing. ' Master Henry has got 
 him out 0* prison,' he goes on. 'He's gone off wi' hitn to 
 Portsmouth, and they are both taken, and both sentenced ; 
 and they will be beheaded.' That I couldn't stand no way. 
 I was like a madman. I knew it was just like you to go 
 and break prison to get him out, and just the most likely 
 thing that you would be taken. Not a man, woman, nor 
 
<220 TIIE CAFvEWES. 
 
 cliild has tasted their Christmas beef and ale this day. 
 There has been a fast instead of a feast, and I came here 
 this night to pray for mercy, and mercy I have received." 
 
 Woodruffe, strong man as he was, was completely over- 
 come, and unable to speak ; and Henry again seized both 
 his hands, and stood long holding them, while his OA^^l tears 
 flowed fast. 
 
 "We are all right now, everything is right, Master 
 Henry, now you are here your own self again," Woodruffe 
 went on. " Who invents all the lies ?" 
 
 "They are not all lies, though." 
 
 " ^Yhat ! Don't say those thing 5 to me !" 
 
 " Listen to me, Woodruffe," said Hemy ; and then 
 warning him first that he must be secret, Henry told him 
 what had really happened, and the perilous situation in 
 which Yalentine stood, and then what service was re- 
 quired from him. Henry could not tell him the place where 
 they were concealed, having come under a solemn engage- 
 ment with his father never to reveal it without special per- 
 mission. This he explained to Woodruffe, feeling that, but 
 for this engagement, boundless trust might have been placed 
 in his faithful servant. 
 
 " We want food regularly brought to some safe place,'' 
 said he. " Nowhere is so safe as this vault. Lot it be here 
 in this hollow old yew." 
 
 "The owls will have it." 
 
 "You must pack it safe in a box or basket." 
 
 " Well, if needs must, it shall be here." 
 
 " Above all, I want you to go off to London in the 
 morning." 
 
TIIE EXILE. 22t 
 
 " IIow to do tiiat, and take care o' you at once, I cannot 
 see." 
 
 '* But I must send by you a message to my father, and 
 I dare not write. No one but you can take it." 
 
 " I need not be long gone, riding post-baste. But to go 
 by morning ! Where 's the food to come from ? I have it. 
 Mother's Christmas beef and ale you shall have, and I Avill 
 satisfy her somehow." 
 
 Henry would not hear of this. On the contrary, he 
 must tell her, and all at the ^'illage, that the news was 
 wrong, and Master Yalentinc had escaped, and Master 
 Henry was all right, and slio must eat the beef her- 
 self. 
 
 " I have it, again. Can you cook meat, if meat you 
 have ?" 
 
 " Surely. We have plenty of Avood for firing." 
 
 '' Then wait about ; get up i' the old yew where I was 
 to put the meat, till I come again, and j^ou shall have a 
 quarter of a good fat buck as Ditchly is to take in the 
 morning. It seemed little good to send it; but Ditchly 
 he said, * What then ? Sir Arthur must eat, come what 
 may!'" 
 
 " That will do. Here I am, up in the tree. Some bread 
 thy old mother will spare to two poor hungry lads." 
 
 " That will she, and the beef too, if you yAW. have it." 
 
 '' That I will not." 
 
 " Could you manage a fla^-k of ale ?" 
 
 Henry thought of Valentine. '' I vrill try ; but a fiask 
 of oil is more important. Bring one if you can." 
 
 -Knives?" 
 
222 THE CAREWES. 
 
 " We have them, our two good pocket knives ; and as 
 for the new fashion of forks, why, we do mthout them." 
 
 "Forks! AVhat be they ?" 
 
 Henry explained. 
 
 " There's many a thing made for the penny/' said Wood- 
 ruffe. "What will they think of next? Well, Master 
 Henry, I shall not be long. Old mother's asleep by this 
 time, and will not hear me go to cut up the buck." 
 
 In a wonderfully short time, Woodruffe was back ; and 
 Henry had, meanwhile, time to think what message to send 
 to his father. It was a brief but distinct one. " We are 
 safe! Where — you know. Send us your commands, and 
 all you can tell us of yourselves, and your blessing !" 
 
 Woodruffe had to repeat these words several times, to 
 be sure of them. Then he loaded Henry; the venison 
 slung on his back ; the bread in his pockets ; a flask in 
 either hand. 
 
 " 'Tis Avell you have a strong back. Master Henry." 
 
 " Good night, and God speed you, Woodruffe ; and 
 meet me here, three nights from this time, Avith my father's 
 commands." 
 
 So saying Henry set forth, under cover of the trees again, 
 and reached the iA-y safely. It re(|uired some contrivance to 
 get into the hole in the dark, loaded as he was ; but on the 
 top step was his lantliorn. HaA-ing lighted it, he was at no 
 loss. It required only two or three journeys up and doAMi, 
 and he knocked at the door for admittance, with all his booty. 
 
 The sight of ale and venison, the means of light, and 
 the excitement of Henry's news and adventures, raised Valen- 
 tine's spirits in a moment. He sat Henry do^vii, and dubbed 
 
THE EXILE. 223^ 
 
 liimself cook, Laving learned to rough it for himself a little 
 in the campaign against the Scots ; and they were soon en- 
 jo}'ing a feast and very merry over it, and very soundly they 
 slept after it. 
 
 The thi-ee days that had to be passed before Woodrufic 
 \yould return were trpng, however. Valentine grew restless 
 and impatient. Already he had begun to urge Henry to go 
 to nurse, and gain a secret admittance for them both into 
 the Hall itself. " Nurse could be trusted, of course ! It 
 was mean and suspicious to doubt her." 
 
 Henry, who Imew that a far easier plan was open to him, 
 and that he could have taken Valentine up into the chamber 
 above, was much troubled by all this. He did not dare to 
 tell Valentine of that secret opening without permission. 
 Crairy had only brought permission for him to disclose the 
 secret of the one they were in ; and he felt, besides, how 
 unsafe it would be to take Valentine to the other. A heedless 
 laugh, a loud tone, and he might have betrayed himself, 
 should nurse have been wandering about in the passages. 
 And dearly as he loved, and well as he trusted her, he feared 
 her tongue. So he had to bear complaints, jeers, and en- 
 treaties as well as he could. He was King Solomon, a 
 puritan, and a marplot. "Well ! He must keep his temper 
 as best he could. 
 
 At last came the appointed time to go to "Woodruffc. 
 Henry lighted his lanthorn, and descended to the dungeon, 
 crossed it, and had his foot on the first step when a voice 
 from above distinctly said, " Hemy ! " 
 
 He stopped. It must have been fancy ! ^NTo ! it came 
 again, in the soft musical tone of a woman's voice. 
 
224 THE CAREWES. 
 
 "Henry!" 
 
 "Edith. !" He could say no more, but hurried up to 
 her. It was Edith indeed, who threw her arms round him 
 and leaned on his shoulder. " I could not let him go without 
 seeing him once more. Take me to Yalcntine. Woodruffe 
 is dose behind me. Thou mayst trust him in everything, 
 and bring him in." 
 
 Still bewildered with the amazement he had been thrown 
 into, Henry assisted Edith, and afterwards Woodruffe, whose 
 hand he grasped mth an affectionate pressure, down to the 
 first step. Then he helped her, trembling as he could feel 
 she was, to descend to the bottom. The strength of her 
 affection alone supported her, brought up so delicately and 
 guarded so carefully as she always had been, to brave such 
 an adventure as this. Woodi'uffe followed her close, so as to 
 shield her from any peril he could. 
 
 " It is a fearful place, Henry. Let us go up to the room 
 theyteUof. IshewcU?" 
 
 " Yes ! well. "What will he feel when he sees thee ?" 
 
 He led her up, then knocked. " Open again, Valentine ! 
 I have come back ! " 
 
 Yalentine's astonishment when he had opened the door 
 was so great, that for a moment ho held back, but he was 
 soon clasped in Edith's arms. 
 
 " Oh, I could not let thee go without seeing thee once 
 more, my brother !" 
 
 " Edith ! I am not worthy of such love ! " 
 
 Well would it have been for Yalentine had those words 
 of his, uttered in a moment of real feeling, from a conscience 
 touched, for once, deeply, remained in his memory and l)orno 
 fi-uit. Some minutes passed before he spoke again. 
 
THE EXILE. 225 
 
 " Before I go ? Am I, then, to go ?" lie said. 
 
 " I Avill tell tlicc all soon, but now — I cannot yet." 
 
 She was half-fainting ; and her brothers were both minis- 
 tering to her in a moment. She was released from the 
 warm and heavy cloak that covered her ; stretched on a 
 couch, once her mother's, and now brought close to the 
 cheerful warmth of the fire ; her cheeks and forehead 
 tenderly chafed by Henry's hands ; and she soon smiled on 
 them. Her golden curls and lovely face seemed to light up 
 the room. 
 
 She was soon able to speak to Woodruffe, who, after lay- 
 ing a large bundle on the floor, was watching his young 
 mistress with the deepest anxiety, and to tell him that now 
 he might safely leave her, and go to do his part of the work ; 
 he therefore went, only saying he would be ready. 
 
 " How hast thou fared in this cold and dreary season, 
 and so long a journey ? Oh, Edith, it was a loving heart 
 and a noble courage that brought thee ! " said Henry. 
 
 " Was it womanly to attempt it with tliis rustic for sole 
 company ? " said Valentine. 
 
 She looked at him long in silence. Then rose from the 
 couch. " It is womanly to be ready to do whatever a woman 
 can do, and is called to do. I came not merely for my own 
 heart's ease to see thee again. It was needful to assist thy 
 flight, and for either my father or my mother it would lia^'c 
 been dangerous to leave London, and would have led to sus- 
 picion that they came to thee. Of my absence no one takes 
 heed." 
 
 Valentine stood silent before her, and she went on. 
 
 " We have not a moment to lose. In half an hour your 
 
 p 
 
228 THE CAREWES. 
 
 came with me besides WoodruflPe, will prepare tlie servants 
 in tlie morning to receive me in the Hall. He, also, is in 
 our confidence." 
 
 " There is nurse to tend thee, but — " 
 
 " Our father will come in a few days." 
 
 " Ah ! my sister, thou wdlt then be safe. Thou earnest last 
 iiight — where then hast thou been all day ?" asked Henry. 
 
 " I have lain hidden in the vault." 
 
 " What a place for thee, my Edith ! " 
 
 " What matters it, compared with the sorrow we have 
 suffered, and that which is to come? Thou knowest well, 
 Henry, that it is nothing." 
 
 He pressed her hand. They quite understood each 
 other. 
 
 The brothers sat down to eat, and persuaded her to join 
 them, but the attempt was vain. She said she had aheady 
 had enough. Her heart was full now, for the minutes were 
 fast fleeting. They extinguished their lamp, lighted their 
 lanthorn, and closed the door behind them. Valentine sup- 
 ported Edith through the dungeon. " I shall not have her 
 long ! " he said ; " give her quite up to me, Henry." He was 
 much affected. Perhaps in all the world it was Edith he 
 loved best — after himself. 
 
 They wallced very quickly, and found Woodruffe waiting 
 with three horses ready. The old mother was there to recei\'e 
 Mistress Edith. 
 
 " Henry, my own brother Henry, come back to us safely ! 
 What should we be without thee ? I dare not even touch his 
 hand again, lest I be seen and cause suspicion. Give him 
 his Edith's love and farewell ! " 
 
 I 
 
THE EXILE. 229 
 
 These whispered words from her aching heart were all she 
 could say. Woodruffe, who was strongly armed himself, gave 
 sword and pistols to Henry, and then to his fellow-servant, 
 and hoth assisted their young master to mount. He moved 
 off, slowly at first and looking hack ; then seeing Edith at 
 the cottage-door with the old dame, and Valentine mounted 
 and hy Woodruife's side, set spurs to his horse, and dashed 
 away^ followed hy his two attendants. The moon was up> 
 and the weather fine though very cold. 
 
230 THE C.IREWES. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A JOUR^'EY. 
 
 "Whex, on tlio afternoon of the second day, tliey reached 
 Oxford, they found the inn occupied by the party they 
 expected, and Henry was a welcome guest with all. 
 To Mr. Henry Yane, who was among them, he was well 
 known ; but Yalentine, as it chanced, had not been in his 
 company since he was a boy. Everything had gone on 
 smoothly and successfully thus far. Henry thought much 
 of Yalentine, and gave Woodnijffe many charges to attend 
 to his comforts. " A little knocldng about will do my gentle- 
 man no harm," thought Woodruffe to himself; but he obeyed 
 Henry nevertheless. 
 
 But they were not destined to leave Oxford without an 
 alarm. Henry was awakened in the night by shouts and 
 yells, and Woodruffe came to his door, with a face of terror, 
 to say there was " hue and cry after some one ; pray heaven, 
 it was not — " 
 
 *'IIush !" said Henry, starting out of bed, and going to 
 the window. 
 
 '' The house is on fire, anyhow," said Woodruffe. 
 
 There was, indeed, a red glare flashing in at the windows, 
 but it came from the torches of a crowd in the court of the 
 
MlMMIXt. IN KAUNhr 
 
 I 
 
A JOURNEY. 231 
 
 old inn, vrhicli was built round a quadrangle, and much 
 ornamented witli balconies and carved Avood, having been, in 
 its past days, the residence of some dignitary of the church. 
 
 "For my part," said Woodruffe again, "1 think 'tis a 
 goodly company of witches and sorcerers. Kothing else ever 
 made such yells as these ; and no woman, but a witch, ever 
 was so tall as that one "svith the light." 
 
 " I know what it is. They arc muniimng. Do you not 
 see hobby horse, the bishop, and all the rest?" 
 
 "x\.y, but it's mumming in earnest. They have got two 
 prisoners, bound with cords, in the midst." 
 
 Henry saw, mth hon'or, that it was so ; and from the 
 cries, it became CAddcnt the prisoners were catholic priests, 
 who had got into the hands of this furious mob. Scarcely, 
 however, was there time to think, when a strong party of 
 constables, headed by a number of students of the university, 
 came to the rescue. There was a desperate scuffle, and some 
 shots were fired. It was, however, soon ended, and the 
 priests were saved, and carried off in triumph by the students, 
 the rabble rout dispersing in all directions. Woodruffe dis- 
 appeai-ed early in the fray, and Henry supposed he had 
 joined in it ; but it turned out that he had been keeping 
 guard on Valentine, lest he should be rash enough to 
 do so. 
 
 Henry kncAV much more of the distracted state of the 
 country than he had known, when, long ago, the difficulty 
 that Justice Croke had to contend with, when he resolved to 
 give a true judgment, had surprised liim. In his office of secre- 
 taiy to liis father, he had learned that there was no toleration 
 in England except among one party, and that the smallest. 
 
232 THE CAREWES. 
 
 This party, the independents, acknowledged no head or 
 master to the church hut Christ alone, and suffered no 
 interference of men in the worship of their Creator. In all 
 others there was persecution. The episcopal church perse- 
 cuted the puritans and the catholics. All that majority of 
 tlie puritans who were called preshyterians, were ready to 
 persecute the church if they had the power, and did perse- 
 cute the cathoHcs, who, hut for the secret favour of the 
 queen's party at court, would have heen treated on all hands 
 vnth. even greater rigour than they were. This moh had 
 only shown an example of it. Henry went to hed again, 
 and fell asleep wondering how all these wrongs were ever to 
 be righted. 
 
 The Avhole party set forth early next morning on their 
 journey to the north. Riding fast, and changing horses at 
 each posting-house, they reached Hull in three days. Their 
 part}^ was too strong to permit of any risks or dangers, 
 except from " winter and rough weather," and they were all 
 hardy and stout, and cared not much for that. Many a time 
 did Henry look back at the servants riding behind, and ex- 
 change a glance mth Valentine ; and each night AVoodruffe 
 liad to di'ive him away from the kitchen of the hostelries at 
 which they put up, for fear he should raise suspicions by see- 
 ing after his groom's supper, but no misfortune happened 
 on the way. 
 
 The whole party was received into the governor's house 
 with all the old English hospitality ; and when Sir Henry 
 heard that a young son of Sir Artliur Carewe's was among 
 his guests, he came forward to shake Henry by the hand, 
 and give him the most affectionate welcome. Henry had 
 
A JOURNEY. 233 
 
 despatches from his father to deliver, and in doing so, re- 
 quested a private audience, which was immediately granted. 
 The result was that the very next morning it was told in the 
 household that one of Master Carewe's grooms had taken 
 ship for Calais, in a vessel that dropped do^vn the Humher 
 by early tide. 
 
 The parting had been so sudden, and there had been so 
 much to do to get all the comforts that could be got for 
 Valentine, that there was no time to think till he was 
 actually gone. Then Henry took a Solitary walk to some 
 high gi'ound to watch the ships mo^dng down seawards with 
 the tide, and wondered which was bearing his brother away 
 from him. It was a relief, a great relief, that he had suc- 
 ceeded in getting away. But he was gone from his home 
 and his country. When to return? How to fare while 
 away ? " He makes friends no less than enemies," thought 
 Henry, *' wherever he goes ; and he seemed not very 
 heavy at heart ; but it is very wretched to think that he is 
 gone from us." 
 
 The party at Sir Henry Hotham's was gay and numer- 
 ous ; and though Henry was not in spirits to enjoy it at first, yet 
 after a time, when he had heard by an express that arrived 
 that all was well at home, and had written to tell them his 
 mission was safely accomplished, he spent some pleasant 
 weeks at Hull. The sea was new to him ; and the north 
 country of England, so different in every way to that he had 
 been used to, was something to see and explore. The party 
 he had come with delayed their return till the middle or end 
 of March, and tried to persuade him to wait for them. But 
 he had other plans in his head. That journey was an ex- 
 
234 THE CAREWES. 
 
 pensive affair. *' Why," thouglit lie, " if my father is strait- 
 ened for money, should he he put to such charges for me ? 
 Why not get into one of the ships that are often trading 
 between Hull and London, and go hy sea for a tiiHing 
 sum?" 
 
 Sir Henry opposed his plan ; reminded him of the 
 shipwreck of Sir Patrick Spcns, who went to sea '' at the 
 wrong time o* the year ;" and told him the discomforts of 
 these vessels were such as he had no idea of. Henry per- 
 sisted. He thought 'if Valentine could brave and endure 
 dangers and discomforts, surely he could. 
 
 He and Woodruffe, therefore, employed themselves in 
 choosing a ship, and found that by far the best was one that 
 went to Yarmouth, a short voyage, and one that would give 
 them a trial of the sea, and they could take ship again for 
 London if they pleased at Yarmouth. Woodruffe liked the 
 adventure mightily. They sold their horses for a good price, 
 laid in a store of provisions, bought good thick sea jackets 
 and blankets, to keep them warm in their hammocks — 
 Woodruffe much admiring the woollens of this north country 
 — and sailed the beginning of March. 
 
 Henry enjoyed the deck and the sea. He had not been 
 so happy and free for a long time, as he felt when seated at 
 the stem, watching the coast and the sea birds. Woodi-uffe 
 soon made friends with the sailors, and got in good store of 
 fearful tales of shipwrecks, of Sallee rovers, of whole villages 
 on the coast being pillaged by the pirates, all the women 
 and children carried off for slaves, and all the men killed. 
 In return, he told them tales of robbers and poachers ; of 
 disbanded soldiers committing murders : of witches tried by 
 
A JOURNEY. 293 
 
 fire and water ; of the e\il deeds tliese witches had com- 
 mitted, iu causing diseases among cattle, and the pining 
 away and death of poor people's children : so the voyage 
 passed, though the wind was contrary, and kept them tack- 
 ing about for three days and nights. Then, as they nearcd 
 Yarmouth, came a storm ; such a storm as would have made 
 Henry think of home with a fear that he should never sec it 
 again, if he had not been too ill to think of anything, as he 
 swung in his hammock, do^vn in his dark berth below. At 
 last they got safe into Yarmouth Eoads, and landed. 
 
 *' Right glad am I to set foot on dry land again," said 
 Woodruffc, as he trudged after Henry with the baggage, 
 from the pier up to the town. " If you'd have told me how 
 Master Russell thought the sea spun round the earth, and 
 we all ran round th' other way, I'd have said Ay, to it ; 
 but don't tell me this good ground we tread on be running 
 away from under us. Happy be lucky it is not ! But now. 
 Master Henry, what are we to do next, for we are a long 
 way from Lunnon yet, not to speak of our home." 
 
 The fii'st thing was to find an inn where they could dine, 
 for appetites such as they had they had never felt before. 
 Hunger being appeased, Woodruffe set off to explore and 
 inquire, and returned with the advice that they should 
 ensconce themselves in the long waggon for Norwich. After 
 getting there, they could do as they liked. 'T would be 
 tedious, but a mighty good rest after all their turmoil. 
 
 Henry thought the idea good, as the waggon started the 
 next morning, and did not repent it. The waggon, di'awn 
 by eight good horses, mth bells on their heads, went on 
 slowly, it is true, but steadily, defying ruts and holes. The 
 
236 THE CAREWES. 
 
 March winds had dried the roads, such as they were, and he 
 liked walking by the waggoners up the hills and haying a 
 talk with them ; and peeping under hedges for the early 
 primroses; and exploring up green lanes, and taking long 
 runs over breezy commons. At night the waggon was a 
 capital place to sleep in, among bales of goods and great 
 packages of various kinds. There were several passengers 
 besides themselves, some of whom were good company too ; 
 but among them the great talk was of troubles in the coun- 
 try, and the hope that everything would be put right by a 
 parliament. Sometimes, in spite of March winds, they came 
 to a stand still in some bog or morass, and then every man 
 there had to put his " shoulder to the wheel," and help the 
 horses by poles pushing behind, or by what ways they could 
 contrive, to get the heavy waggon on. Normch was reached 
 safely at last, however. 
 
 Between Norwich and Bedford the chief traffic was 
 carried on by pack-horses, the road being too bad for the 
 waggon ; and Henry resolved to join the next train that 
 started, and for this purpose hired two horses ; and, accom- 
 panied by Woodruffe, repaired at the appointed time to 
 the hostelry where the carriers put up, Woodruffe carrying 
 the saddle-bags. They found a party of about fifty horses 
 in all, the greater number loaded with their packs, but about 
 some ten bearing travellers, who, like themselves, took this 
 opjoortunity for company's sake, rather than enjoy greater 
 speed with the di-awback of fear of highway robbery. 
 
 All being ready, they started in single file, the leader 
 being an old and experienced horse mth a bell. The way 
 for many miles was over a paved causeway, having on either 
 
A JOURNEY. 237 
 
 side a tliick sludge of mud ; so that if any horse became 
 restive, or if by any accident he stopped, there followed a 
 floundering in the mud and a terrible confusion. If, on the 
 other hand, any unlucky single traveller met the long train, 
 he had to turn off and stand by till they had passed, his 
 horse perhaps up to his knees. Whatever happened in the 
 rear, however, on went the steady leader, undisturbed by 
 anything. 
 
 When this causeway had been passed, they came to one 
 of those heathy commons that were so much to Henry's 
 taste, where the track guided the train of horses, and where 
 he could try the mettle of his hired steed by a gallop over 
 the turf. 
 
 In this way the country through which they passed 
 varied, and the joimiey was interesting, though it was slow. 
 Sometimes they would pass over dreary stretches of moor- 
 land, and towards evening the mists would rise, and as dark- 
 ness came on no track would be visible. Then the carriers 
 trusted entirely to the leader, and he deserved their trust. 
 For safety's sake, the whole train was ordered into line, the 
 leader in front. On he went, his beU serving as guide to all 
 the rest, not missing an inch of the way, never leading into 
 a bog, till turning into some miry lane they saw the lights of 
 the ^^llage or towm where they were to put up. The old and 
 feeble horses lagged far behind, but came up at last. Never 
 did they fail, bending under the packs, to do their duty and 
 their appointed tasks, and stories were told of some that had 
 dropped do^vn dead as they entered the inn yard. 
 
 Thus travelHng, they reached Oxford early one day, to 
 put up till the following morning ; and while Henry was 
 
236 THE CARE^VES. 
 
 taking a walk about the city, and admiring tlie splendour of 
 tlie colleges, lie found himself suddenly clapped on tlio 
 shoulder, and heard a friendly voice. Turning quickly 
 round, he found it was Mr. Ilenr}^ Yane. 
 
 " And so we have overtaken you. Master Carcwc," said 
 he. " Where do you put up, and how are you travelling ?'* 
 
 On being informed, he seemed much amused at Henry's 
 primitive modes of conveying himself about, and told him he 
 had none of the courtier or the fine gentleman about him, 
 but would do well for the !N'ew World mth its wild freedom, 
 whither he should himself return if matters improved not at 
 home. "But," said he, " there is good hope they mil improve. 
 Writs are issued for a parliament, and thy father will sit in 
 it. But thou must join our company now to London. We 
 stay here only a week." 
 
 IsTo ! Henry would not desert his pack-horses, and 
 meant to be home before four days were over. 
 
 " Come, then, Avith me to the house of Col. Thornhaugh, 
 where I am kindly received. There is gay company there, 
 and good cheer; and while they drink their toasts after 
 dinner, you and I can wander out again among these old 
 colleges, and talk over your home affairs, for I know a little 
 of them, and over the amended hopes of the friends of 
 libert}^" ' 
 
 Henry gladly accepted the imitation, and found as 
 pleasant a party as he had been promised, but was glad to 
 obey Vane's signal and walk out to hear what tidings he had. 
 
 He heard that confidence had revived in the country in 
 prospect of a parliament, and that Sir Arthur Carewc had 
 been able to sell his Cornwall property to good advantage, 
 
A JOURNEY. 239 
 
 and tlius to recover the shock that his great loss of money 
 had occasioned to his fortune. That he would assuredly sit 
 
 in parliament, and that he was totally engrossed hy puhlic 
 affairs, and much longing for Henry, whom he missed ter- 
 ribly. 
 
 Henry was the more resolved to make no delay. He 
 would gladly have put spurs to his horse and rode post to 
 Ltmdon, but his friend would not hear of it. The frequency 
 of robbery and \iolence on the road, especially near the 
 metropolis, would render such a proceeding unsafe. " I 
 know thou wouldst brave many more dangerous passes, 
 Henry," said he, *' if need were ; but here is no need. A 
 day or two makes little difference ; but a murdered son \\i\\ 
 do little for his father." 
 
240 THE CAREWES. 
 
 So Henry returned to his hostelr}^, just as Woodruffe 
 was getting very anxious about him. 
 
 " I am glad to see thou hast thy honest, steady servant 
 with thee/' said Yane, who had walked with him. '' I liked 
 not thy young groom as well. He was a handsome fellow, 
 but upstart and insolent. I am glad he hath taken his 
 departure.'' 
 
 "I also am glad," said Henry; '' and yet I was sorry to 
 part with him." 
 
 The train of horses, considerably increased in number, 
 was on its way by six in the morning ; and with no more 
 serious accident than an occasional loss of a shoe or roll in 
 the mud, at last reached Hagbush Lane, the bridle road from 
 the north into London, leading by Holloway, into what is 
 now called the City Road. It was a deep hollow lane, with 
 high hedgerows on either side, and meadows much higher than 
 the road, and was more muddy than all the rest of the way. 
 Here, at the top of Gray's Inn Lane, the carriers put up ; 
 and having given up their horses, and paid the very moder- 
 ate hire, Henry and Woodruffe walked at a rapid pace 
 towards the Strand, and Henry rang at the door just as the 
 watchman's cry to light up was heard. That night there 
 was joy in the house, such as made up for many a past sor- 
 row. Woodruffe was telling his adventures till he was too 
 sleepy to talk any more, and Henry had brought as mucli 
 happiness with him as he felt lumself. 
 
THE TOWER. 241 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE TOWER. 
 
 V)VT the brighter prospects which seemed to open for the 
 country, and the hopes of all who loved the ancient constitu- 
 tion of England, her monarchy, and her parliament, were 
 do(jmed to disappointment, for the parliament which met in 
 April, 1G40, and the king who summoned it, had two differ- 
 ent aims in view. 
 
 The king called together the houses of Lords and Com- 
 mons that he might obtain from the Commons a grant of 
 money Avithout farther departure from the constitution of the 
 realm in levpng taxes by his royal will. Twelve years he 
 had done so ; but now, when a second Scottish war was 
 nearly certain, and his necessities greater than ever, the 
 temper of the country was such that he dared no longer 
 continue it.. 
 
 The parliament, on the other hand, assembled with the 
 purpose to redress the grievances of the country ; to annihilate 
 ship-money, and all illegal modes of raising revenue, to put the 
 constitution on a firm basis, and render it impossible for any 
 king henceforth to attempt to govern without his parliament. 
 
 Neither party would give wjiy ; and the result was a 
 dissolution of parliament by the king in twent}^-one days. 
 
242 
 
 THE CAREWES. 
 
 " There could not," to quote Clarendon, " a greater damp 
 have seized upon the spirits of the whole nation than this 
 dissolution caused, and men had much of the misery in view 
 which shortly after fell out." 
 
 Distress and discontent now spread throughout the coun- 
 try. Levies of soldiers had to be made for the Scottish war ; 
 it was difficult to raise them ; money must be had to pay 
 
 them ; the people murmured at their forced loans and taxes. 
 They carried in to the justices their poultry, their produce of 
 any kind, in hopes to satisfy the sheriffs ; they sent theii* 
 
THE TOWER. 243 
 
 sons to the army unwillingly, for never was war so unpopular. 
 It was a religious war, undertaken to set up episcopacy in 
 Scotland, and the whole of the large puritan party in Eng- 
 land disapproved of the attempt ; while the people at large, 
 and those who belonged to the church, disliked it, for they 
 believed that though episcopacy was talked of, poper}^ would 
 follow. The soldiers, when collected together, would not 
 serve under officers who could not clear themselves of the 
 charge of popery, and even rose upon and killed some ^ho 
 could not. 
 
 There were some tumults. In London, a mob of appren- 
 tices, to the number of five hundred, attacked the palace of 
 Archbishop Laud at Lambeth, at midnight, v,ith intent to 
 sack it. He effected his escape, and the rebels vrere dis- 
 persed, but not without bloodshed ; and one wretched \dctim 
 was put to the rack to try to discover if any more important 
 persons had instigated the riot. Nothing, however, was 
 discovered. Tliis atrocity was committed in the Tower, and 
 the warrant for inflicting it still exists in the State Pajwr 
 Office. It should be remembered as the last instance in 
 which the torture was ever legally applied in England. 
 
 Several members of the house of Commons were com- 
 mitted to prison by the king, immediately after the dissolu- 
 tion, and the papers of Lord Brooke were seized, and his 
 study and desks broken open. 
 
 At this crisis, one man stood eminent in supporting and 
 aiding the king. That man was Lend Strafford, once known 
 as Sir Thomas Wentworth, the friend and supporter of libert}-; 
 afterwards as Lord "Wentworth ; now as Lord Strafford, 
 lord-lieutenant of Ireland and president of the council of 
 
244 THE CAREWES. 
 
 the north, in tlie latter capacity despotic over all the north- 
 ern counties of England. He urged the king mthout 
 wavering to employ the policy known between them by the 
 word " thorough ;" meaning, by that word, the application of 
 force to obtain his ^tII in every department of the state. He 
 promised to bring over a large body of the wild Irish to assist 
 him. The queen also urged to despotism, never forgetting 
 the usages of her native court. 
 
 It is September of this disastrous year, and Lady Carewe, 
 pen in hand, sits writing to her husband's dictation. But 
 they are not in the fine old library a-t Crewhurst, nor in the 
 pleasant room overlooking the liver in the Strand. Sir 
 Arthur Carewe is a prisoner in the Tower of London. Here 
 he has spent the whole summer. His room is gloomy, and 
 he has suffered in health from want of aii- and exercise, but 
 has been cheered by the permission granted him to see liis 
 wife and son daily. They Hve in a small lodging near the 
 Tower. Edith is at Crewhurst, where, assisted by nurse, 
 she takes charge of her little brother and sister, and educates 
 them, and takes her mother's place in guiding the household 
 and superintending the servants, and caring for the people 
 and the poor. 
 
 There is no longer luxury or grandeur at Crewhurst, yet 
 the place looks like its former self. The gardens are full of 
 plants and flowers ; every room in the Hall is in order ; the 
 park and the chase are in their former beauty ; the old ser- 
 vants are still in their places ; the "sillage is as cheerful as 
 ever. But there arc no horses in the stables ; nor hounds in 
 the kennels ; nor falcons on the perches ; nor plate in the 
 cupboards. Valentine could no longer have shown off the 
 
THE TOWER. 243 
 
 glories of the property to which he was heii' ; but if he had 
 known how much gi-eater a thing it is to be poor for con- 
 science' sake, and for tlie truth, and to preserve a noble in- 
 dependence^ in comparative poverty, than to be rich and 
 live sumptuously by gi^'ing up honour and principle, he 
 would have been prouder of his father, a prisoner and im- 
 poverished by losses and fines, than if he could have seen 
 him in all his former state ; and prouder of his beautiful 
 sister Edith fulfilling her round of duties, a sweet influence 
 to all, the comforter of the poor and the afflicted, the idol 
 of her dependents, and the guide and darling of her brother 
 and sister, to whom she is as a mother, than if his wish had 
 been gratified, and he had seen her shining and admired at 
 court. She is melancholy, because so loving a heart cannot 
 be glad in separation from all she loves best, but she does 
 not show it, she allows no sadness to gloom over the young 
 lives she has to cherish, and constant occupation helps her 
 to endure her solitude. 
 
 The quiet of the small prison room where no sound had 
 been heard for the last hour, but the low voice dictating and 
 the ready pen transcribing, was interrupted by the unfasten- 
 iug of locks and bars, and Homy was ushered in by the jailer. 
 B[is presence always cheered his father, who extended a hand 
 to him, and held his while finishing the sentence he was 
 dictating. 
 
 ''And now, Hemy, what news hast thou collected in thy 
 
 wanacrmgs r 
 
 )> 
 
 " ]\Iuch news, my father. Some public news, very heav^', 
 yet mixed ^^'ith hope too ; and some which concern us nearly, 
 being of Valentine." 
 
 Q 
 
248 THE CAREWES. 
 
 this weary prison ; so Mr. Hampden saith. ' All our state 
 prisoners,' these were his words, ^ will be released.' *' 
 
 " I do rejoice with thee in that, Henry, for myself and 
 my brothers in captivity. I pine for liberty, and often 
 have I thought of that eloquent and heartfelt outburst of 
 indignation with which Sir Eobert Philips moved for the 
 committee to petition his majesty against these arbitrary im- 
 prisonments, in the parliament held now thirteen years since. 
 * I can live,' he said, ' although another who hath no right 
 be put to live with me, although I pay excises and impositions 
 more than I do ; but to have my liberty, which is the soul of 
 my life, taken from me by power, and to have my body pent 
 up in a jail, without remedy by law, and to be so adjudged 
 — oh improvident ancestors! oh mnvise forefathers! to 
 be so curious in providing for the quiet possession of our laws 
 and the liberties of parliament, and to neglect our persons and 
 bodies, and to let them lie in prison, and that during pleasure, 
 remediless ! If this be law, why do we talk of liberties ? 
 Why do we trouble ourselves with a dispute about law, fran- 
 chises, property of goods, and the like ? What may any 
 man caU his own if not the liberty of his person ?' " 
 
 Henry was deeply affected by these words, and by the 
 depth of his fiither's emotion as he uttered them, and no one 
 spoke again until the summons of the jailer obliged him and 
 his mother to leave their dear prisoner in his solitude for the 
 night. Already had Henry's interview with Mr. Richard Eliot 
 that morning tried his fortitude, for their discourse had been 
 of the gloomy days when Sir John EHot, the father of this 
 young gentleman, had given up his life in that very room 
 where now Sir Arthur Carewe was pent up ; and this although 
 
THE TOWER. 249 
 
 petition was made to the king tliat for the sake of his health 
 and to save his life, he should be liberated under promise to 
 return when he had recovered. His son remembered the 
 day he earned up that petition and was refused ; and an- 
 other sadder day when he carried up the petition to remove 
 his father's body, for burial in his own vault, and was again 
 refused. Henry's heart was full of these things, but he did 
 not remind his father of them. 
 
 And Henry had not to endure such bitter grief himself. 
 But a few days after that conversation, joyful news was 
 brought to the prisoner in the Tower by two men, the most 
 influential men of those days, Mr. Pym and Mr. Hampden. 
 The petitions for a parliament throughout the countr}^ could 
 no longer be resisted ; twelve peers had drawn up one to his 
 majesty, and despatched two of their number to York to pre- 
 sent it to liim ; the petition from the city of London alone 
 was signed by ten thousand names, and carried to York by 
 members of the common council ; the gentry of Yorksliire, 
 when called upon to support the train-bands for two months, 
 had replied by humbly petitioning for a parliament ; upon 
 all this the king and Lord Strafford had yielded, though so 
 unwillingly, that the two lords who carried the petition had 
 like to have been shot for it, — only that Lord Strafi'ord was 
 told there was danger the soldier}^ would not obey the order ; 
 and the writs were issued. 
 
 Only a few days more and Sir Arthur Carewe was released 
 from prison. He was received immediately, together mth 
 Lady Carewe and Henry, into the house of Mr. Hampden 
 in Gray's Inn Lane, and thence they went on to Crewhurst. 
 
 It was a day of rejoicing indeed when they arrived. The 
 
250 THE CARE WES. 
 
 commonest gifts of God to man — tlie free air, the green fields, 
 the open sky — ^become miracles of goodness to one long pent 
 up in a prison ; but besides these, there was the joy of the 
 re-union of the whole family, only excepting him they had 
 lost, but never ceased to regret ; and the awakening hoj)e for 
 the country. Sii' Arthur was returned to parliament. His 
 wife would have had him decline the duty, but it was in vain 
 she tried to persuade him on the score of his ruined health 
 and the danger of the fatigue and excitement to his life itself. 
 ** The country needs the best service of all her sons," he said. 
 " While life lasts, I must do my duty." 
 
 *' It is hard to bear," she replied ; " and I have an ill- 
 boding heart ; yet would I not my husband should desert his 
 post." 
 
 ParHamcnt was summoned for the 3d of November ; 
 and Lady Carewe and Henry would accompany Sir Arthm- 
 to London, leading Edith again to her duties at Crcwhurst. 
 They took a lodging near Mr. Hampden in Gray's Inn 
 Lane ; but before going up they joined a large meeting of 
 the parliamentary^ leaders, at the mansion of Lord Say in 
 Oxfordshii-e. At that gathering, whither Edith accompanied 
 them, they once more met their friends the Willoughbys ; 
 and Lady "Willoughby returned to Crewhui'st Yiiih. Edith fq 
 a while, when her lord went to London. 
 
THE MEETING AT I.OIIU SAY S. 
 
I 
 
THE WAR BEGINS. 25l 
 
 CHAPTEE XXI. 
 
 THE WAR BEGINS. 
 
 On the morning of the 4th of January, 1642, Henry, when 
 he went to the house of Commons with his father, accord- 
 ing to his usual custom, did not take leave of him after they 
 had passed up AYestminster Hall and go to his own studies 
 in the Temple as usual, but entered the house with him, and 
 took his station in the strangers* gallery. He stayed, anxious 
 to hear the debate on this important day, for on the day 
 before, the king had sent by message of a serjeant-at-arms 
 to require of Mr. Speaker five gentlemen, and they being 
 delivered to him, to arrest them for high treason. Their 
 names were Denzil Hollis, Arthur Hazelrigge, John Pym, 
 John Hampden, and William Strode ; and at the same time, 
 in the house of Lords, the king had by message of his attor- 
 ney Herbert, accused the Lord Kimbolton of high treason. 
 The Lords had appointed a committee to consider precedents, 
 the Commons had returned a message by Lord Falkland to 
 the effect that the members would be ready to answer any 
 legal charge. The Commons also having heard that the 
 studies and papers of their five members had been sealed up 
 by order of the king, had sent their serjeant-at-arms to break 
 open those seals. 
 
252 THE CAREWES. 
 
 The house of Commons in whicli Henry sat that day, 
 existed till it Avas destroyed by fire, and gave place to the 
 present one, in the year 1834. It was a narrow, dingy, ill- 
 lighted room, running at right angles with Westminster 
 Hall, and having a passage into it at the south-east angle. 
 The Hall shared in all the excitements of the House, and 
 nothing of interest went on in the one, without an eager 
 S}Tnpathy in the other. 
 
 At the western end, the entrance was between rows of 
 benches, passing the bar, and underneath the gallery. At 
 the east end, a little in advance of a large A^indow looking 
 on the river, stood the speaker's chair. In front of that 
 stood the clerks' tabic, at which sat Henry Els}Tig and John 
 Rushworth, with their faces to the mace and backs to the 
 speaker. On benches stretching to right and left of the 
 speaker, were assembled the honourable members. There 
 they sat, puritan and courtier, the first and foremost of the 
 gentlemen of England, with bearded faces, close cut and 
 stern ; or more courtier like, with flowing hair and peaked 
 ruff, and all wearing steeple-cro^^iied hats, Spanish cloaks and 
 swords; their faces for the most part worn with anxious 
 thoughts and fears, heavy T^dth toil, responsibility, and care, 
 often pale with long imprisonment. The speaker, Mr. 
 Lenthall, was in costume like the rest. Mr. Pym was in his 
 usual place near the bar, just beyond the gallery on the 
 right hand side of the house at entering. Hyde (Lord Claren- 
 don) and Falkland sat together on the left hand ; Sir Henry 
 Vane on the right. John Hampden behind P}Tn; then 
 Edmund Waller, then Henry Martin ; Oliver Cromwell, 
 member for Cambridge, on one of the back benches ; Denzil 
 
THE WAR BEGINS. 253 
 
 Hollis near him; Selden, member for Oxford University, 
 imder the gallery. 
 
 Lord Falkland reports, in answer to their message, that the 
 serjeant-at-arms, in requiring the five members of Mr. Speaker, 
 did no more than his bidding. Then Mr. Hamj^xien made 
 an eloquent speech, and was followed by Sir Arthur Hazel- 
 rigge ; and the house committed to custody those officers who 
 had sealed up the studies and papers of their five members. 
 
 At the dinner hour, between twelve and one, there was 
 as usual a rush of members into the hall, and Henry, then 
 joining his father, did not afterwards return to the gallery, 
 but remained in the hall. Many of the members too re- 
 mained for some time walking up and down, or gathered in 
 knots talking earnestly, until the serjeant was sent "with his 
 mace to collect them. Henry had an anxious foreboding of 
 coming dangers, caused by rumours that had got afloat, no 
 one knew v/hence ; rumours that the lang had feasted at 
 Whitehall, the previous evening, a large assemblage of reck- 
 less, violent spirits, such as were called in those days reforma- 
 does ; that a hundred stand of arms, and a large quantity of 
 gunpowder, had been sent to Whitehall from the Tower that 
 morning. It was known, too, that to the petition of the 
 house to be allowed to appoint a guard, the king had repHed 
 by saying he would himself appoint them a guard. There- 
 fore, an awful sense of some coming evil, more terrible 
 sometimes than the evil itself, took possession of Henrj^, and 
 he felt it so keenly, because he knew his father's shattered 
 health could stand no painful excitement. It was an un- 
 healthy season ; the plague was in London ; and the anxious 
 course of public affairs had worn and wasted away the 
 
254 THE CAREWES. 
 
 little strength that had remained to him after his imprison- 
 ment. 
 
 The course of public affairs had been sufficient to try a 
 strong man's strength, and had brought the king and his 
 parHament to an attitude of open defiance. The king's 
 usual demand for supplies at the opening of parliament had 
 been answered by the appointment of committees of griev- 
 ances to consider petitions ; and from north, south, east, and 
 west, flowed in the petitions, complaining of the sufferings 
 of the country. The mutilated victims of the Star Chamber 
 had been released from their dungeons, and brought into 
 London, escorted by many thousands, mth banners flpng 
 and much rejoicing, and grief too, to see their scars and the 
 sad state of one who had lost sight and hearing, and nearly 
 the use of his limbs in his captivity. By a solemn judgment 
 their sentences were reversed ; and then the courts of Star 
 Chamber and of High Commission were for ever abolished. 
 When, at the Christmas of that year, the wassail bowl was 
 carried round, the wassailcrs congratulated each other on 
 these great events, and there was rejoicing throughout the 
 country. 
 
 Retribution, stern and solemn, had been visited by 
 the parHament on the doers of these deeds. The all- 
 powerful minister, Lord Strafford, who had urged the king 
 to the *' thorough '' policy, and promised to support it by 
 his army of wild Irish, was in his grave ; beheaded 
 after trial by impeachment, and waiTant signed by the king. 
 Charles had struggled hard to save him, but jaelded at last, 
 and Strafford's exclamation thereupon has never been for- 
 gotten — " Put not your faith in princes !" 
 
THE WAR BEGINS. 255 
 
 Archbishop Laud, and many of the bishops and clergy of 
 his party, were in prison, but there were no disgraceful 
 scenes of torture and mutilation ; these had vanished for the 
 present from England. The unjust judges of Hampden had 
 been deposed ; two members of the government had fled. 
 
 The king, on his part, had gone to visit his Scottish sub- 
 jects in the summer of 1641, and had been well received ; 
 had held his court and a parHament in Edinburgh, but had 
 been recalled by a terrible catastrophe that struck horror 
 throughout the country. The Irish cathohcs had risen with 
 the intention to massacre every protcstant in the country. 
 That ^vild Irish army that Charles had delayed very long to 
 disband, in spite of the parHament, had speedily reunited, 
 and become the ready instrument of atrocities too horrible to 
 repeat. Men, women, and children were ruthlessly mur- 
 dered by them, till the Shannon was choked with dead 
 bodies ; and though the forces hastily sent over, and the 
 stand made in Dublin, checked the slaughter, it broke out 
 again and again for two years. 'No one believes now that 
 the king was privy to tliis horrible business, but the name 
 assumed by the Irish assassins of the *' Queen's army," and 
 the supposed leaning of the court to popery, naturally made 
 the people suspect him. 
 
 In November the parHament presented to the king, and 
 printed and published to the country, their celebrated '' Re- 
 monstrance of the State of the Kingdom," containing, in a long 
 preamble and two hundi-ed and six clauses, the calamities and 
 the ^Tongs of the country throughout his reign, and the reme- 
 dies they had aj^plied by the measures of the present session. 
 
 The first answer of the king seemed to give earnest that 
 
256 THE CAREWES. 
 
 though Strafford was dead his policy was living, and that 
 henceforth " force " was to be the arbiter between crown and 
 parliament. He deposed the trusty Sir William Balfour 
 from his post of governor of the Tower, and put in his place 
 that Colonel Lunsford of whom we have heard, and who was 
 ready for any desperate deed ; but the appointment lasted 
 only a few days. The lord mayor reported that the appren- 
 tices were about to rise to carry the Tower by storm, and 
 there were dangerous tumults, with some bloodshed, in 
 "Westminster. The keys of the Tower were therefore taken 
 from Colonel Lunsford again. 
 
 This was the state of matters when the Commons' peti- 
 tion for a guard Avas answered by the king *' that he would 
 appoint them a guard," and he sent to aiTCst the five mem- 
 bers for high treason ; and this was the state of things, well 
 kno\\Ti to Henry in his capacity of secretary to his father, 
 which made him wait in Westminster Hall, that 4th of 
 January, with an awful sense of some approaching crisis. 
 
 The assembling of the members after dinner was shortly 
 succeeded by a hurried message from without, brought by 
 Captain Langres, and then a stir mthin the house, and a 
 hasty departure of some of the members, which of them was 
 not exactly known. Immediately after this, the king's coach 
 entered ^N'ew Palace Yard, escorted by his guard of gentle- 
 men pensioners, and followed by a train of about five 
 hundred young men, courtiers, officers, and soldiers of for- 
 tune, armed with swords and pistols. These armed men 
 entered the hall, and after them the Iring, striking such a 
 terror into all those that kept shop there as they instantly 
 shut up. Booksellers, law-stationers, sempstresses, and the 
 
THE WAR UEGINS. 257 
 
 like, ceased to utter their usual " "WHiat d'ye lack ?'' and 
 gathered up their goods in silence. The armed band now 
 made a lane up the middle of the hall, and the king walk- 
 ing fast along it, and up the stairs to the door of the house 
 of Commons, knocked hastily and was admitted, taking in 
 with him his nephew, the Prince Palatine Charles, and was 
 heard, as he entered, to order the armed men "for their 
 lives r' not to follow him. But they remained crowding 
 round the door. 
 
 In the sudden rush of such a multitude into the hall, 
 Henr}^ was borne backwards, and it was some minutes before 
 he could move. Then he succeeded in clambering up some 
 of the stone- work so as to see over the heads of the crowd. 
 For what pui'pose had the king, contrary to the pri\ilege of 
 parliament, made this entrance into the house ? Why had 
 he brought with him that desperate band? The answer 
 rushed through his brain in a moment. The king has come 
 to seize the five members he has accused. The house mil 
 not give them up. There ^^ill be a dreadful scene of violence 
 and bloodshed. 
 
 The thought drove all the blood to his heart, and made 
 him turn deadly pale. Then he called up all his resolution 
 to think what he could do. If these armed men pressed for- 
 ward into the house, among them he would go, and by some 
 means would get to his father's side. He held himself ready 
 for a spring, and at the first move he would be among them ; 
 in the very midst of them. 
 
 In this attitude he remained watching with steady eye. 
 He could see impatience, a reckless demeanour, a swaggering 
 manner, among the men ; but they were not summoned ; 
 
258 THE CAREWES. 
 
 there was no move to pass up tlie stairs, and enter the 
 door. 
 
 Suddenly there was a recoil to right and left. The men 
 who had crowded up after the king were hurrying down. 
 The lane was made again, and the king came forth, followed 
 by his nephew,' and walked fast, and with an air of sullen 
 passion, back to his coach, the word "Privilege ! Pri\ilege!" 
 sounding through the open door. Murmurs of disappoint- 
 ment and oaths were muttered among his train, but they 
 followed him, and the hall became nearly empty. Then, in 
 a short time it was full of honourable members. The house 
 had adjourned. 
 
 Henry hurried to his father's side the moment that ho 
 appeared, and saw him "with flushed cheek and excited eye, 
 leaning on the arm of Henry Yane. 
 
 " We have had a great deliverance, my son !" he said, 
 as he took Henry's hand. " Thank God, for om^ great de- 
 liverance ! Was there large force of armed men ?" 
 
 " They must have amounted to many hundreds," said 
 Henry. 
 
 " I have a coach here that shall set you down," said 
 Yane. " Thy father must have no more fatigue this day." 
 
 Henry gladly accepted the kind ofler, and they were 
 speedily at home with Lady Carewe, who was watching for 
 them anxiously. She led her husband in, stretched him on 
 his couch, brought him refreshment, and made all ti*anquil 
 around him. Her cares arc not for long. He will never 
 enter the house of Commons again. The sand is running 
 low, and his " long day's work " is nearly done, and his wife 
 knows it, and he knows it well. 
 
THE WAR BEGINS. 259 
 
 But now, with animated voice and manner, lie tells licr 
 and Henry the events of the day. "We had scarcely 
 assembled after dinner," said he, " when it was communicated 
 to us that duiing our hour's adjournment Mr. Pym had 
 received secret inteUigence that the king was coming to seize 
 the five impeached members by force ; and farther, that Lord 
 Essex had sent to advise those five members to absent them- 
 selves this day. There was a debate on this. It was inter- 
 rupted by a more pressing message still, brought in by 
 Nathaniel Fiennes. Captain Langres had clambered over 
 the roofs fi'om Whitehall to call him out of the house, and 
 tell him to warn it that the king was approaching at the head 
 of a large body of armed men." 
 
 " Even among the resolute men of our house of Com- 
 mons, it must have been an awful moment. I tremble as 
 thou teUest.'' 
 
 *' On this it was moved that the five members have leave 
 to absent themselves, and they went instantly — Strode only 
 resisting, and having to be forced away by a friend — and took 
 boat at the stau-s. Scarcely had they gone, and Mr. Speaker 
 had instructions to sit still with the mace lying before him, 
 when a loud knocking was heard, then a rush of armed men, 
 and above all the voice of the king commanding ' upon 
 their lives not to come in.' " 
 
 " That I also heard," said Henry, " and saw the de- 
 meanour of his hundreds of armed followers. I watched 
 aU from ^^ithout." 
 
 " Thou also hast had thy awful moments, then," said 
 Lady Carewe ; " but let us listen to the rest." 
 
 " The king entered immediately "vsith the Elector Pala- 
 
260 THE CAREWES, • 
 
 tine, while the door was kept open, leaving \'isible a party, 
 of whom some had left their cloaks in the hall, while most 
 of them were armed with, pistols and swords.'^ 
 
 " All, nearly all, my father." 
 
 " As the king entered, we all rose and uncovered, the 
 king also removing his hat. His glance and his step were 
 in the direction of Mr. Pym's seat close by the bar. Not 
 seeing Mr. P}Tn, his majesty proceeded up the house to the 
 chair. The speaker rose and dropped on one knee, then 
 rose again, and stood, as did we all, and the mace was re- 
 moved. His majesty then cast searching glances among us, 
 but could nowhere sec those he sought." 
 
 " Oh, what mercy it was that they had been warned ! 
 What a di'eadful scene might have ensued, where men resolved 
 in principle, became opposed to brute force ! To whom do 
 we owe the discovery ?" asked Lady Carewe. 
 
 " 'Tis well believed that 'twas the Lady Carlisle, to whom 
 some indiscretion of the queen may have revealed the king's 
 intention, but this is uncertain, and kno"svn only to Pym. 
 His majesty then made a short speech in much discompo- 
 sure, in which he said not much that I remember, except 
 that he had sent for five persons and expected obedience and 
 not a message, and that there is no 'priidlege' in cases of trea- 
 son. Then he again looked round the house, and said to the 
 speaker, ' Are any of those persons in the house ? Do you 
 see any of them? Where are they?' Then the speaker 
 fell on his knees and said, * May it please your majesty, I 
 have neither eyes to see, nor tongue to speak, in this place, 
 but as the house is pleased to direct me, whose servant I 
 am.' His majesty then again cast his eyes round the house, 
 
THE WAR BEGINS. 261 
 
 and his next words I remember well. They were, ' "Well, 
 since I see all the birds are floAvn, I do expect from you that 
 you do send them to me as soon as they return hither,* and 
 then he said more, not much to the purpose, as that he never 
 meant any force ; but at the last he said again, * I do expect 
 you to send them to me as soon as they come to the house,' 
 adding, ' otherwise I must take my own course to find them.' 
 Then he moved to retire, and passed down the house between 
 two rows of stern faces, with eyes all fixed upon him, and as 
 he passed there was from many the loud cry of ' Privilege !' " 
 
 " That I heard," said Henry, " and observed in the king 
 much angiy passion, as well as smothered disappointment in 
 his train.'* 
 
 " By this act," said Sir Arthur, " the king hath drawn 
 the sword and thro^^Ti away the scabbard. He hath made 
 his attack and failed, but he will rally and renew it. From 
 this moment, that becomes certain which hath long impended. 
 We shall have civil war in England.*' 
 
 Sir Arthur was so deeply moved as ho said these words, 
 that his strength failed him in an alarming degree, and 
 Lady Carewe motioned to Henry to keep perfect silence, 
 while she sat watcliing her husband's wasted face, and hold- 
 ing his hand in hers. As Henry looked on the two faces he 
 loved best in the world, the one scarcely less worn and wan 
 than the other, a feeling of dread entered his heart ; for the 
 apprehension rushed on his mind for the first time, that ho 
 was about to lose his father. Utterly unable to control 
 himself, be stole softly from the room, shut himself into his 
 j own, and gave way to a flood of grief and tears. The con- 
 \ stant companionship of two years had reared up a great love 
 1 R 
 
262 
 
 THE CAREWES. 
 
 between father and son ; and Sir Arthur's misfortunes had 
 wrought a great change on his character. Still as stern and 
 unbending in principle as ever, he was gentle and affectionate 
 in his family, and reposed such perfect trust in Henry, and 
 loved him so well, that to look forward to his father's loss and 
 the cessation of their happy intercourse, was a trial he had 
 not dreamed of, and now that it suddenly came upon him, 
 it seemed too much to bear. 
 
 He remained alone f(3r some time, then roused himself, 
 and tried to think more calmly, and to hope. This time had 
 been too ftdl of stern anxious business for his father's strength, 
 and besides he had never recovered Valentine's departure. 
 His father must have rest at Crewhiu\st, and Yalentine must 
 come home. For this he would try hard. He could come 
 now. The Star Chamber and its judgments were swe;gt_ 
 away. His father should soon be better ! " 
 
 So said Henry to himself, and when he went down agaij 
 and his mother smiled as he entered the room, he cast off 
 fears entirely. 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF MIND. 26S- 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF MIND. 
 
 " I AM going to mal^e thee my envoy to the city to-day," said Sir 
 Arthur, as Henry entered his room on the folloAving morning. 
 " Already I have heard by special message from Mr. Hamp- 
 den that he and our four other friends are safe in the house 
 in Coleman Street in Avhich they had resolved to take refuge. 
 The king, he infonns me, hath not given up the contest. Ho 
 hath sent orders to stop aU the sea-ports, in the imagination 
 (which indeed shows how he is deluded) that they will 
 attempt to flee. He hath also sent warrants to the lord 
 mayor to arrest them, and announced his intention to visit 
 the Guildhall this day. Thither I would have thee go. I 
 would not willingly send thee into danger, but there will be- 
 none. The city is too firm to permit the possibiHty of any 
 contest. The king, doubtless, deceives himself, and imagines 
 it will support his course because it feasted liim and gave him 
 a loyal welcome on his late return from Scotland. But he 
 wall find it is not so. There are nowhere more loyal subjects 
 than the citizens of London to a constitutional king, but a 
 king using force against his parliament, and himself attempt- 
 ing to execute his own warrants contrary to all legal usage, 
 they vdW not support. If the king persist in this fatal 
 
264 THE CAKEWES. 
 
 course, lie will find that he liath. lost tlie capital of his 
 kingdom." 
 
 "And if we do come to this dreadful civil war you so 
 much dread, my father, will London side mth the parlia- 
 ment?" 
 
 '* I am well assured it will. But go and observe well for 
 me all that falls out this day. It is a great day, and one 
 that will have great influence on those days that are to 
 foUow." 
 
 According to his father's direction Henry repaired straight 
 to Temple Bar, and there waited within the gate. He found 
 a considerable crowd collecting, and on looking up Fleet 
 Street saw that all the shops were shut. He was informed 
 also that there had been great excitement through the night, 
 and that a body of citizens had remained under arms ; ru- 
 mours having reached them of an intention to search their 
 houses, seize their arms, and even to fire the city. Presently ^ 
 there was a movement among the crowd, and it was announce 
 that the king was coming, and his coach came quickly uj 
 without any guard. It was evident that the king had ex- 
 pected a good reception ; but they who watched his face sa'\ 
 how rapidly it was overclouded, for no sooner had his coacl 
 passed Temple Bar than the crowd pressed around it witl 
 confused cries of, " Pri\'ilege of Parliament !" So it passe 
 on the whole way to the Guildhall ; and Henry, entering witl 
 the people, got a good place to observe the proceedings. Thci 
 had been only one tumult on the way, when a man wi 
 taken into custody who had thrown a paper into the coacl 
 As appeared afterwards on his trial at the sessions, tW 
 words were written on it, " To your tents, Israel!" the 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF MIND. 265 
 
 war-cry of the ten tribes when they rerolted from Reho- 
 boam. 
 
 The lord mayor and the common council were assembled, 
 and received his majesty with every mark of loyalty and 
 homage, whereupon he made a speech, in which, declaring 
 and protesting many things as to his respect for the privileges 
 of parliament, he repeated many times that he must " ques- 
 tion those traitors." 
 
 During the speech Henry carefully noted the behaviour 
 and looks of the assembly. There was perfect, indeed omin- 
 ous, silence. As it ended the silence ceased, and the cry, 
 *'ParHament! Privileges of Parliament!" resounded through 
 the hall, even the common council joining in it. Presently 
 another cry was heard, " God bless the king," and these 
 two cries continued both at once a good while, till the knock- 
 ing for silence was at last obeyed. 
 
 The king then commanded that whoever had anything 
 to say, should speak. 
 
 " It is the vote of this court that your majesty hear the 
 advice of your parliament," said a voice. 
 
 " It is not the vote of this court, it is your o^YJl vote," 
 said another. 
 
 " AATio is it that says I do not take the advice of my 
 parliament ?" replied the king. " I do take their advice, 
 and will ; but I must distinguish between the parliament and 
 some traitors in it, and these I mil bring to trial — trial." 
 
 There was again a silence in the hall, which lasted for 
 some time. This silence was broken in a manner that was 
 almost ludicrous, and but for the grave nature of the circum- 
 stances, would have raised a laugh. A bold fellow of the 
 
266 THE CAREWES. 
 
 lowest rank got upon a form, and in a loud voice cried, " The 
 pri\41eges of parliament !" *' Observe the man — apprehend 
 him !" cried another voice, but no one obeyed. 
 
 " I have and wiU observe all pri^dleges of parliament," 
 the king mildly replied to his ragged subject, "but no privi- 
 leges can protect a traitor from a trial — trials 
 
 This closed the proceedings. The king rose and was 
 escorted to the door, passing through a ruder crowd in the 
 outer hall, who instantly set up a greater Gry of " The pri\i- 
 leges of parliament ! " He went not straight to Whitehall, but 
 drove to Sheriff Garrett's, where he dined, and it was said was 
 magnificently entertained. Henry waited among the crowd 
 without till he saw the coach moving on again, and then 
 followed with the stream, "Pri^olcge ! Privilege !" sounding 
 from the Hps of thousands the whole way. 
 
 " The king hath made his last throw and lost the stake,' 
 said Sir Arthur, when Henry, returning to him, told tl 
 events of the day. Henry Yane, calling in the evening, 
 formed them, however, that a proclamation was issued b] 
 the king enjoining the seizure of the accused, and prohi^ 
 biting others to harbour them. He had, therefore, not y 
 thrown up his game ; but in two days the formal answer 
 the corporation of the city was delivered to him, which close 
 it. They advised him to " consult with his parliament, 
 desist from military preparations, and to proceed against tl 
 accused only in foim of law." 
 
 On the following morning the " Perfect Diurnal of tl 
 Passages in Parhament," one of the weekly newspapei 
 which at the opening of the Long Parliament first appears 
 in England, informed its readers of what had occurred in 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF MIND. 267 
 
 liouse while these events took place in the city. The house had 
 met as usual, aud had voted a declaration after some patriotic 
 speeches, adjourning the sitting of the liouse to the 11th; but 
 empowering it to meet in committee meantime, in GuildhaU. 
 
 To Guildhall, therefore, Henry now went, in his capacity 
 of envoy, to observe proceedings for his father, and was 
 there before the members, who punctually arrived at eleven 
 o'clock, and sate in the room \\dthin the court to which 
 juries withdrew ; while a feast was laid out for them in the 
 haU, at which they made great cheer at the hour of twelve, 
 without having to sHp out to dinner, as usual. By appKca- 
 tion to his friend, Henry Yane, Henry was admitted to hear 
 the proceedings, at which were some important speeches to 
 the effect that they wished not to protect any members in 
 any crime, but to object to their being proceeded against 
 except in a legal way. 
 
 On his way, Henry had observed that the shops w^ere 
 still shut. On the breaking up of the committee, the streets 
 were found to be fiUed \\dth armed men, who opened a way 
 for the members to pass, and thus he moved on more easily 
 than he would otherwise have done. There had been a 
 rumour of an attack upon the house in Coleman Street, and 
 forty thousand men were instantly under arms, besides at 
 least a hundred thousand armed with clubs, halberds, swords, 
 and the like. The Tower was now under command of Sir 
 John B}Ton, and the better to secure it, the sheriffs of 
 London and Middlesex were ordered to send a sufficient 
 force to watch it by land and water, and Major Skippon, a 
 trusty and experienced officer, was put in command of the 
 city militia. 
 
268 THE CAREWES. 
 
 It was to see a peaceful demonstration tliat Heniy 
 stood in the. London streets on the follomng Saturday. On 
 that day petitioners began to crowd into town from the 
 neighbouring counties. Several thousands came with a 
 petition for the protection of Mr. P}Tn, and Buckingham- 
 shire alone sent four thousand squires and freeholders, who 
 rode in procession to petition also, but also to live and die 
 with Mr. Hampden. On Sunday the 9th of January there 
 were strange groups in London streets, strange ^dsitors in the 
 London churches. Men not known to each other but by the 
 purpose that lighted up each face, men who were complete 
 strangers, grasped hands firmly and passed onmthoututteiing 
 a word. Many a firm and silent pressure of his hand did 
 Henry receive and return as he mixed among these men 
 with a face as earnest and enthusiastic as theirs. How had 
 these men, when their feUow-to\\Tismen or ^dUagers selected 
 them to go and represent them in the metropoHs, received a 
 parting cup and pledge, and so been speeded on their way in 
 that Tsdntry season before the moon had faded ! 
 
 The follo^^ing day was a great one in Guildhall. Ou 
 that day Henry did not fail to be present, for the five 
 members had been imited to attend, and to-morrow the 
 house would meet again in Westminster. After resolutions 
 had been voted against evil counsellors, agamst royal pro- 
 clamations and warrants imder the king's oyn\ hand, came 
 in a deputation of seamen, -with a petition signed by a thou- 
 sand hands offering to escort the committee to Westminster 
 on the mon'ow, which was accepted. Then came the city 
 apprentices in gi'cat numbers, offering their services as a 
 guard ; but it had been resolved to go by water, and this was 
 
THK BUCKIXGHAMSHIRK MKN. 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF MIND. 269 
 
 declined. A military escort was, however, engaged to move 
 along by land as the procession moved by water. Scarcely 
 was the business all settled, when the shouts without an- 
 nounced the approach of the five members. It was a moment 
 never to be forgotten in Henry's life, when he saw them 
 enter and take their places among their fellow-legislators ; 
 and Sir Arthur's face lighted up mth the fire of his early 
 days, and Lady Carewe's grew bright again, as they listened 
 to the description he gave them in the evening. 
 
 " To-morrow," said Sir Arthur, " vdll be a great sight. 
 Thou shalt see it, Henry, from the garden of my Lord Essex, 
 who hath given me that favour, and afterwards thou wilt be 
 admitted to the gallery of the house. Thou dost live in 
 wondrous times, among great deeds, and dost look upon the 
 faces, and hear the words, of a band of men, the greatest 
 geniuses for government that ever existed — clear, resolute, 
 temperate, who have not yet made a single mistake as to end 
 or means. It is a pri\dlege for thee that thy youth witnesses 
 their deeds ; may thy manhood bear the fruit, my son, and 
 well I believe it wQl." 
 
 Lady Carewe's glistening eyes were fixed with something 
 of pride in them on Henry, and her heart echoed the words 
 "welllbeHeveit will." 
 
 On the morrow, the morning of January 11th, 1642, a 
 day to be ever remembered in the annals of England, Henry 
 went out to see the five members return to the house in 
 triumph, guarded by their fellow-citizens ; and in the even- 
 ing he returned, with a face still beaming with the excite- 
 ment of the day, to his father, and found him looking almost 
 as he used to do, strong and earnest in expression of face ; 
 
270 THE CAREWES. 
 
 while Lady Care we, forgetting in the public rejoicing her 
 private grief, sat beside him, to listen with intense interest 
 to all Henry liad to tell. The echoes of the triumph, and the 
 thronging multitude in the streets, had already told them 
 much. 
 
 " There were," said Henry, " innumerable thousands in 
 the streets from early morning, so that I had no small diffi- 
 culty to reach my Lord Essex's ; but the sight I had there 
 was worth any crush to get at it. Surely never did the 
 Thames, from London Bridge to Westminster, present so 
 great a spectacle. The members of the committee, the 'five* 
 among them, as also my Lord Kimbolton, were conveyed in 
 one of the city barges, through a fleet of vessels and boats, 
 armed with ordnance, and dressed up with waistclothes and 
 streamers, as ready for fight. But fight there was none ; 
 nought was heard around but shouts of rejoicing, between 
 the volleys they fired all the way, as the barge passed along 
 between. Then on shore, keeping pace with the barge, 
 there marched a strong body of the militia, every man bear- 
 ing on his pike, that was attached to his musket, a printed 
 copy of the solemn protestation. I have brought thee a copy 
 of it, my father ; it binds all who take it to the rendering up 
 life itself on behalf of the liberties of parHamcnt and the 
 maintenance of the protestant religion." 
 
 " It is a solemn protest," said Sir Arthur, " and reli- 
 giously it will be kept. Woe to them who have driven 
 Englishmen to make it." 
 
 " These printed papers flapped like httle white banners 
 about the i:>ikes and around the ensigns and colours j and so 
 they moved aU the way to Westminster among the people, 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF MIND. 2Yl 
 
 wlio thronged around by thousands, shouting, and, as it might 
 be said, echoing the volleys from the river, and so on to West- 
 minster. And when the barge stopped at the old port at 
 Westminster, then landed the members, among dense, shout- 
 ing crowds ; and well I know how thick was the press, for I 
 was in the midst of it, and shouting too till I was hoarse ; 
 and so they passed up the hall, and up the lobby stairs, and 
 into the house." 
 
 " A great moment ! And thou, I warrant me, wert not 
 far behind V 
 
 " I was in the gallery among the first, and saw how the 
 speaker and the members, after first all standing up, took 
 their accustomed places, and how then arose the ' five,* 
 silent and uncovered. It was a moving thing. Many men, 
 as they sat and looked, had the tears on their cheeks." 
 
 " I well believe the tears ran down thine, to judge by 
 thy eyes now," said Lady CarcAve. " But was there no 
 speaking ?" 
 
 " It was Mr. Pym who spoke ; the others continued to 
 stand silently till he had finished. What he said was in 
 earnest language. I cannot even try to repeat it ; but he 
 returned hearty thanks to the citizens of London, and said 
 eloquent words to the eff'ect that the house would protect 
 and defend them from all evil consequences, and gi'cat im- 
 pression was produced by his speech. Then the house sent 
 for the sheriffs of London, the masters and ofiiccrs of ships, 
 Sergcant-Maj or- General Skippon, and some of the gentlemen 
 of Buckinghamshire, and they all and each received the 
 thanlvs of the house ; and the Buckinghamshire men pressed 
 in, and so great was the press of them, that it was long 
 
2*72 THE CAREWES. 
 
 while before they could get out, and when their spokesman 
 returned thanks, he said they were six thousand strong." 
 " Nay, four thousand, I have heard ; but that matters 
 
 mw 
 
 "And he added that they could tell the Commons of 
 England that they were ready * to die at their feet.' " 
 
 " And did the proceedings close thus ?" 
 
 " Oh, no ; another and most strange thing I have to tell 
 you, my father. It was announced in the house, before it 
 rose, that yesterday evening the king and queen and all the 
 court suddenly left Whitehall, and have removed to Hamp- 
 ton Court." 
 
 " Is it possible ? He hath left his capital, then ! When 
 or how to return ? Never — ^but as a victor trampling on 
 our liberties, or a captive in the power of his subjects ! Oh, 
 madness, to have driven us to such an issue ! Long and 
 vainly have we struggled to avert it !" 
 
 The pale and worn expression of face had returned as 
 Sir Arthur said these words, and Henry almost started 
 when he looked up and saw it, but the face lighted up 
 again. 
 
 *' This has been a great triumph," he said. " The 
 triumph of mind and spirit over force. I would I might 
 have been allowed to see it. Yet no ! unworthy that I am 
 to say so ! I ought rather to rejoice that I am permitted to 
 hear it through thee, my son, and to know that thou ^vilt be 
 ready when thy time comes to carry on the great work thus 
 begun. But before thy time comes, a dreadful conflict has 
 to be fought. This day has ended our great war of mind. 
 That war was sure to end in the triumph of liberty and truth. 
 
THE TRIUMPH OF MIND. 273 
 
 Now we begin tlie fearful struggle of bone and sinew, of steel 
 and bullet ; now will man grapple with his fellow-man and 
 murder his brother. In this awful strife ' the race is not always 
 to the swift, nor the battle to the strong,' and yet I well be- 
 lieve we shall triumph even in this. "Was Cromwell in the 
 house to-day ?" 
 
 " He was, my father. I saw him in his usual place." 
 
 " I often remember now that speech of Hampden's con- 
 cerning him, and he knows him well, being, indeed, nearly 
 related. When Lord Digby one day, in the last parliament, 
 before that change which now unites him mth the court, 
 said to my friend, * Pray, Mr. Hampden, who is that man ? 
 for I see he is on our side by his speaking so warmly to- 
 day ;' then Hampden answered : * That sloven, whom you 
 see before you, hath no ornaments in his speech ; but that 
 sloven, I say, if we should ever come to a breach with the 
 king (which God forbid !), in such a case, I say, that sloven 
 will be the greatest man in England !' " 
 
 " My husband," said Lady Carewe, " think not more on 
 these matters to-day, nor speak farther on them. Thou art 
 exhausted. Let me persuade thee to go to thy repose." 
 
 He held out his hand to Henry to wish him good night ; 
 and as he moved, his weakness seemed so great that he 
 leaned for support on the arm of his son. Then again re- 
 turned that dread, now become almost a certainty, that had 
 before appalled Henry. He was, indeed, about to lose his 
 father. He was still sitting alone, buried in his uncontrolled 
 grief, when, after the lapse of an hour, a knock at his door 
 roused him. It was his mother who had come. 
 
 *' Thy father hath fallen into a sweet sleep," she said, 
 
274 THE CAREWES. 
 
 " and I am come to tlice. Oli Hemy, my son, — my own dear 
 son — it is coming ; this bitter trial ; thou seest it at last." 
 
 She could say no more. Henry had thrown his arms 
 round her, and, for long, they remained in silence, letting 
 their sorrow have its way, till he, mastering himself for her 
 sake, was able to speak, was able to try to entreat of her to 
 look at liim again, and tell him she would let him try to be 
 a comfort to her. 
 
 She did look at him through her tears, but it was with 
 an expression of such great sorrow, it had almost overcome 
 him again. She only pointed upward, as if she meant to 
 say, " There was all her hope," and left him, for she could not 
 speak. Henry, therefore, composed himself, and went softly 
 to sit by his father till she should be able to come, but how 
 great was his surprise to find her there at her post, calm, 
 watchful, without any outward sign of suffering, except the 
 traces of the tears she had shed ! Then he understood that she 
 might long have known of the sorrow that was coming, 
 though her fortitude prevented any one from discovering it ; 
 but he did not know yet, how great a comfort his s}Tnpathyj 
 had been, nor how much reHef to her had been those iei 
 she shed when they sat side by side. 
 
rORCE AGAINST FORCE. 275 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 FORCE AGAINST FORCE. 
 
 The lioar frost lay on the ground, and the bare branches 
 swung to and fro in the wind, as Edith and Henry walked 
 together slowly and mournfully across the park at Crew- 
 hurst, from the chapel where their father lay buried, and 
 where they had been looking at the tablet that was raised 
 to his memory. Their talk, which had long been of him they 
 had lost, was now of Valentine. 
 
 "If Valentine do come to us on receiving thy letter, 
 Henry," said Edith, " I cannot hope that he will be happy 
 with us. Thou dost fancy he will, because thou so much 
 wishest his company ; but we live so simply, so very quietly, 
 and in such perfect retirement, that after the life of gaiety 
 and vanity he hath led, he will not be able to endure it.'* 
 
 " But will he not like the change ? Would he not, if 
 he were once with us for this little while, and had tiuie to 
 tliink of our father's noble principles, and read the journals 
 I have wTitten of his life, and the records of his speeches, 
 would he not begin to sympathise more in his course, and 
 feel more as we do ?" 
 
 Edith shook her head, and said she was very hopeless 
 about it, but would like to hear the letter Henry had writ- 
 
276 THE CAREWES. 
 
 ten. They therefore went in together to the library, where 
 Henry now sat for many hours daily, finishing certain tasks 
 his father had left him to do, arranging his father's papers 
 and books, and going on with his own studies. Here, haying 
 thrown some logs on the fire, and seated Edith in an arm- 
 chair, he took out his letter and read it. It was directed to Sir 
 Valentine Carewe, at the court of the Prince of Orange : — 
 
 "Dear Brother, 
 
 " The first letter I sent to thee after our great loss, left 
 me so heavy mth grief, that I could not say much to thee 
 besides the grievous news it took to thee, but now I will 
 send thee our father's will and wishes for thy consideration, 
 for he would not say ^ commands.' * Only make knoTVTi to 
 him my wishes,' that was what he said. 
 
 " ' Tell him,' so said my father to me the last day of his 
 life, Hell my dear son Valentine, that I leave him my bless- 
 ing and forgiveness for all the sorrow he hath caused me ;" 
 I like not to grieve thee with that word ' sorrow,' but I must 
 give his message truly — * and that when he attains the age of 
 twenty-one, he will find himself possessed of my estates and 
 property, such as they arc, after many heavy losses and fines, 
 which have greatly lessened the amount ; and after deduct- 
 ing the provision made for the rest of my family. But tell 
 hiTn it is my wish that during the year that intervenes 
 he AviU live at Crewhurst with his mother, who is his solo 
 guardian, and that he will in no way meddle in public 
 afiairs. This year of cool thought he needs in these dis- 
 tracted times, before embarking on either side in the stiifo 
 which agitates our country, and if in the course of this year 
 
FORCE AGAINST FORCE. Stt 
 
 he would apply himself to study the causes of the present 
 discontents, where thou canst point out to him the way, 
 I die in the hope that he might abstain from throwing his 
 life and fortune into a cause, which, as it is the cause of des- 
 potism against liberty, cannot prosper in England for long, 
 though in the chances of Avar it may for a time.' 
 
 "These words, my brother, I took down and noted care- 
 fully as his lips uttered them, and if thou wouldst come to us, 
 I tell thee the truth when I say it would be a day of rejoic- 
 ing to us all, and go far to cheer our mother's spirits, which, 
 though she hath a wonderful strength and fortitude, yet fail 
 her often. She occupies herself much in teaching our little 
 Alice and Martin, and they prosper bravely in her hands ; 
 thou wilt scarcely know them again, so groAATi and improved 
 are they. Edith is " 
 
 " I think not best to read what I have said of thee ! 
 I might make thee proud." 
 
 " I wish to hear it. Master Henry. Thou hast no right 
 to send a character of me, and I not know of it." 
 
 '' I shall not read it, though. It means that we at Crew- 
 hurst have an angel to guard and cheer us." 
 
 " Ah, Henry 1" said Edith, " thou dost make me humble, 
 not proud, if thou hast said such things as that," and the tears 
 stood in her eyes. Henry went on Avith his letter. 
 
 '^ Do come, Valentine. I want to see thy face again ; 
 nay, I long for it. I do wash thou wouldst come. There 
 are now no horses in stall; nor hawks on perch. ^Yhat 
 then ? We can still enjoy much. We have strong legs 
 
278 THE CAREWES. 
 
 of our own. Dost not remember how we ran, once upon a 
 time, when we feared to look who might be behind us ? We 
 can play bowls too ; and Woodruffe is a good fellow, and will 
 contrive sport for thee. I have some hard work to do, but 
 some hours a day given to it earnestly for a few months mil 
 iinish it ; and I am going on besides \\T^th Greek and the 
 mathematics, under our new vicar, who is a learned man, 
 and to whom I go daily ; but still I shall have good time for 
 thee. Ever I think on Mr. Russell, and long for him, Vv^hen 
 I look upon my books. Shall I ever see him again ? 
 
 " I want thee, in short. And so do all here. Om- 
 mother sends her blessing, and bids me say she trusts thy 
 father's wish will be a law to thee, and that she will see 
 thee soon among us. Thy lo\ang brother, 
 
 "Henry Carewe.'^ 
 
 This letter did not receive a very immediate answer, and thj 
 answer, when it came, was not such as cheered Lady Carewe 
 and sadly disappointed Henry. Valentine promised to ob( 
 his father entirely as to abstaining from entering into publ 
 affairs until he was of age, but he would remain abroad 
 that period. He tried to give some reason for this thi 
 should not look unkind or unafPectionate, but he did no! 
 succeed. Plis refusal cast a gloom over the whole famil] 
 for some time, but in their round of duties and the 
 sional intercourse with some dear friends, such as the Wil- 
 loughbys and Hampdens, they partly recovered their spirit 
 
 But thcsO' friends had now little time to give to augl 
 except the troubled affairs of the country. Prejiarations fo 
 the impending wnr, mixed with negoeiations in the vail 
 
FORCE AGAINST FORCE. 279 
 
 hope of averting it, occupied tlicm and all men of note on 
 both sides. The king had retired to York, where he held 
 his court, and where many joined him, both of his courtiers 
 and of those who had belonged to the parliament, till the 
 prospect of taldng arms against their sovereign made them 
 desert it. Amongst these, the most eminent were Lord 
 Falkland, and Hyde, best Imown as Lord Clarendon, who 
 now gave themselves entirely to the royalist side. The 
 words addressed by Sir Edmund Verney, the king's stan- 
 dard bearer, to the latter and recorded by him, doubtless 
 express the conflict in the mind of many an honourable 
 man in those days, though Sir Edmund thought they applied 
 only to himself. They were uttered in explanation of his 
 melancholy, about the time of the erection of the royal 
 standard at ISTottingham, which event took place in August 
 of 1642. 
 
 " My condition is much worse than yours, and different, 
 I believe, from any other man's, and will very well justii}- 
 the melancholy that possesses me. You are satisfied in your 
 conscience that you are in the right ; that the king ought 
 not to grant what is required of him, and so you do your 
 duty and your business togetlier. But for my part, I do not 
 like the quarrel, and do heartily Avish that the king would 
 yield and consent to what they desire, so that my conscience 
 is only concerned in honour and in gratitude to follow my 
 master. I have eaten his bread, and served him near thirt}' 
 years, and will not do so base a thing as to forsake him ; and 
 choose rather to lose my life, which I am sure I shall do, to 
 preserve and defend these things which are against my con- 
 science to preserve and defend." 
 
280 THE CAIIEA\TES. 
 
 The king now put forth the *' Declaration of his Cause,'' 
 and issued his commission of array. The queen was in Hol- 
 land, where she had carried the crown jewels, and paAMicd 
 them to procure ammunition and arms. The two princes, 
 Rupert and Maurice, the nephews of the king, had joined 
 him. A great portion of the gentry and aristocracy declared 
 for him, sent in large contributions to his treasury, and 
 brought in their tenants and retainers to swell his army. 
 The spirit of his army was chivalrous, loyal, brave, haughty 
 and self-confident, dissolute — ^partly from the habits of the 
 times in men of their party, partly from opposition to the 
 puritan strictness — and reckless of the people's lives and pro- 
 perties. Prince Eupert, whom the people learned to call 
 " Prince Pobber," possessed of dauntless courage, carried pil- 
 lage, ravage, and murder to the same height to which he 
 had been used in the ferocious German wars ; and his sword 
 was drij)ping with English blood in every skirmish and 
 cvory battle, and pitiless in pursuit and after defeat. 
 
 The parliament, on the other hand, published the ordin- 
 ance to marshal the militia of the country, and voted the 
 necessary supplies. The metropolis continued firm in the 
 people's cause ; and the navy declared for it from the first. 
 Scotland, also, was in alliance with the parliament ; though at 
 a later period the Marquis of Montrose's extraordinary feats 
 in favour of the king became an important part of his war- 
 fare. In many of the counties — as, for instance, Buckingham- 
 shire — the parishes and hundreds, often vritli their preachers 
 at their head, marched forth to training. Subscriptions in 
 aid also flowed in, not only from the rich, but the poor, and 
 even from women ; so that the cavaliers called it, in deri- 
 
FORCE AGAINST FORCE. 281 
 
 sion, "the thimble and bodkin army." But they soon 
 learned that this army was not to be despised. Many dis- 
 tinguished men — among them Hampden, Lord Brooke, and 
 Lord Willoughby, raised bodies of men, who became dis- 
 tinguished for their courage and discipline ; and Oliver 
 Cromwell, who had purchased the -commission of a colonel 
 of horse, raised a regiment in the eastern counties, that was 
 celebrated, from the beginning of the Avar, for its superior 
 training. The spirit of the parliament's army was stern, 
 enthusiastic in religion and in the cause of liberty, and was 
 strictly observant of discipline. 
 
 The people were harassed, as a matter of course, by tlic 
 contradictoiy and conflicting orders, and when the two par- 
 ties met, as sometimes happened, with the king's commission 
 of array on one side, and the parKament's ordinance on the 
 other, dra^ATL up, according to form, for the " Defence of the 
 king and parliament," they knew not whom to obey ; and 
 conflicts, often leading to bloodshed, were the consequence. 
 
 The foreboding of his death was fulfilled very soon in 
 the case of Sir Edmund Yerney. Li the first battle of this 
 war, the battle of Edgehill, fought in October of that same 
 year, he was killed ; one among four thousand Englishmen 
 slain by each other's hands, who were left on the bloody 
 field. It was observed, by those who have left records of 
 that day, that there was a long pause before either army 
 opened their fire. They stood drawn up in their opposite 
 ranks, as if some awful sense of the horror of brother being 
 opposed to brother had oppressed them. Skirmishes there 
 had been before, afi'airs of outposts and sudden attacks, and 
 the king had already appeared in arms before Hull, and 
 
2S2 THE CAREWES. 
 
 made an unsuccessful attempt to enter it ; but this was the 
 first pitched battle. It was the guns of the army of the 
 parliament which at last began it ; and, sanguinary as it was, 
 it efiected little or nothing for either party. Both claimed the 
 victory ; while, after it, the Idng took no advantage of his 
 opportunity to advance upon London, nor did the Earl of 
 Essex (the general for the parliament) make haste to throw 
 himself between the royalist army and the capital. ^ 
 
 It was on one of those calm, bright autumn days, that some- 
 times make October the most delightful month of the year, 
 that Lady Carewe and Edith sat reading, under the green 
 shade of an oak tree in the park, the account of this battle, 
 in one of the parliament's '^ Diumals." The two cliildren, not 
 far from them, were playing happily ; the pale autumn roses 
 on the wall spread a sweet scent through the air ; everything 
 around spoke of beauty and peace. Henry, a Httle way from 
 them, leaning on the stone that supported a sun-dial, seemed 
 to be full of conflicting thoughts and feelings. He had 
 brought the paper to them, and had already read it 
 himself 
 
 ''Edith," said Lady Carewe, looking up after a long 
 silence, " I hope that had God called me to the trial now 
 heavily pressing on many a mother and wife in England, 
 He would have found me ready. I hope, too, I am not 
 cowardly, nor shruiking in heart from this work, if I feel 
 deeply grateful that my husband ^^'as called away before this 
 dreadful war began, and that my son is too young to take 
 part in it. Look at him now ! Wliatever work he is called 
 to do, he wiU do it strongly, not sparing himself, 
 nothing. Oh, may God preserve him !" 
 
FORCE AGAINST FOllCE. 283 
 
 '* 111 Ilis hands he is safe, my mother." 
 
 They rose as they spoke, and Ileniy joining them, they 
 walked to the house. He knew more than they did of the 
 probable results of the approach of the two armies towards 
 London, and of the peril of the country about them, should 
 PriDce Rupert begin his system of recruiting and pillage. 
 His thoughts WTre often employed on how to protect the 
 tenants on the estate, and his mother, sisters, and Httle 
 brother, should danger come near them. Sometimes he 
 thought they ought to go to London, but Lady Carewe could 
 not bear to think of it. " I trust Grewhurst to thee, to pre- 
 serve it in its beauty for Valentine ;" so her husband had said 
 to her ; and it became a sacred duty mth her to obey him, 
 and to remain there till she gave it up to his successor. 
 
 Only a month after this time Henry received letters 
 from Lord Willoughby giving hopes of peace. Lord Essex's 
 army was now in and about London ; tiie king's, near 
 Brentford ; and he had received the overtures of the par- 
 Kament graciously, and a truce had been declared. The 
 joy which this news spread through the family is scarcely 
 to be described. 
 
 *'The skies do not sympathise vdtli us," said Edith. 
 "How dense is the fog, and, but that it is wintry weather 
 and cold, I should say I hear thunder." 
 
 Henry had been listening attentively for some minutes at 
 an open window, and he now spoke. 
 
 " The sound we hear," said he, " is the distant roar of 
 ai^tillcry. Strange sound during a truce ! I cannot under- 
 stand it." 
 
 TJie ominous sound continued at inters^aLs till night, and 
 
2S4 THE CAKEWES. 
 
 then ceased; and was followed soon after by the news of 
 that treacherous attack on Brentford, A\ith intent to proceed 
 to London during the truce, from the disgrace of which the 
 king was never able to clear himself, and which was only 
 thwarted by the resolute bravery of the parliament's pickets 
 Avho maintained the place, fighting from street to street, till 
 Hampden and Lord Brooke came up, and afterwards Lord 
 Essex, at the head of the London train-bands, and repulsed 
 the royal troops. The king then retired to Oxford, and all 
 thoughts of a peace were at an end. 
 
 There were no thoughts of Christmas festivities that year. 
 The winter passed heavily, and with much distress among 
 the people. Their green corn had been trodden doA\Ti, or 
 cut for forage ; their cattle, sheej), and swine, seized and 
 killed by the cavaliers ; thoir sons were enrolled in the ranks 
 of one party or another ; sometimes a family had the double 
 distress of seeing one son oj)posed to another from ha\T[ng 
 taken opposite sides. So opened the year 1643, and in spring 
 began hostilities again. But bright and beautiful came the 
 summer on, and the leafy month of June was close at hand, 
 and the sun shed his light and warmth, on the evil and the 
 good. 
 
 On the tenth of June Valentine would attain the age of 
 twenty-one. 
 
 It was with much anxiety that Lady Carewe had looked 
 forward to this time. Had all gone on well with the family, 
 it would have been a season of rejoicing when the heii- of 
 the house attained his majority ; but she shared with many 
 others in those disastrous times the sorrow of divided opinions 
 and principles among those nearest and dearest to her. She 
 
FORCE AGAINST FORCE. 285 
 
 had reason to believe, from liis latest letters, that Yalentiue 
 would come home immediately, and that he would take arms 
 in the king's ser^ice. She had written to him that he would 
 find her at Crewhurst, anxious to receive him, and would 
 find her and all his family full of love for him, and longing 
 to see him ; but she had privately made up her mind that if 
 he did indeed embark in the war on the royalist side, she 
 would retire to London, with all her family, at first, and 
 afterwards, when the troublous times were over, would take 
 up her abode in Devonshire, at a property there which Sir 
 Arthur had left to her, and which would belong to Henry at 
 her death. This she had resolved to do, as soon as she had 
 fulfilled her husband's desire to make over Crewhurst, in all 
 its beauty, to his son, and as soon as Henry had performed 
 his promise to deliver certain urgent messages from his 
 father, intended to enforce on Yalentine the paramount duty 
 of examining well into the causes and aims of the war before 
 he embarked in it. The cause for which her husband lived 
 and died was sacred to her, and she could not preside over a 
 household opposed to it. 
 
 Edith and Henry were acquainted with all her inten- 
 tions. Tlie old servants of the family looked forward to the 
 change of masters with the greatest apprehension ; and many 
 a consultation went on among them \sdthout their being able 
 to come to any conclusion, except that wherever my lady 
 went, or wherever she stayed, there they would go or there 
 they would stay. "Woodrufie stoutly maintained that he 
 would never be separated from Master Henry ; and poor old 
 nurse likened herself to the beautiful young Ruth when she 
 said to Naomi, " Where thou goest will I go ; where thou 
 
286 THE CARE^^S. 
 
 diest will I die, and there will I be buried. God do so to 
 me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me.'' 
 " And so," said nurse, '' shall I say to my pretty ladybird, 
 my sweet Mistress Edith." 
 
 Everything in the village bore the same look of comfort 
 and peace that it had done in the best days of the family. 
 Lady Carewe had sent in her contribution to the parliament 
 handsomely, but had, by her influence, prevented Avrits being 
 issued for any of her servants to enter the militia, on the 
 plea that she held the property only in trust for her son. 
 What would happen when he took possession, remained 
 uncertain. 
 
 Things were in this state, when alarming rumours of 
 fresh ravages by the cavaliers issuing from Oxford, began to 
 fly tlirough the country. It was therefore with a face of 
 alarm that Freeman opened the door of the parlour, on the 
 evening of the 9 th of June, and announced that a pai-ty of 
 royahst cavalry were galloping up the avenue. 
 
 Henry instantly went to the door, v/hcre Woodruife, 
 always on the watch, was already posted ; and saw, indeed, 
 a party of eight horsemen coming. His mother was soon at 
 his side, with beating heart, for the idea that immediately 
 entered her mind was that Yalcntuie was among them. 
 But it was not so. The sergeant in charge of the meu| 
 ordered a halt as soon as they reached the door, and in 
 answer to Henry's question as to the pui'pose of their visit,, 
 replied, civilly enough, that they came to demand quarters! 
 for the night, by command of his highness Prince Rupert, at 
 tlie hospitable mansion of his friend Sir Valentine Carewe, 
 who Avould himself arrive on the morrow. 
 
 I 
 
FORCK AGAINST FOKCE. 
 
 287 
 
 There was no question as to the necessity of c()inj)liance. 
 AVoodrufFe was directed to show the men to the stables, and 
 provide forage for the horses, and Freeman to supply supper 
 and beds for the men. In less than half-an-hour they were 
 
 seated in the great hall carousing, and making it resound 
 with shouts, and oaths, and noisy songs. 
 
 The presence of these men alarmed the whole household. 
 Woodruffe, Boult, and Leeson, left their cottages and came 
 up to the Hall, where they remained the whole night ; and 
 the women left their spinning-wheels, which usually hummed 
 the whole evening through, to the sound of their songs and 
 light-hearted gossip, and crowded into the room next to their 
 lady's, having obtained permission. Edith and the chil- 
 dren were all in their mother's own room, and Henry, quite 
 unable to sleep, sat in her dressing room. 
 
 It Avas not till very late at night, when all were asleep 
 but her and himself, that he had come to a resolution how 
 
288 THE CAREVVES. 
 
 to act under tlie circumstances which he believed ^vcYe 
 threatening. He then begged her to come to him. 
 
 " I think you know, my mother," he said, " that I am 
 not easily frightened, nor would I alarm you needlessly ; but 
 I feel certain that great calamities are hanging over us, un- 
 less I can take some speedy steps to drive them away." 
 
 " I cannot think so. Valentine, if he comes to-morrow, 
 will ensure our safe departure ; and I cannot doubt that he 
 will forward our views with regard to our people. It is grief 
 enough to know he is called 'friend' by Prince Rupert, 
 without additional alarms being allowed to harass us 
 farther." 
 
 " But these alarms, I fear, are well grounded. Hateful 
 as the company of these men was to me, I went to them, and 
 remained with them for some time, to try to make out what 
 they are here for, and I fear I have found out." 
 
 "You alarm me, indeed, Henry, now !" 
 
 "They talked openly enough, after they had drunk ale 
 for an hour ; and then I discovered that Rupert himself is 
 coming mth Yalentine, and that he is going to recruit among 
 our people. AVhat he calls recruiting, is seizing on the men 
 he wants, and hanging at their doors those who will not 
 enlist. You know full well, my mother, that none of our 
 men will enlist under him. The cause that their master died 
 for is their cause, and against it they will never fight. 
 Rupert will ravage and burn the village, and murder the 
 people." 
 
 Lady Care we turned pale and trembled. Still she said 
 she could not believe that Valentine would permit such 
 atrocities. 
 
FORCE AGAINST FORCE. 289 
 
 " He would not. No, I know he would not. That is 
 what I must do. I must find him, and rouse him before it 
 is too late. When Eupert is down upon us like a flood, it 
 "will be too late. I must go to their head-quarters, only ten 
 miles oil, they say, and see him. I must rouse him with our 
 father's message to him. I must insist on his giving us 
 time to leave this place, and take away our people in safety." 
 
 " Thou must not go. Thou wouldst run into perils in- 
 numerable." 
 
 " I should not run into any, I fully believe. My name 
 would protect me." 
 
 " Take then Woodruffe and Leeson well armed." 
 
 " I will not take a single man from this place. You will 
 want them all. These troopers will leave early in the morn- 
 ing, and take up a post on the Oxford road, to wait for their 
 commander. The moment they are gone, let every woman 
 and child, and the old and feeble, leave the \allage and come 
 up to the Hall. You will feed them and lodge them safely, 
 my mother, I laiow. The men must stay to defend their 
 homes if attacked. But I may, if it please God to permit 
 me, prevent it." 
 
 " My Henry, can I bear to see thee go ?" 
 
 " And can I bear to leave you, my mother ? Yet I think 
 — I trust and believe — you cannot be in any danger when 
 Valentine is near you. But keep all doors and windows 
 fastened. Woodruffe and Freeman must stay in the house ; 
 and, in case of the worst, you remember the secret chamber. 
 I must now try to rest for an hour. I have told Woodruffe to 
 come to me at sunrise. I know the paths in the forest so 
 well that I can go by short cuts, and shall reach their quar- 
 
290 THE CAREWES. 
 
 ters in little more than an hour. You will try to sleep, my 
 mother?" 
 
 She promised to try, but no sleep visited her eyes, nor 
 did she close them after she had seen him mount and ride 
 away in the early morning light. The dew lay on the grass ; 
 the lark mounted into the sky ; it was Valentine's birthday ; 
 but what a heavy sigh did she give as that thought entered 
 her mind ! 
 
 What bitter grief it was to feel that the wide domain on 
 which her eyes rested had passed away from under her 
 influence, and now belonged to the son who had deserted his 
 father, and who would turn its resources to the purpose of 
 opposing the liberty his father had upheld through life ! How 
 gladly would she have given all up to Valentine had it been 
 othermse ! 
 
 " But I must learn to submit," she said to herself. ** I 
 must learn to respect my son's opinions, though I cannot 
 share them. May he do his duty in the cause he has chosen ! 
 Then I shall go far hence, and see beautiful Crcwhurst no 
 more ; but my heart will be resigned, though it cannot be 
 joyful." 
 
THE BIRTHRIGHT. 291 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 THE BIRTHRIGHT. 
 
 EiDiNG at a rapid pace, by forest paths and over heathy 
 wastes, leaping every obstacle in his way, and keeping a 
 steady watch in all directions, Henry reached the road as he 
 had expected in little more than an hour, and found himself 
 very near the encampment of Prince Rupert. Without 
 slackening his pace, he went straight on, and was speedily 
 challenged by a sentmel. To the challenge, he gave his 
 name, and said he came to visit his brother, Sir Valentine 
 Carewe, and desired that his name and mshes should be 
 carried to the prince. 
 
 He was ordered to wait, and was kept waiting for nearly 
 an hour : at the end of which time he was conducted to the 
 tent of Prince Rupert, and found himself at once in the 
 presence of that man, only too well kno^\Ti in England. 
 
 The prince rose as he entered, and received him vdth. a 
 poKteness of manner and a courtesy almost overstrained and 
 excessive, and quite out of keeping with his large person and 
 awkward carriage ; smiling and assuring him in broken English 
 that he was honoured by this interview. Henry answered 
 to this politeness with a cold gravity. There was something 
 harsh and repulsive in the countenance of the prince, seldom 
 to be equalled in so young a man, for he was only three and 
 
292 THE CAREWES. 
 
 twenty, and besides, all that Henry knew of him was calcu- 
 lated to inspire aversion. 
 
 It was not long therefore before the two parties in this 
 interview felt a desire to bring it to a conclusion, from a 
 mutual dislike ; and Henry veiy quickly stated that his object 
 was to see his brother, and that if agree?vble to his highness 
 to allow them the opportunity of a private inter\T.ew, he 
 should be greatly obliged. To this the prince replied that 
 he Avas extremely grieved to say that Sir Valentine Carewe 
 was on duty at a considerable distance. 
 
 Henry was much surprised at this announcement, and 
 looked so incredulously in the face of the speaker, that a 
 sudden flash of passion darted from Prince Eupert's eyes, 
 and uttering a coarse oath, he seemed about to say something 
 violent, but checked himself. 
 
 "My men will put you on the way homeward, Mr. 
 Carewe, " he then added. " You will see your brother there 
 more conveniently and surely. ^' 
 
 " If I cannot do my errand to my brother/' said Henrj% 
 " may I be peimitted to do it to your highness ?" 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " I have been informed that your highness intends to 
 visit my brother's village to-day and to recruit there. I 
 earnestly beg for the delay of only one day. The men now 
 there will not enlist in your service ; my brother may gladly- 
 put in others that will. Suffer me to withdraw these men. 
 Crewhurst has become my brother's this day ; if your liighness 
 will grant me, besides the request I have made, the fa^'our of 
 a private interview with him at the first possible moment, it 
 is all I ask.'' 
 
 I 
 
THE BIRTHRIGHT. 293 
 
 The pnnce bowed courteously ; summoned an orderly to 
 his presence ; gave him some command in German, and 
 motioned to Henry to follow the man, who waited. 
 
 " Your highness has not replied to my requests," said 
 Henry. 
 
 The only answer was a volley of oaths and the command 
 to " go " in a thundering voice. 
 
 Henry had no choice but to obey. He went out and 
 asked the orderly for his horse. 
 
 " There under the trees,'' said the man. 
 
 Henry walked in the direction of the trees, the orderly 
 keeping close by his side, and soon found himself in the 
 midst of a crowd of soldiers, and perceived in a moment that 
 he was their prisoner. 
 
 Aware that he was entirely in their power, and that 
 remonstrance was useless, he uttered not a word, but seating 
 himself on a fallen tree, remained in silence a prey to the 
 most wretched forebodings, and so he remained for about two 
 hours, which appeared to him like twelve. 
 
 The insolence with which Heniy had been treated by 
 Prince Eupert in this short interview, exasperating as it was, 
 sank into insignificance in comparison with the anxiety 
 which it awakened. Wliat was this man going to do, that 
 he so carefully guarded against a meeting between two bro- 
 thers, who had been separated so long, and must naturally 
 desire to see each other ? AVould he go on to Crewhurst, and 
 was it possible that Lady Carewe would be subjected to some 
 insolence too ? 
 
 " Why did I leave her V groaned Henry inwardly. 
 '' Why did I come on this insane errand ! Oh that I were 
 
THE CAREWES. 
 
 but witli her, to stand forward and save lier from the sllghtes 
 communication with this ruffian. I cannot bear that h( 
 should even look at her or speak to her !" 
 
 He rose and cast his eyes warily round for the chance of 
 escape ; but instantly two pistols were pointed at his head. 
 
 He flashed back the look of defiance that he met from 
 the men round him, and folding his arms, leaned against 
 tree, and there remained perfectly quiet, but attentivel] 
 obser\dng everything that, passed. 
 
 awake," thought he. " 
 
 of my guard tells me plainly enough that Ya-i 
 
 *' I shall keep my .senses 
 watchfulness 
 
 lentine is hereabouts. I may get a glimpse of him, or he 
 his voice. H I do, I will shout to him, and make 
 aware I am here, though they lay me dead the next momcni 
 The sight of my body would at least arouse him to the vilj 
 lany they are plotting, whatever it be.'' 
 
 The time, however, went on without sight or sound 
 Valentine. 
 
 Horses were brought out at last, and the whole part 
 mounted, ordering him to do the same. Still keeping liii 
 in the midst of them, they put themselves in motion, an( 
 took the road to Crewhurst. 
 
 At first the road was winding and sldrted by trees, h\ 
 as soon as they reached a more open part of the count 
 where he could see half a mile in advance, he observed 
 strong body of cavalry moving forward in the same direction 
 with the party which guarded him, and he believed that oi 
 of the horsemen who rode in front was Prince Eupert him- 
 self, while the cavalier at his side had the air and manner oj 
 Valentine. 
 
THE BIRTHRIGHT. 295 
 
 Forgetting for the niomeut that he was likely to meet 
 with nothing but insolence, ho asked the soldier nearest to 
 him, " Is not that Sir Valentine Carewe ? " 
 
 He received no answer. They continued at the same 
 steady pace. 
 
 Suddenly there was a distant sound of musketry in front, 
 and Henry thought he observed that the soldiers about him 
 were startled at it ; still they went on. 
 
 Tliey were soon within half a .mile of the village, and 
 from the top of the hill they A^'ere mounting, it would be 
 visible. They reached the top ; and below them, instead of 
 the neat cottages and their gardens, was a mass of flaming 
 and smoking ruins. 
 
 Scarcely had Henry lifted his hands to heaven in his 
 mute despair, when he perceived that tlie body of cavalry in 
 front had come to a halt, and were in a state of extraordinary 
 confusion. At the same time his guards quickening their 
 pace, the distance between the two parties was rapidly 
 lessened, until he could distinguish the gleam of swords 
 flashing in the sun, and hear the report of pistols. 
 
 Presently another cause of disorder unexpectedly arose. 
 A strong and compact body of infantry in green uniforms, 
 advancing from the burning village, marched in double quick 
 time upon the cavahy ; but before they had time to fire a 
 single volley, Prince Rupert and his whole force disappeared 
 across the country with the speed of the -wind, and Hemy's 
 guard instantly following, he found himself free. 
 
 Putting his horse to its full speed, he galloped madly 
 towards the scene of ruin in front of him, but before he 
 reached it, his bridle was caught by Woodrufie. 
 
> 
 
 296 " THE CAREWES. 
 
 " ^ow may God in heaven be for ever praised," ex- 
 claimed his faithful servant, " for bringing you back to us I" 
 
 In a moment Henry was surrounded by the detachment of 
 soldiers who had put Rupert to flight; they belonged to 
 Hampden's regiment; friendly faces were round him 
 friendly hands helped him to alight, kind voices utter 
 words of sympathy. 
 
 " They came to our rescue, Master Henry. They followc 
 on the heels of these robbers, who have pillaged Bucki 
 hamshire from end to end ; they have saved us from grea" 
 woes. Our homes are destroyed, but not many of us ha^ 
 lost our Hves ; and our wives and children, our old mothi 
 and fathers, thanks to you and your thoughts for us, are si 
 at the Hall. There our kind lady gives them food 
 shelter." 
 
 "Safe ! Oh, my God, then Thou' hast heard my praye 
 At the Hall it is safe." 
 
 Henry was too much overcome for some time to move 
 speak again, till suddenly raising his head, he told Wo^ 
 ruffe to follow him. 
 
 " I must go," said he, " to that rising ground to the 1 
 Something dreadful happened there. I cannot rest till! 
 know what." 
 
 They went together, passing over dead and mangli 
 bodies — ^poor Leeson lay there, shot through the heart- 
 among trampled gardens, smoking rafters, broken impli 
 ments of industry, smashed pieces of furniture, dead anim: 
 and wasted bread, and the little stores of rye and barley 
 scattered on the miry and bloody earth. The sight might 
 have sickened a lover of war of the dreadful work. 
 
THK VICTIMS OF WAU. 
 
THE BIRTHRIGHT. 207 
 
 Tlicy drev/ near tlie spot to which they were hound. 
 Two dead bodies lay in the way as they ascended the emin- 
 ence, and a wounded man lay moaning and imploring for 
 water as they went on. Henry knew of a little spring in a 
 hollow near at hand, and hurried there, carrying with liim 
 the soldier's steel cap to fill it. 
 
 As he began to descend into the hollow, he heard a gi'oan. 
 lie looked about, but could see no one near. He went lower, 
 mo^-ing aside the bushes and searching about. Again came 
 the groan, but more feebly now. It came from a deeper 
 hoUow yet. Thither he clambered down, and saw — oh 
 what a sight he saw ! 
 
 " Valentine, my brother, my brother !" 
 
 His cry was so agonised, so wild, that WoodrufFe heard 
 it, and rushed to him. 
 
 The brothers lay together on the ground. Henry had 
 clasped Yalentine tightly in his arms, and was calling for 
 help to bind up the wounds — to save his brother ! 
 
 Alas ! no human aid could save him ! His face, once so 
 full of manly beauty, was distorted A\ith agony ; his long 
 curls were glued to the ground in his blood; his hands 
 were full of earth and grass that he had dug up in his 
 frenzy ; his eyes were growing mad ; he did not know 
 Henry. 
 
 They brought him water and got some drops within his 
 lips. Then Henry wiped his clammy forehead, sprinlded 
 cool water on his face, opened his hands, poured water over 
 them, called him by his name, in accents of tenderness and 
 love ; tned to fix his eye. 
 
 He succeeded at last. Valentine's eyes grew softer, and 
 
298 THE CARE WES. 
 
 looked into his, and they exchanged one look — one look 
 never to be forgotten. The next instant, Valentine was 
 gone. 
 
 " Oh, Yalentuie, is it thus thou enterest on thy birth- 
 right ?" 
 
 A voice said those words ; and the same voice said othe: 
 words : words of love, of consolation, of pity, of sorrow. 
 Eor a long while Henry lay immovable on the ground beside 
 the dead, his whole frame quivering mth anguish ; long sobs 
 and groans issuing from his aching heart, and whenever he 
 did hear the words that were addressed to him, they only 
 gave him an impression that he was mad, because the voice 
 seemed Mr. Eussell's. 
 
 At last a strong arm raised him from the ground, an 
 eyes full of affection and sympathy were fixed on his. S 
 he only felt that he was mad, for the eyes were Mr. R 
 seU's. 
 
 " Henry ! my own dear Henry, strive to rouse }-ourse 
 Try to bear your cross. It is very hard, very liea\'y ; bul 
 think of his mother, and what she has to bear ; think of 
 sister, and the bitter sorrow of her losing heart. For th 
 sakcs, rouse yourself!" 
 
 " Mr. Russell, it is you ! I am not mad ! God has se 
 you to help me. My second brother — ^much more th 
 brother ! But Valentine ! Oh, I cannot bear it !" 
 
 Again Henry sank on the ground and gave way to pi 
 sionate grief, but at last he was able to listen again to M: 
 Hussell. 
 
 '' Let it be a consolation to you to know," he said, " thai 
 it was poor Valentine's indignation at the ruin of the village^ 
 
 ^ 
 
THE BIRTHRIGHT. 299 
 
 and the murder of his people, that caused his death. One 
 of the wounded men, who is but sHghtly hurt, has told us so. 
 When the cavalry reached this height, and the burning 
 ruins came in \'iew, Pi-ince Rupert coolly avowed that his 
 purpose had been fulfilled in clearing out a set of Roundheads 
 and making room for a loyal body of retainers. Valentine 
 could not bear it. He drew upon the prince, who had to 
 defend himself from the infuriated attack, and by some 
 hand — whose we know not — the death-blow was given." 
 
 It was a consolation in after days, when Henry looked 
 back upon this dreadful time ; but now, he found no comfort 
 in anything. 
 
 " Go to them, Mr. Eussell. Tell my mother, tell my 
 Edith. I will follow with him. I cannot leave him. Wood- 
 ruffe "N^ill stay with me, and do you send us help.'* 
 
 Mr. Russell complied ; and it was long afterwards, when 
 the evening twilight had almost given place to night, and the 
 stars were coming out, that a mournfiil procession approached 
 the Hall. The rough bier was carried by Woodruffe, Free- 
 man, and two other men ; the hand of the pale corpse that 
 lay on it was tightly clasped in Henry's. He walked close 
 to its side. 
 
 The men of Hampden's regiment, who kept guard by the 
 door, mutely saluted as the bier passed them. The bearers 
 set it down in the hall, and silently departed. No one was 
 by when the mother and sister embraced the beloved dead, 
 and kissed liim, and wept over him. No one, save Henry 
 alone. 
 
 He had sunk at his mother's feet, and knew that she 
 blessed him ; and Edith's tears and kisses were fast raining 
 
300 THE CAREWES. 
 
 down on the two clasped Lands now held in hers, the one 
 cold and still, the other trembling with deep feeling. 
 
 Valentine had, indeed, entered on his birthright ; but Sir 
 Henry Carewe was lord of Crewhnrst. Of his future history, 
 it can only be recorded here that he reahsed the wish of his 
 best friend, and that in manhood he was true to the dream 
 of his youth. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 HENRT VIZETELLY, PRIKTER AND ENORATER, 
 
 GOVGU SQVARE, FLEET STREET. 
 
/ 
 
,.n' 
 
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