m LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS AT URBANA-CHAMPAICN 823 B172S v.1-3 STRAFFORD. STRAFFORD % %ammct BY H. BARTON BAKEE, AUTHOR OF PRENCH SOCIETY FROM THE FRONDE TO THE GREAT REVOLUTION, ETC. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. L LONDON : TINSLEY BROTHEES, 8, CATHERINE STREET, STRAND. 1878. [_Bight of Tramlation reserved by the Author. "l LOIS DOi? : &AV1LL, BDWABDS AND CO., PKINTEB8, OHAIfDOS STREET, COVENX Gri-RDTUK. Bnas v.l-3 CONTENTS OP ;) THE FIRST VOLUME. ^^ BOOK THE FIRST. AT WENTWOETH-WOODHOUSE. CHAP. FAGB I. ETHEL ... 1 II. THE BRAWL 22 III. SIR THOMAS WENT WORTH 45 IV. DENZIL HOLLIS 59 V. THE DUEL 70 VI. SUMMONED BY THE KING 90 BOOK TEE SECOND. AT COURT. I. THE KING 104 IL HENRIETTA MARLA. ,117 III. LUCY, COUNTESS OF CARLISLE 131 IV. AT ANTONY VANDYKE'S 168 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBAiMA-CHAMPAIGN vi CONTENTS. BOOK THE THIBD. IN THE SHADOW OF DEATH. CHAP PAOl I. A winter's evening 188 II. MY LORD PRESIDENT OF THE NORTH . . . 204 III. SUNDERED LIVES 213 IV. LAUNCELOt'S HOME 228 V. DEATH 239 BOOK TEE FOURTH. THE MUTTEEmaS OF THE TEMPEST. T. AT THE SPRING GARDEN 257 II. IN COUNCIL , . . 281 STRAFFORD. BOOK THE FIRST. AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. CHAPTER I. ETHEL. It was a hot bright day in the August of the year 1628 : it was some time past the hour of noon, and the heat was at its highest, the white glare of the dusty road was almost as painful to the eye as the flowing sunlight above, and man and beast crept close into the shadows, grateful for any shelter, however bare, from the scorch- ing rays that seemed to pour down in ^nolten fire upon him. Seldom was heat so intense felt in a district of England so far north as Yorkshire. VOL. I. 1 2 AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [booe. i. Beneath a clump of trees that overhung a heavy wooden gate leading into a stretch of ground, half wood, half park, rested a young gentleman on horseback. It was a cool, pleasant prospect for a hot summer's day upon which his eye rested. Beside the scrupulously swept and trimmed paths of the present day the grounds of Wentworth- Woodhouse would now appear rude and neglected. There were bosquets of over- grown brambles, there were decaying limbs which last winter's storms had torn from the trees ; the grass and the tall brake fern covered the ground in uncut luxuri- ance ; there were thickets of noble trees unthinned by any prodigal heir ; there were shadowy dells which might have been the chosen haunts of the fairies, and there was a broad expanse of water starred with the blossoms of the water-lily, upon the margin of which, beneath leafy . shadows, congregated a herd of deer. .] ETHEL. Let us now turn our gaze from the land- scape to the man. He was very young, seemingly scarcely more than twenty, with pale but handsome features, dark blue eyes, contemplative and dreamy, the whole countenance imbued with a studious melancholy; his fair hair hung in natural ringlets to his shoulders ; his dress was dark and plain but was unmistakably that of a gentleman. The sight of the cool green herbage, so inviting to his parched mouth, made the horse grow restive, he champed his bit, snorted and pawed the ground in dumb persuasion. But his rider heeded not these promptings, until out of one of the sleepy hollows there rose the white fluttering of a lady's dress. Then Launcelot's grave face suddenly lighted up as though a new soul had been breathed into it. He dismounted, and lifting the wooden bar, which alone secured the gate, passed through, and, 1—2 4 AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book i. leading his horse by the bridle, made to- wards the white dress. It clothed a form such as Spenser might have dreamed of when Una first rose upon his mind's eye. Delicate in outline, yet undukting, too youthful for fully developed womanhood, yet gently rounded in its due proportions ; tall enough for grace, but not for statehness, and exquisitely set "off by the simple flowing dress of white and pale blue. Her hair was of that fair auburn which grows luminous in the sun but fades to a flaxen in a dimmer light, as though it reflected the golden rays that were shed upon it ; its waving tresses, flowing to the waist, were gathered loosely in a blue ribbon, while upon the low white forehead it lay in those pretty curls which we see so frequently in the portraits of Vandyke. Her eyes were of the deepest violet, large, thoughtful, but not dreamy, although full of gentleness and poetry ; her complexion CHAP. I.] ETHEL. was ever varying with each changing thought, one moment colourless as a lily, or perhaps just tinged with the delicate pink of the wood anemone, the next bright as a damask rose. And over all there was such perfect refinement in the oval contour of the face, the small rounded chin, the straight, perfectly chiselled nose, the deli- cate lips ; there was no line of sensuous- ness in all her beauty, yet all was soft — hauteur had no more place there than voluptuousness, neither was it weak in its gentleness ; a painter might have given such a face to a Joan of Arc or to a Christian martyr. Winding among the shadows, arranging a bouquet of wild flowers, and undisturbed by the noiseless footfall of horse and master, which scarcely made a sound upon the thick grass, she was unconscious of the presence of the intruder, who was half- hidden by the trees, until the word 6 AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book i. ^' Ethel " caused her to start and raise her face all aglow with surprise, an expression which was instantly shadowed. " Launcelot — Mr. Franklin !' "I have surprised you, and not agree- ably, but not purposely," he said, in a hurt tone. ''I drew up my horse beneath the shadow of the trees that overhang the gate yonder, and as I looked into the park I saw you emerging from that hollow. I could not resist the opportunity of speak- ing to you, even though I should be reproved for my pains." The hurt tone in which he uttered these words melted the shadows from her face and her heart. '* I do not reprove you," she answered, gently, " unless it be for your own sake ; these meetings can only increase your un- happiness ; it is for your sake, not mine, I once more implore you that they shall cease. " «HAP. I.] ETHEL. " There can be to me no unhappiness greater than comes of banishment from your presence," he answered sadly ; " in it I can forget the present and the future, it is to me what sleep is to the wretch condemned to die — forgetfulness." He was leaning against the trunk of one of the grand old trees, while his horse, with bridle on neck, was quietly browsing the herbage at his feet. Ethel stood at a little ■distance, with pale and troubled face, tremblingly plucking the petals of a water- lily. There was silence for several seconds, then she suddenly, by an impulsive move- ment, cast the flowers from her, and advancing towards him, placed her hand gently but timidly upon his arm, and said softly — " Launcelot, this weakness is unworthy of you, it would be unworthy of a common man, much less of you with your noble AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book I. intellect, your grand learning, your brave, noble heart. Such men as you have a higher mission upon earth than to waste precious lives upon a dream of woman's love. We can never be aught to each other. You know your father would never consent to such a union.'' " Why not ? Surely the ward of Sir Thomas Wentworth, a gentleman of far higher and more ancient lineage than ours " " Say rather a poor dependant upon his bounty," she interrupted sorrowfully, " a nameless orphan, perhaps of shameful birth — at least the studied silence of my protector upon the subject may well lead to such a conclusion — I should but mar your fortunes. You could not endure to see your wife rejected where you were received,, and so you would hold aloof from friends and sink to my insignificance since you could not raise me to your own estate." CHAP, l] ETHEL. ^ " But I have no ambition," he answered, " I despise the so-called great of the world, and all the unnatural distinctions of rank and birth as heartily as though I had been born a citizen of old Rome. I shall never seek the patronage of courts. With thee, my books, and my day dreams, my Hfe would be so filled with happiness I should find no room for another desire, for a discontented thought. But answer me one question, Ethel, and do not let the false modesty of your sex induce you to evade the truth. Will you promise me that V* " If the question be one that I can answer, I w411 do so truthfully or not at aU?" " I believe you. Tell me then, were the objections you have urged removed, what answer would you make me ?" " But there — there is no likelihood " " No matter, remember yoiu* promise." The warm colour mounted to her pale 10 AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book i. cheeks, but there was no false shame in the honest, truthful eyes she raised to his as she replied — " Were I a duchess I could feel only joy and pride at being thought worthy of your choice." " God bless you for those words," he cried fervently, and seizing her hand he pressed it rapturously to his lips. "And yet I ought to chide you for such humility, you so beautiful^ so gentle, what more could a prince desire in his partner. And yet " He paused, and the shadow again fell upon his face, as though some unwelcome thought had suddenly entered his mind. She raised her eyes inquiringly for a moment, but they fell as quickly beneath the strange penetrating gaze he fixed upon her. She stooped and picked up the flowers she had dropped and began to rearrange them. He watched her silently, lost in the new thought. Not a sound CHAP. I.] ETHEL. 11 broke upon his reverie, save the browsing of the horse and the lazy ripple of the leaves as some wandering breath of air swept through them. ''Is this love f he muttered at last. But it was a question rather addressed to his inner consciousness than to her. She bent over the flowers as though she had not caught the words, and perhaps she had not truly. " We have known each other now some years, from childhood," he went on, speaking half to himself, half addressing her. " As a boy there was no place I so loved as the Wentworth woods, in their shady jiooks and solitary recesses I could refid my forbidden books undisturbed, and realise Spenser's enchanted forests and ^hakspeare's fairy dells. I have watched the sunht glades fancying that some Brit- omart or Una must presently issue from ^mong the trees, and I have lingered in 12 AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book r. the shadows after nightfall, hoping to catch a glimpse of Titania and her fairy train in the moonlight. One summer's day it seemed as though my dreams had come ta pass, and that one of the enchanted beauties of my imagination was at length revealed to my eyes. I saw a golden-haired sylph,, for you seemed to me nothing less etherial, come wandering towards me, searching in the hollows for blue-bells, of which she held a bunch in her hand. I lay motion- less, concealed by a bush, fearful to move,, lest this lovely vision should suddenly vanish. You picked some flowers within my arm's length, yet never saw me, and wandered away among the trees again, unconscious of the devouring eyes that followed you." He paused for a moment, as though gathering together a new series of images. Ethel's face bent lower and lower over the flowers as he proceeded, and her hands CHAP. 1.] ETHEL. 13 trembled so that she could scarcely hold them. The silence was deeper than before, for the horse had wandered away to fresh pasture and the light breeze had fallen asleep among the hot foliage. '* You were but a child," he resumed presently, " and I was little more ; but from that hour you became to me Una, Rosalind, Miranda, indeed every exquisite •creation of the poet's fancy wore your shape. I saw you frequently after this, sometimes you saw me, sometimes you did not, but my presence was quite indifferent to you -and never won a second glance. One day I fell in with Sir Thomas when he was hawking, and followed the sport, not because I took any interest in it, but because you were with him. He noticed me, asked one of the falconers who I was, 'and upon learning I was a neighbour's son, although no communication ever passed between him and my austere father, he 14 AT WENTWOETH-WOODHOUSE. [booe i. treated me with great courtesy. That was the commencement of our acquaintance. By-and-by he invited me to Woodhouse, and then ive were thrown together. And I taught you to read the books I loved, and so commune with my dreams. A glance of your eyes, a touch of your hair or fingers would thrill me with an ecstasy almost painful, but I never dared address you in words warmer than respect would warrant. You seemed so unconscious of my adoration, so far above all earthly love, that I shrank from such a thought as from a profanation. Your face was serene beneath my eyes, there was no sympathy in your touch, and so I dared not speak. But when I returned from the University I had resolved to overcome my timidity, and to learn my fate. My words seemed to reveal to you a something before un- dreamed of, and for a time you scarcely understood me. Then you started these CHAP. I.] ETHEL. 15 scruples, — No, it is not love," he concluded with a sigh, and like one who had come to the end of a mental analysis. " Let us renew the old relations/' she said, looking up with pale, agitated face ; " let us forget all that has passed within these few months, and be once more as brother and sister. You shall be my dearest brother and I will be to you the most loving sister ever man had." In her eagerness she had laid her fingers all a tremble once more upon his arm. He took both her hands in his and gazed pitifully, sorrowfully into her glowing face, that so entreatingly urged this compro- mise. " You may as well ask me to command the burning sun above our heads to temper his heat to October mildness. Plato dreamed of such a love, and during the nearly two thousand years that have elapsed since he gave that dream to the world men 16 AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book i. and women have been trying to realise it, but never succeeding. To you, so young, so pure, so unversed in the toils of passion, it seems the most easy and natural thing in the world. No, dear one, there must be no self-deception between us. If God has -decreed that our lives shall be sundered I must say perforce 'Amen' and bear the heavy burden of my misery as best I may. But if you cannot be my wife you can never be to me a sister." He let her hands fall from his clasp and turned away his face to swallow the rising sob. The tears started into her own eyes beneath the pathos of that tearful voice, and those desponding words that sounded so strange to her, for she could not wholly understand their meaning. " What can I say — what can I do V she asked pleadingly. *' Answer me one more question," he CHAP. I.] ETHEL. 17 cried, turning suddenly, and again clasping her hands and drawing her face so close to his that her breath fanned his cheek. ** I have learned that your love is not like to \y mine, and how could I expect it to be so ? What am I, that I should inspire in your heart such a love as you have lighted in mine ? But I would not be exacting, I would trust to time, to the hope that my fervour would enkindle yours. Tell me then, with the same pure truthfulness as before, if these — these fancied obstacles of birth — ■ these miserable worldly distinctions were removed, would you of your own free will become my wife ?" "Let the future shape itself," she an- swered, in great agitation ; "it is beyond our power." " Let me speak to Sir Thomas, let me endeavour to win this secret from him." " Not for worlds," she cried, white with consternation. VOL. I. 2 18 AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [eook i. "Then ask it of him yourself, you are now at an age " " No, no, no," she interposed in the same agitated voice ; "I could not, would not ; he will tell me when it befits that I shall know it. If he is silent, he has good rea- son for being so, and I would not pain him by attempting to break that silence." "Answer me then my question," he said, still holding her hands fast clasped. She hesitated, as though seeking within for a reply. Then she raised her eyes to his and answered, " I camiot, Launcelot, for I cannot read my own heart." "Perhaps you have seen some other, whose image stands between mine and your eyes." " No,'' she answered slowly, " un- less " A flush of colour suddenly dyed her cheeks, as she checked the rising words. CHAP. I.] ETHEL. 19 and added hastily, "No, I have seen no one." In the impulse of the moment, taking the words for far more than they meant, he caught her in his arms, and imprinted one long trembling kiss upon her lips. It was the first — never to be forgotten, but to be dreamed over, pondered over, felt within his inmost soul ever- more. Then he released her from his clasp ; she drew back blushing and confused, and he was scarcely less startled at his own temerity. Again there was silence between them, broken by the ecstatic song of a lark poised in mid-air above their heads ; again Ethel busied herself with her flowers, and Laun- celot leaned against the trunk of a great oak-tree watching her. Suddenly a gay voice close beside them 2—2 20 AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book i. exclaimed, "Ah! truant, so I have found you at last." Both started a little confusedly at the sight of a tall, stately looking, and very beautiful lady. " I hope I have not interrupted you," she added archly, looking from one to the other. "I was passing down the road. Lady Wentworth, and looking over the gate, I saw " " Ethel !" she interrupted, laughing, and anticipating his word ; then in a tone of the most gracious courtesy, she added, "No excuse for your presence in Wood- house Park is needed, Mr. Franklin, you are always a welcome visitor both to myself and Sir Thomas." "You are too good. Lady Wentworth,'* answered Launcelot, bowing very low over the white hand extended to him. " I am seeking Sir Thomas, who has CHAP. I.] ETHEL. 21 stolen away since dinner-time into some cool nook, to enjoy some favourite book, I expect. My young lady here followed his example, and finding myself all alone, I strolled out in quest of them. Will you accompany us in our search for Sir Thomas r " Pray excuse me, now. Lady Went- worth," he answered in some embarrass- ment. He was in no humour for conver- sation or society, he longed to be alone, to ponder over the scene that had just tran- spired. So, with a profound obeisance, he remounted and turned his horse's head towards the gate by which he had entered. CHAPTEE II. THE BRAWL. While Launcelot Franklin is riding, deep in thought, along the hot, dusty road, whither we presently intend to follow, we will offer the reader a few words of expla- nation concerning him. He was the eldest son of Sir Richard Franklin, a gentleman of some consequeace and estate in the West Riding of York- shire. Sir Richard, who had not been bom to the inheritance, was educated to the law ; and his youth, passed in London, was said to have been a wild and dissi- pated one. The death of his uncle. Sir Walter, without issue, unexjDCctedly be- stowed upon him the Franklin estate. From that time a marked change came CHAP. II.] THE BRAWL. 23^ over his conduct ; he became gloomy and precise in his habits, and his marriage, a short time afterwards, with a very profes- sedly religious lady yet further increased this disposition. He seceded from the Church of England, and became a member of an Independent congregation, which he and his wife — especially the latter — had been chiefly instrumental in gathering to- gether. This congregation was presided over by Mr. Ezekiel Blatherwick, a most potent and long-winded expounder of the Gospel. No children were born of this marriage, Launcelot being the son of Sir Richard's first wife. Spite of the remonstrances of Mr. Blatherwick, who, priest-like, consid- ered himself entitled to interfere in the most intimate domestic affairs, and the pious objections of Lady Franklin, both of whom regarded all such places as abodes of Agapemone — the father had still enough 24 AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book i. respect for the usages of the world to send his son to Oxford, and there Launcelot im- bibed a very great taste, for what the reverend gentleman called "carnal learn- ing." From the time of his return from the University, which took place about a year before the opening of this narrative, he had become a subject of great inquie- tude to Mr. Blatherwick, through him to Lady Franklin, who in turn infected her husband, though perhaps not altogether successfully, with a like uneasiness ; his religious opinions were not sound — he was lax, latitudinarian, given to the vanities of the flesh, to the pleasures of the world, to the company of the ungodly, and to the reading of the books of the heathen ; such were the charges brought against him by the expounder. From which array of wickedness the reader will, I fear, form but a poor opinion of the young gentleman's moraHty. But CHAP. II.] THE BRAWL. 25 all these charges are capable of very inno- cent explanations. He was lax and lati- tudinarian, because he did not bind himself strictly to the very severe dogmas Mr. Blatherwick propounded from his desk ; the vanities and pleasures and ungodly company may be briefly summed up — he dressed like a gentleman, and not like a scarecrow, holding the belief that ugliness is not more acceptable to God than beauty ; and that religion and asceticism ■are not synonymous ; he associated with his equals, even although they did not re- gard a sermon of two hours' length as the •consummation of human bliss, and he loved histories and poetry and even plays, and Plato's philosophy better than a Puritan pamphlet. Perhaps it was not so much what he knew as what he desired to discover that .gave Mr. Blatherwick uneasiness. Laun- €elot was something of a mystery to him. 26 AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. Fbook i. and not to him alone, but to most who knew the youth. Outwardly he was silent, amiable, meditative, dreamy ; but at times there was evideuce that these appearances were but the crust covering hidden fires, fervid passions, wild enthu- siasm; at times he startled alike the Puritan bigots and the most easygoing by the strangeness and novelty of his utter- ances ; neither could comprehend him. One groaned at him as a backslider, the other shrugged their shoulders and thought him a visionary. Such bursts, however, were infrequent, and always involuntarily forced from him by some chance word or unexpected incident. For the further evolvement of his character the reader must follow the pages of this romance ; we have only yet given the key-note. With the reins hanging loosely on the horse's neck, and with head bent thought- >. II.] THE BRAWL. 27 fully forward, Lauiicelot slowly pursued his way until lie came to a comfortable looking^ inn. His horse, whom he pretty well left to his own " sweet will," made towards the trough that stood in front, and while he was allaying his thirst, the landlord, a portly looking man, bustled out of the porch where he had been dozing and per- spiring, and with many bows inquired if he could bring his honour any refreshment. The enjoyment of his horse reminded Launcelot that his own throat was hot and dry, so throwing the reins to Boniface, he passed beneath the porch and entered a long, low-ceiled room. Calling for some wine he seated himself at a small latticed window half covered with roses. It was pleasant, after the glare without, to sit there and let the cool, sweet air, laden with the perfume of roses, play upon his fevered face, to listen to the droning of the bees among the flowers without, and the buzzing £8 AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book i. of a great thirsty fly as it sipped the cup- spillings upon the tables. So dark was the room, coming into it out of the strong light, that he did not perceive the presence of a traveller at the other end, and towards whom his back was turned as he seated himself. He was a man who looked about fifty years of age, dressed in soldierly costume that was stained with the dust and dirt of many roads. His face was shaded by a broad -brimmed hat, slouched low upon his forehead ; his dark hair was streaked with white, as was also his beard, which seem- ingly had not known scissors or razor for many a year. His features, burned to a Spanish brown by exposure to a foreign sun, had once been handsome, but they were now ploughed with deep hard lines, and wore a mingled expression of haughty recklessness and sombre cynicism. A goodly sized flagon stood at his elbow, but CHAP. II.] THE BRAWL. 2^ his attitude was so stiff that he might have been fast asleep, nor did he make any movement upon Launcelot's entrance. While mine host was serving his new customer and making some remarks upon the weather, he was suddenly called away by the sound of horses' hoofs halting before the house and voices loud in call. In his shadowy niche, leaning against the wall, with folded arms and eyes bent firowningly upon the ground, sat the elder, at the open lattice looking upon the yard, sad and thoughtful, sat the younger traveller, each buried in his own thoughts. Before the door of the inn, at which stood Roger, bowing low and obsequiously, drew up two cavaliers, mounted on two fiery horses, and attended by two servitors. Both were young, and dressed in the height of the prevailing fashion, which then affected the rich sombre hues of the Spanish Court. One was attired in black 30 AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book i. velvet relieved by slashings of purple silk, golden buttons, point lace, and gold-hilted rapier. The other was similarly costumed in velvet of the darkest brown. Both wore boots wrinkled almost to the ankle, and lined with point lace which fell over the wide tops unto the instep and heel ; this was met by a frill of the same costly material from the bottom of the long full breeches. Black slouched hats with broad curled brims, each adorned with a long white ostrich feather drooping to the shoulder, covered their heads ; from which descended a profusion of elabo- rately curled hair, and on one side a long ringlet, the love lock, which hung to the waist. One of the cavaliers was fair, hand- some and ruddy, with an arrogant and ag- gressive expression of face, mingled, how- ever, with an open frankness that redeemed it from viciousness. The other was dark ^nd saturnine, with a scowling brow, and a CHAP. II.] THE BRAWL. 31 tliin, supercilious mouth, very disagreeable to look upon. The clanking of spurs upon the brick floor roused Launcelot from his reverie ; a slight flush tinged his pale cheek as he caught sight of the new-comers, and he shifted his position a little, so as to set his back towards them. The other traveller still remained immovably esconced in his dark corner. As they crossed the threshold the eyes of both fell upon Launcelot ; they ex- changed glances. The lips of the dark one curled into a bitter sneer ; his companion shi^ugged his shoulders, smiled disdainfully, drew forth from his breast a handkerchief of gossamer lace, redolent with Italian essences, waved it over his face with a foppish air, and calling to the landlord, who stood in the door-way, said — " Bring a flagon of your best wine, and 32 AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOITSE. [book i. harkje, let it be the best, as I am about to drink success to his Grace the Duke of Buckingham, confusion to his enemies and to all those who wish him ill," and he cast his eyes in the direction of Launcelot. " For such a toast, Mr. Bellasis, you shall have the best cup of wine between this and Whitehall, or Roger Apple- thwaite is no loyal subject of King Charlesk" And mine host bustled away to draw the wine with his own hand. " The Duke was to start from Portsmouth yesterday, was not he, Savile ?" inquired Bellasis, turning to his companion. *' So I understand," was the reply. "Well, may better success attend his arms this time than last, although I fear me these French Huguenots are too much like our English Puritans to deserve much pity." "If they be like them they rather CHAP, n.] THE BRAWL. 33 deserve hanging," answered the other with a laugh. Launcelot still kept his eyes steadily fixed through the open window, but his Hps were pressed hard to restrain their quivering, and the colour in liis cheeks was deepening with every word. From the dark corner beside the fire- place a stern visage, unmarked by any of the trio, was watching the scene with evident interest. At that moment Roger entered with the wine. " Success to the Duke of Buckingham, and the sword and the gallows to his enemies," cried Bellasis, raising his glass. " And especially to all Parliament men -and Puritans," added Savile. Launcelot 's hand instinctively clutched the hilt of his rapier, but instantly re- straining himself, he resumed his former attitude. VOL. L 3 AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book i. Quick as the movement was, it did not escape the watchful eyes of the insulters. "Went worth is back at Woodhouse, is not he ?" demanded Bellasis, seating himself upon a corner of the table, and clanking his spurs against the legs. " I have not seen him since his sojourn in the Marshalsea." " No ; he has kept himself close since then," replied the other. " Not only since then," interposed Bellasis, "but since he lost his post of custos rotulorum ; that was a grand triumph for thy father and thee, John ; how my Sir Thomas's proud stomach must have heaved at it ; I wonder it did not choke him." " He showed no sign of choking at West- minster, no cock of the rebellious crew — not even the Puritans — crew louder than he," rejoined Savile. " Hang it, man, is he not half a Puritan ? Has he not married a Puritan's sister ? Not CHAP. II.] THE BRAWL. 85 but it must be confessed the Lady Arabella is a most beautiful and noble lady, and Heaven forefend that I should breathe a syllable against her." '' She is not to be named with his first wife, the Lady Margaret Clifford. Naught good can come of such a stock as the Hollises," replied Savile, bitterly. Then, glancing towards Launcelot, he resumed, in a tone of insolent mockery — " By-the-by, hast thou ever heard who this wench, Ethel, might be, whether she is Wentworth's daughter by some light o' love, or some beggar's brat dropped at his door " " Silence, Savile ; you go too far, you y But ere Bellasis could finish the sentence, Launcelot was standing before them. "Cowardly slanderer," he cried, in a voice scarcely articulate from emotion^ * Hake that for an answer;" and with his 3—2 3G AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book i. gloved hand he struck Savile so heavy a blow upon the face as to cause him to stagger against the wall. " And I am for you," cried a deep voice. " Bellasis started as he saw the elder traveller, of whose presence he was un- conscious until that moment, confronting him, rapier in hand. With a cry of rage Savile drew his sword, ^nd thrust savagely at his assailant, but the other parried it and returned the lunge with equal fierceness. Bellasis and his opponent were also hotly engaged ; tables and stools were overthrown in the scuffle ; the servants, who were drinking in another room, hearing the clash of swords rushed in, and ranged themselves on the sides of their masters. The landlady and her maids were shrieking in the passage, whither, well out of the reach of the weapons, her spouse had betaken himself, and where he implored CHAP. II.] THE BRAWL. 87 *' the brave gentlemen " not to kill one another. In half a dozen passes the stranger inflicted so severe a cut upon Bellasis s right wrist that he compelled him to drop his sword. Almost at the same moment Savile's weapon shivered to the hilt, and Launcelot's hand was upon his throat, his rapier at his heart. But ere he could utter a word, one of the serving-men seized him from behind, and compelled him to relinquish his grip. Savile sprang to his feet — " Stay, sir," he cried, " a tavern is no place for a gentleman to defend his honour ; we will find a time and place more fitting." "It must be speedy and near, then," answered Lamicelot, who had shaken off the man's hold, his eyes all ablaze with fury. " You have dared to traduce a lady in a tavern before strangers, and your slander should be punished upon the spot." S8 AT WENTWOKTH-WOODHOUSE. [book i. "Give me your sword, Bellasis," cried Savile. " Hold, gentlemen," said the stranger, interposing his tall gaunt form between the combatants ; " you can find a better place to finish your quarrel than this narrow, low-browed room, cumbered with stools and tables — a forest glade with the soft turf beneath your feet, and space to move your swords. And you, young gentleman," turning to Launcelot, " will be better able to defend the lady's fair fame when you are cooler ; anger is a bad fencing-master." " And who are you, fellow, that dare to thrust your presence and counsel where they are not needed?" demanded Savile, haughtily. " As good a man as you, Mr. Savile, for such I understand your name to be, and one who, had he stood in that young gentle- man's position, would have struck you with his da;gger instead of his fist, for he who can CHAP. II.] THE BRAWL. 39 speak of a woman as you have, deserves a dog's death and not a gentleman's. " " Know you whom you are addressing ?" demanded Savile, livid with passion. " I should be sorry to know you better. If my words offend you, I carry your satis- faction at my side." "Stay, sir," interposed Launcelot, warmly, " this quarrel is mine, and I need no inter- ference, nor will I brook it." "You have the prior claim, young sir, which I am too much of a soldier to forestall ; I spoke only provisionally, in case Mr. Savile should have stomach for a second bout after you have done with him; but I shall be proud to be your second." " With pleasure, sir, if you will tell me your name," replied Launcelot, promptly. The stranger paused before he answered. '' Men know me as Godfrey Hornby ; I am a soldier, and was born a gentleman ; if 40 AT .WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book i. that introduction is not sufficient I am not disposed to render any more." " Meet me at five this evening in Gra- ham's Wood, and we will find a spot ta decide our difference," said Savile, approach- ing Launcelot, and speaking in a low voice. Then passing towards the door he turned round to Bellasis, who had fallen sullenly into the background, and who with the assistance of his serving-man was binding his wounded hand with his lace hand- kerchief — " Come," he said, " let us go." At that moment the landlady hurried in with a roll of linen and begged permission to bandage the wound; an attention he somewhat brusquely refused, although the blood was fast soaking through the flimsy wrapping. He followed his companion to the door, stopped irresolutely, then turned and ad- dressed Launcelot — CHAP. II.] THE BRAWL. 41 " Mr. Franklin," he said, " I wish you to understand that I hold myself free of the words spoken by Mr. Savile, and con- demn them as strongly as you can." Then he added haughtily, " I tender this as no apology to you, with whom nothing would please me better than to cross swords." "I thank you, sir, in the lady's name and my own for your candour," replied Launcelot, bowing low. " There is something noble in that young- fellow, " said Hornby, as Bellasis passed out of the room, " but his companion is a dastardly hound." "Let me thank you, sir, for so freely coming to my assistance," said Launcelot. " I had neither deserved the name of soldier nor man had I not done so. But I have some business a httle way hence. Describe the place where you are to meet this ruffler and I will be there." 42 AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book i. Launcelot gave the desired directions, and with a wave of his hand and a " till we meet again," Hornby strode out of the room, called for his horse, which had been resting in the stable, and took his depar- ture. Launcelot immediately followed his ex- ample, amidst a long string of regrets and apologies from the landlord, which he very quickly cut short. " Tush, tush, man, what have you to do with it, I suppose it is not the first brawl jou have had in your house, nor will it be the last, unless you very speedily give up inn-keeping. " As he put his foot in the stirrup a man on horseback dashed past at a furious pace, both horse and rider were covered with foam and dust. "Was not that Mr. Denzil HoUis ?" inquired Launcelot, turning to the host. CHAP. II.] THE BRAWL. 43 " Yes, sir, in hot haste too, and by the look of his face I should say something serious was the matter." When Mr. Frankhn departed Roger and his wife took counsel together. As the young gentleman had remarked, brawls and bloodshed in taverns in that age of duelling were most frequent occurrences, but the awkwardness of the present affiray was that it had occurred entirely between gentlemen of the neighbourhood. " I know young Savile well," said Ap- plethwaite ; "he ^vill have a grudge against the house as long as he hves for this morning's w^ork, and I have taken many a bright golden piece from him in my day." "If thou losest one friend thou must try and find another to put in his place," answered the hostess. "And I will in- struct thee how. Give them scent of this 44 AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book i. duel at Woodhouse, my lady will be grate- ful to tliee for it, and to please her is to please Sir Thomas. Young Franklin's a favourite there. Put on thy jacket, and go at once." m CHAPTER III. SIR THOMAS WENTWORTH. When Launcelot had departed the two ladies walked slowly under the shadows of the trees in the opposite direction to that which he had taken. Ethel could read the thoughts that were passing through Lady Went worth's mind and longed, yet knew 'not how, to enter upon an explanation. The first words spoken gave her the opportunity. " Did you meet Mr. Franklin by appoint- ment ?" " Oh no, no," she answered earnestly ; " indeed, I had no knowledge of his coming or I should have avoided the spot above all others." " And why ?" inquired Lady Wentworth, 46 AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book, u with a sly look of amusement at her intense earnestness. " I am sure the young gentle- man is as handsome a cavalier as any demoiselle might waste her time with. Hath he not been making love to thee, child ? Nay, never look so distressed, there is no such great crime if he has." "You forget what I am, Lady Arabella," answered Ethel, sadly — " a nameless depen- dant." "If he has dared to presume upon your position to utter dishonourable words " began the lady, her eyes beginning to flash. " Oh ! no," hastily interrupted Ethel ; "Launce — Mr. Franklin is the very soul of honour. He has asked me to become his wife — but that, you know, is impos- sible." " Poor child !" said Lady Wentwoi-th, passing her arm round the young girl's shoulder and pressing her to her side with CHAP, in.] SIR THOMAS WENTWORTH. 47 maternal tenderness. "It is strange that my lord will never speak upon the subject. But when he desires to be silent you know we dare not press him." " Perhaps if it were told we should wish it untold," said Ethel, thoughtfully. Lady Wentworth made no reply, and they continued their walk in meditative silence. Ascending a rising ground whence, by glancing through an avenue of tall trees a glimpse of the house could be obtained, they took a downward path which led into a covert, or rather thickly wooded dell. The day was now at its hottest. All Nature drowsed beneath the excessive heat ; the languid leaves drooped lazily and slept upon the trees, occasionally rousing with a dreamy shiver as the warm zephyrs stole sleepily among their shadowy masses ; the birds were dozing away among the coolest recesses of the foliage ; all animation was suspended, and the hot stillness was broken 48 AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book i. only by the drone of the bee, that hottest and drowsiest of sounds, and the low mur- mur of a narrow brook, grown weak and attenuated by long drought, that scarcely had the strength to ripple over the moss- covered stones. Upon a shelving bank, on the brink of the stream, overshadowed by the wide- spreading branches of a beech, the girth of the trunk and towering height of which told of generations of growth, reclined the figure of a man. His dress, though of rich materials, was grave and sombre ; but had that form been clothed in rags they could not have obscured its grandeur and nobi- lity. Still from the canvas of Vandyke that majestic countenance " overawes pos- terity" with more "than the majesty of an antique Jupiter." Around the broad, haughty brow and the firmly set neck the short dark hair gathered in close, crisp curls. The large eyes, now softened by CHAP. III.] SIR THOMAS WENT WORTH. 49 the reflective mood, had a world of latent pride and fire in their dark depths ; the imperious lips and broad, massive jaw de- noted an iron will. But the power and harshness of the face were softened by its all-pervading expression of boding melan- choly — not the melancholy of thought or sorrow^, but such a tragic gloom as Greek painter or sculptor might have cast upon the features of an (Edipus, a man pre- doomed by the gods to some terrible des- tiny, and upon whom the brooding Fate had already cast her deadly shadow. Sir Thomas Wentworth, for it was he,, was at this period a man in the very prime of life, being thirty-five years of age. Although born a commoner his family was ancient and honourable, being of that untitled aristocracy from which some of the noblest gentlemen of England have sprung ; and although its scions could write only plain esquire after their names, the blood VOL. I. 4 ^0 AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book i. of John of Gaunt, and that of some of the noblest houses in England ran through their veins. Thomas Wentworth received a liberal education at St. John's College, Oxford, which he assiduously improved by private study and travel, and was known through- out his life as a man of high intellectual attainments, with a fine taste in poetry and every branch of art. When about twenty years of age he married Lady Margaret Chfford, the eldest daughter of the Earl of Cumberland. Previous to this event he had been knighted by King James. As this distinction was anything rather than honourable to a gentleman in that reign, and could be bought by any person who chose to expend sufficient money, it has been a matter of surprise that so jDroud a man as Wentworth, who was so strongly imbued with the pride of ancient lineage, should have stooped to accept, much less to CHAP. III.] SIR THOMAS WENTWORTH. 51 seek, this doubtful honour. The proba- bilities are that he was urged to it by his bride's family. On the death of his father, in 1614, he succeeded, as eldest son, to an estate of six thousand a year, an ample fortune in those days. A few months afterwards he entered Parliament. During the next year he was appointed to the post of custos rotulorum^ or keeper of the archives of the West Riding of Yorkshire, in the place of Sir John Savile, who had given offence at Court. But Sir John, having made his peace with Buckingham, that powerful favourite wrote to Sir Thomas requesting him, in consideration of the office having been voluntarily yielded to hijn, to restore it to its original owner. Wentworth declined to accede to this demand, replying that Sir John, far from having voluntarily resigned the office, had done so only to avoid expul- sion. Buckingham never forgave this 4—2 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN 52 AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book i. refusal, and from that hour Savile was Wentworth's most bitter foe. An important event in our hero's past life was the death of his first wife, and his marriage w^ith Lady Arabella HoUis, the daughter of the Earl of Clare, " a lady," says Wentworth's biographer, Kadcliffe, " exceedingly comely and beautiful, and yet much more lovely in the endowments of her mind. " It was about this period "Wentworth's public career really commenced. In the stormy Parliament of King James's reign he had remained a silent and passive member, supporting neither party. The position and views of Charles the First upon ascending the throne are so well known to the merest tyro in history, and the latter will be so fully developed in the course of this romance, that only the briefest mention of them will be required in this place. The first Parliament he summoned -CHAP. III.] SIR THOMAS WENTWORTH. 53 refusing to grant liim supplies to carry on that war with Spain, into which its prede- cessor had forced the late King, unless certain concessions of prerogative were given up, was speedily dissolved. But want of money soon compelled Charles to €all together a second. The same men, more hostile than before, were everywhere re-elected. Their demands increased. Two of the most prominent leaders, Sir Dudley Digges and Sir John EHot were committed to prison. There was a second dissolution, after which the King proceeded to raise money by forced loans. It was now that Sir Thomas Wentworth, rousing from his strange political lethargy, ranged himself upon the popular side. Buckingham, still nursing the old grudge for the Savile business, at once marked him out as a victim of Court vengeance. He was deprived of his office of custos rotulorum, which was given back to its 54> AT WENT WORTH- WOODHOUSE. [book i. former possessor, and to render the dis- missal the more humiliating it was tendered him in the open Court while he \vas dis- charging his functions as sheriff. He was then called upon for a compulsory loan of forty pounds, which he refused to pay; and upon being summoned to London, and per- sisting in his refusal, he was committed to the Marshalsea prison. Similar acts of violence were perpetrated throughout the country, soldiers were billeted in the houses of the recalcitrants, many of whom were pressed into the army and navy, and sent to fight against the French at the Isle of Ehe. At the beginning of the year in which this narrative opens (1628), Charles was necessitated to again have recourse to a ParHament. Wentworth, having been re- leased from confinement, was once more returned for Yorkshire. Smarting under a sense of his injuries, he became one of the most eloquent and passionate declaimers CHAP. III.] SIR THOMAS WENTWORTH. 55 against the tyranny of the Court, and na member more ardently supported the Peti- tion of Rights then under consideration. This, after much evasion and double deal- ing on the King's part, at length received the royal assent. The Commons now pro- ceeded to examine into the conduct of the Duke of Buckingham, with the view of censuring and impeaching him. This in- tention very quickly procured its dissolu- tion, which took place on June 26th, 1628. With this brief retrospect, we will re- sume the thread of the narrative. So absorbed was Wentworth in the book which lay upon the grass before him, that he was unconscious of the presence of the ladies until the elder placed her hand ujDon his shoulder. The gloom disappeared from his brow as his eyes fell upon the smiling face of the fair intruder. " Dan Chaucer seems to have been even 56 AT WKNTVVORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book i. more than usually interesting to-day," she said archly, and pointing to the book which lay upon the grass ; " why, you were so absorbed that you did not hear our foot- steps. " " A poor gross mortal like myself may well be pardoned for being unconscious of the presence of fairies," he answered gal- lantly, and lovmgly raising her hand to his lips. "Is that pretty compliment borrowed from Chaucer, my lord ?" she asked, a blush stealing over her fair face; "but though it may suit Ethel here, I am afraid it is not very appropriate to me, for my propor- tions are not at all fairy-like." " I would not have thee other than thou art," he answered, winding his arm about her, and pressing her lovingly to his breast. The blush deepened into a crimson glow as she leaned her head upon his shoulder and murmured, " My own dear lord, why •CHAP. III.] SIR THOMAS WENTWORTH. 57 do you steal away from me, I am jealous of every moment that robs me of tliy pre- sence, now when thou ait only just re- stored to me. Show me what thou wast readuig. " "A story I have often read before, and never tire of," he answered, "the story of patient Grisel." " I do not like it," replied the lady, quickly ; "I have patience neither with her absurd meekness, nor her husband's brutality." " I'm afraid, sweetheart, were I to put thee to such tests you would not prove a second Grisel," said Wentworth, laugh- ingly. '^No more, my lord, than you would prove a Lord Walter. But show me the passage you were looking so sombre over." He pointed to the page, and she read these sadly beautiful lines : — 58 AT WENT WORTH- WOODHOUSE. [book i. " And though yonr greene youthe flow'r as yet, In creepeth age, always as still as stone, And death menaceth every age, and smit In each estate, for there escapeth none ; And all so certain as we know each one That we shall die, as uncertain we all Be of that day when death shall on us fall." Lady Went worth's eyes filled with tears, and for some moments there was silence. It was broken by the clank of spurs, and from the direction of the house came a gentleman whose boots and dusty attire denoted a traveller. " It is Denzil ! " cried Lady Wentworth, with a look of great surprise, and running forward to meet him, was the next moment clasped in the stranger's arms. CHAPTEE lY. DENZIL HOLLIS. The new-comer was a young man who could not have been more than thirty years of age, but upon whose calm, handsome face was a gravity beyond his years. '^ This is indeed an unexpected pleasure," said Wentworth, grasping his hand as soon as he had freed himself from the lady's em- brace ; " you look fatigued. Arabella, see to your brother's entertainment " " Time enough for that, Wentworth," in- terrupted Denzil, quickly ; " before I touch bit or sup I have news for your private ear." The lady grew pale as she inquired, " No ill news, I trust ! no new misfortune to my lord " 60 AT WENTVVORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book i. " None to him,'' answered Denzil, empha- tically ; ^' indeed, perhaps to him it may- prove quite the contrary " " Thank Heaven !" she ejaculated. "Nevertheless, my news is grave." " Leave us, sweetheart," said Went- worth ; "I perceive your brother desires private converse with me ; we shall soon join you ; in the meantime, see that a repast is made ready for him." " Since the ill news is not ill to my lord, I have no care to know it," replied the lady ; then turning to Ethel — who had retired a little way among the trees, she said — " Come, we will go, and prepare for their return." Denzil raised his hat to the young girl, as she passed, with a cold and distant politeness, to which she replied by a modest curtsy as she followed her patroness. " Now for your news ?" said Went worth CHAP. IT.] DENZIL HOLLIS. 61 anxiously, as the ladies' forms receded among the trees. "Prepare yourself for a great shock — the Duke of Buckingham has been assassi- nated." "Great heavens!" ejaculated Went- worth. " How — when — where did this^ happen ?" " The reports are confused and contradic- tory, but as far as I can gather, he was stabbed in the streets of Portsmouth just as he was about to embark for France, by a man who had formerly been in the army under his command." " The Duke of Buckingham assassinated," murmured Wentworth, in the tone of a man unable to reahse an idea suddenly pre- sented to his mind. "Can it be possible. And how did the King receive the news ?" " Strangely. He was at prayers when one of the courtiers burst suddenly into the room, and whispered it in his ear." ■62 AT WENTVVORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book i. " The shock must have been terrible." " Not at all — or seemmgly not so. I have been told by one who was present that the King never changed countenance, never moved a muscle, but calmly continued his devotions to the end, then rose from his knees and hastily left the room without a word. One might almost imagine the news was no shock to him." The King is not the man to betray his feelings in public ; unless we could have penetrated into the solitude of his chamber, it would be impossible to tell how he bore it. " Now is our opportunity," said HoUis, speaking rapidly; "we must bestir our- selves without loss of time, before some new enemy gains the King's ear. I wish you to return with me to London." " For what purpose ?" inquired Went- worth, absently. " To meet Pym and the others, that we CHAP. IV.] DENZIL HOLLIS. 63 may take counsel together upon this crisis. I have proposed you for our leader." " You have done wrong, then." " How so ? What man more fitted to be the leader of the Parliament party ?' " I am no demagogue." " Nor I ; King Charles has no more loyal subject than I, and it is my very loyalty that renders me desirous to free him from those evil counsellors who would sway him towards despotism." '' I believe you to be a good and true man, HolHs," replied Wentworth, earnestly, " desirous only to restrain the Royal pre- rogative within those just bounds laid down by our ancestors ; but I fear you are associated mth men who look far beyond that goal, who cherish thoughts they dare not breathe yet, men who would wholly subvert the royal power. With such I will not ally myself " " But why should you suspect such 64 AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book k designs in any of our friends ? Not from their words, surely, for wlio among them have spoken out more boldly than you? Might not some other, with equal justice, impute similar secret thoughts to you ?" " I grant my utterances have gone beyond my meaning ; that my passionate temper has led my tongue astray, and engendered false notions in many minds ; therefore it is the more my duty to correct such impressions and stand aloof from those men with whose principles I have no real sympathy, though appearing to have." " What are we to understand from this sudden tergiversation ?" demanded Hollis. " That word in no wise applies to me, Mr. Hollis," replied Wentworth, haughtily. " I am not answerable to those who mis- understand me. The man in whose veins flows the flood of the Plantagenets and the Tudors, could not be so false to his race as to desire the elevation of the common herd CHAP. IT.] DENZIL HOLLIS. 65 above those whom God has created their masters. I hold loyalty to our lawful sovereign to be the truest and noblest instinct of the human soul, all the more noble since it cannot be grasped by that reason which leads men to even doubt the existence of God. Oppressed and insulted by minions, who took the King's name in vain, I resisted their usurped authority, and asserted my own right and dignity, as the barons of old did in Magna Charta. The King has granted us a second Charter in the Petition of Right — has granted all for which we contended. He has redressed our wrongs, and I for one desire no more." Throughout his speech Hollis gazed at him with his calm penetrating eyes which "Wentworth met with his own fierce orbs in a look as steadfast. "He redressed them under coercion,'^ replied HoUis, " and he will seize the first opportunity to cancel his bond. The ruling VOL. I. 5 '66 AT WENT WORTH- WOODHOUSE. [book i. idea of Charles Stuart is to make the English monarchy absolute, and no more perilous thought could enter the brain of an English monarch." "There is no form of government on earth so perfect as the rule of a wise, just, and good king unshackled by the discordant councils of fools and demagogues," replied Wentworth, his eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. " But kings are neither wise, just, nor good," answered Hollis, cynically. "And what is this Parliament which aspires to fetter the royal will and usurp the Government of England ?" burst forth Wentworth, passionately. "Is it noble, high-souled, intellectual, unselfish ? No ! It is but a common cry of curs, a rabble of canting schismatics, levellers, Utopians, malcontents, innovators urged by arro- gance, greed, poverty, feverish longing for change ; to yield to their desires is but to CHAP. IT.] DENZIL HOLLIS. 67 make them raven for more — no concessions could close their greedy maws." " You seem to forget that only a few months ago you yourself was one of the loudest in this common cry of curs, as you please to caU. it," replied HoUis, drily. " And were it to do again I should do it. I was wronged, insulted, oppressed, and I stood forth to champion my own injuries and those of others. I then believed I was consorting with loyal men ; but I heard whispers, words, hints among them, think- ing me one of themselves, that revealed to me their true designs and determined me to break with them for ever. You are indeed obtuse of perception if you cannot understand the difference between my principles and those of such men as these." There was silence for a moment, and then Hollis spoke in a deeper and more earnest voice than he had yet assumed. "It is you who are obtuse, not I," he 5 — 2 68 AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book i. said, " for you cannot read the ^viiting upon the wall ; you are bhnd to that new era which is dawning upon the land, great changes are near, are inevitable, which you can no more arrest than you can the trans- mutations of Nature. The old boundaries of law, government, and society, are fast dis- appearing, the days of the divine right of kings, of aristocratic exclusiveness, are drawing to a close; it is madness to oppose our weak bodies to the rush of the new ideas, we must suffer ourselves to be carried on the stream or be overwhelmed beneath it." ''The Spartans, who held the j^^ss of Thermopylae, knew that the Persian host must in time overwhelm them, but they stood not the less firm, and won immortal glory. Such counsel well befits a convert to the new ideas and shows their value. These scarecrows, conjured up by your imagination, do not frighten me ; like the •CHAP. IV.] DENZIL HOLLIS. 69 shadows that terrify children, they disap- pear before those who have courage to face them. But be it even as you say, let the flood come, I would rather be whelmed beneath it than, like a coward, be drifted into shame and anarchy. But enough of politics, Arabella will be waiting us. You know my fixed resolve, and henceforth, as you value my friendship, let the subject be a forbidden one between us. Come." Wentworth led the way and, with down- cast eyes and sombre looks, Denzil silently followed. CHAPTER V. THE DUEL. A FEW minutes' walk brought them to the avenue which fronted the house, at the end of which was a low terrace, approached by three steps, and beyond that a gravelled court-yard. The house, which had been erected by Sir Thomas's grandfather during the latter part of the preceding century, formed three sides of a quadrangle, and was built of dark brick in the prevailing Tudor style. Such picturesque old dwellings, with their gabled roofs, their stone shafted muUioned windows and perched doorways, are still too familiar to the traveller in every county of England to call for special description. Cool and peaceful it looked in its dark shadows with the bright, blue CHAP. V.J THE DUEL. 71 sky above and the golden sunlight all around. Lady Wentworth, who had been watch- ing their return from one of the windows, was waiting in the entrance to receive- them. They passed through a large, lofty stone^ hall, Hghted by long narrow windows upon which were painted the numerous quarter- ings of the Wentworth shield. Against the walls hung trophies of the chase and the battle-field ; ancient boar-spears, antlers, bulls' horns, muskets, crossbows, and long- bows, battle-axes and two-handed swords which had been wielded by Crusaders ; a bowing line of domestics was drawn across the hall, for Sir Thomas was punctiliously exacting m forms and ceremonies. Ascending a broad oaken staircase, with large carved balusters, which formed a square shaft from the basement to the top- most story, they entered a noble corridor 7i AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book i. and thence passed into a spacious ob- long apartment ; down the centre was a table at which a hundred people might have dined. On one side were five oriel windows upon which were again stained the shields of the various noble families into which the Wentworths had married, and which cast bright patches of many- coloured sunlights over floor and furniture. On the other side was a huge fireplace with elaborately carved mantelpiece ; the walls were of dark oak, divided into panels carved in the shape of honeycombs, and in the centre of each the Wentworth cypher. Ranged above was a number of stiff-looking portraits, some by Holbein, others of much earlier date, of the dead Wentworths, grim warriors in complete steel of the Plantagenet days, or beruffed and bevelveted courtiers of the Tudor Court ; ladies young and old, ugly and beautiful, some in the graceful, flowing dress of the Middle Ages, others in CHAP, v.] THE DUEL. 73 the rufF and stomacher of Elizabeth. At the further end was an antique oak cabinet surmounted by a beautiful Venetian mirror that reflected half the room, and velvet stools or straight -backed, grim chairs, upon which had rested the bodies of more than one generation, completed the furniture. A cloth was spread upon one end of the huge table, upon which was laid the remains of a large venison pasty and an innnense piece of cold beef, together with bread, oaten cakes, a black jack of potent ale, and a flagon of Burgundy. Although it was but a little past two the family dinner had been cleared some time ; for in those days the dinner answered to our luncheon, although a much heavier meal, while the supper hour was scarcely as late as that of the present fashionable dinner. Beside the table stood two serving-men to carve and wait upon the guest. " Why, fair sister," cried Denzil, laugh- 74 AT WENT WORTH- WOODHOUSE. [book i. ing, " thou hast provided me with good cheer and waiters enough to feed half a dozen aldermen/' *' We are old-fashioned people at Wood- house, Wentworth, and follow ancestral customs," answered Sir Thomas, a little stiffly ; '' your London luncheons and meagre dishes would not satisfy our York- shire stomachs, neither would your free manners, which scarcely distinguish the gentleman from the lacquey. The honour we expect in our own persons we bestow upon our guests." *' Nay, nay, good brother," replied Denzil, good-humouredly, "I meant not to fling at your board or your ceremony, I spoke but thoughtlessly ; I am no admirer of kick- shaws, and I love orderliness in my house- hold. And I have an appetite besides that will do justice to your entertain- ment." And he set to work upon the viands. CHAP, v.] THE DUEL. 75 before him mth a hearty good-will that showed he spoke truly. Throwing his arm round her waist Went- worth led his wife into the recesses of one of the windows. "Sweetheart," he said, smihng lovingly at her, " I know by the curious look upon thy face thou art longing to know thy brother's errand." " Indeed, my lord " she began, de- preciatingly. " Tut, tut, never deny it — it is but natural. His news is grave. Like the shock of an earthquake it is vibrating through the whole land, it will change the policy of nations, it may bring much good, or it may be productive of great evils, na one can tell yet. I see by thy pale face I must not keep you longer in suspense, your brother has come hither then to warn me of a tragic event — the Duke of Buckingham has been assassinated." 76 AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book t. " Great heavens, how terrible !" she ejaculated. But the next moment she added in the tone of one uttering an invo- luntary thought, " He was your bitterest enemy." " And therefore deserved his fate, you think," said Wentworth, smiling. '^ Nay, nay, I was only jesting," he added, interrupting her remonstrance. " But nevertheless there spake the true woman, whose first thoughts are ever for husband, children, kin ; states may be shaken, kingdoms overturned so that they be safe." " And dost thou think that to be a fault in us ?" " I fear I do not in my heart," he rephed, playing with the curls upon her forehead ; " I must even confess I prefer a loving to a patriot wife." At that moment a serving-man entered the apartment, and advancing within a few CHAP, v.] THE DUEL. 77 paces of his master, made an obeisance and stood waiting to be asked his errand. " Speak, what is it V inquired his master, turning to him. " If you please. Sir Thomas, Eoger Applethwaite is below and wishes to see her ladyship. '' " To see me ! Art sure it is not Sir Thomas ?" '' Quite sure, my lady, I put the question to him." " I will go and see him," said Went- worth. " No, no, my lord, let me go, it is doubt- less to ask me to intercede with you for some favour, the poor fellow will be out of countenance if you go. " "Well, well, have thy way, thou art a good creature." In a few moments she returned looking very much agitated. 78 AT WENT WORTH- WOODHOUSE. [book i. " What is the matter T' he asked, quickly. "Oh, my lord, John Savile and Mr. Franklin are about to j&ght a duel." " Well, is it so very unusual for two hot- blooded young men to cross swords that you should be thus alarmed ?" " But it is on account of our Ethel." " What do you mean ; explain ?" he cried, his brow darkening. ''Savile spoke some opprobrious words against her. Franklin struck him in the face, and they fought in Appleth waiters room; ■one of the swords was broken, and then an assignation was made for five this evening, somewhere near Graham's farm. We must prevent this meeting, or there will be bloodshed." " So not content with wreaking their malice upon me, these Saviles must cast shameful words upon the w^omen of my household," he muttered through his CHAP. T.] THE DUEL. 79 clenched teeth. " Let them beware they goad me not too far, or they may as well have all the devils hi hell let loose upon them." " Will you not try to prevent this meet- ing, my lord ?" she inquired timidly, for even she feared liim when his passions were roused. " No ; let Franklin kill the viper ! kill him, kill him!" His eyes were all ablaze now, and he emphasised the word " kiQ" by fiercely striking the hilt of his sword with his hand, as though he were driving the weapon through the body of his foe. "What is the matter, brother?" asked Denzil, joining them. " Are they equally matched ?" he in- quired, when his sister had answered his question. " If there bean advantage, it is upon the side of Franklin," repHed Wentworth, 80 AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book i. striding up and down. " I would I had been there, I would have crammed my sword down his foul throat." " If the springalds be well matched let them be/' said Denzil, carelessly. "But think of the scandal — Ethel's name " urged the lady. *'I should imagine the young lady ought to feel herself honoured to be the subject of such an encounter," interposed Denzil, roughly ; " better demoiselles than she have been treated with as little ceremony by scandalous tongues." " I know not that," replied Went worth, haughtily ; "as my ward, she owns no better." " It must be admitted that that is a point upon which you alone are informed," replied Denzil, significantly. " And my knowledge is a sufficient guarantee for my word," was the answer. " My lord — Denzil be not angry," inter- CHAP, v.] THE DUEL. 81 posed Lady Wentworth, anxiously. '* At such a time as this we should not think •of ourselves but of the brave youth who is about to risk his life for the honour of our house.'' " You are right, Arabella," answered Wentworth, with a sudden change of tone ; *'the quarrel is mine, it would ill become me to permit a stranger to peril his life for the fair name of one who is beneath my protection, and I stand idly by." And he made a movement to depart. Lady Wentworth grew paler and clasped his arm. " There is no necessity for you to go, Denzil will go ; you know how hot-blooded you are, your quarrels with these Saviles have brought troubles and anxiety enough upon us already." '' Go thy ways, child ; attend to thy household duties and leave such business ^s this to your husband who understands it VOL. I. 6 82 AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book i. better," answered Wentworth, with a touch of sternness in his tone. She unloosed her hold, for she knew it was useless to oppose that relentless will. " I will go with him, Arabella," said Denzil, readily. " I leave him in your hands, brother," said Lady Wentworth, holding him back for a moment, '^ restrain his rashness, do not let him plunge into this quarrel." " I will do my best for your sake, sister, but you know his selfwill." When the two gentlemen had departed the lady was joined by a face white and anxious as her own. It was Ethel's ; her waiting-woman had just brought her the news. "We must prevent this meeting," she said, in great excitement ; " were aught of evil to fall upon Sir Thomas, I should eter- nally reproach myself as the cause." " What can we do V CH^p. v.] THE DUEL. 83 " Follow tliem to the spot ; they cannot fight in our presence." "But my lord would never forgive me such an act." " You shall not go, I will go alone — let his anger fall upon me." Lady Wentworth regarded her in ama,ze- ment ; this girl ever so gentle, so shrinking from all notice, was suddenly roused to a courage and resolution she feared to imitate. "You are right, Ethel, we vnll go," she- said, after a little consideration ; "I must brave his anger when his safety is con- cerned." Graham s Wood was a straggling piece of copse skirting a narrow lane, and about two miles from Woodhouse. The gentle- men's horses soon carried them thither, and as they entered the lane the clash of swords told them the combat had already commenced. Darting through the 6—2 84) AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book i. trees, followed by Hollis, Wentworth came to a clearing where four men, whose horses were tied to the neighbouring trees, were engaged in cut and thrust, and so swiftly •did their swords gleam in the sunlight that they seemed flashes of lightning. But before the combatants could be conscious of the interruption, the duel of one of the two pairs was brought to an end. The ground was rough and uneven, and here and there straggling root fibres rose out of the parched shallow soil ; in parrying a lunge, Launce- lot's foot struck against one of these ob- structions — he stumbled, missed his guard — the next instant his adversary's sword was passed through his body. But Savile had thrust with such savage eagerness as to leave his own person unguarded, and, in consequence, almost ran upon his oppo- nent's point which pierced the fleshy part of his neck. Thus both were placed hors de combat at the same moment. CHAP. T.] THE DUEL. 8S The two seconds perceiving this state of affairs, disengaged, and each ran to his principal. As the man who styled him- self Godfrey Hornby knelt on one side of Launcelot, Wentworth stooped over him on the other. Their eyes met. Hornby start-ed back, for in the excite- ment he had been, until then, unconscious of another presence. But the momentary surprise was as instantly succeeded by another expression — recognition. Upon Wentworth^s features was pictured far greater astonishment. " You here !" he exclaimed. "Yes, to seek you. But suppress your amazement, feign not to know me — we will find an opportunity to speak here- after." Hornby spoke in a low, rapid voice, while bending his head low over the pros- trate body, and was unheard by any one, save the person whom he addressed. 86 AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book i. Launcelot had fainted and the blood was flowing fast from a wound in his side. Hornby tore open his doublet and examined the hurt with the eye of a man well used to such sights. " It has not penetrated a vital part, thank Heaven," he said, " but it is an ugly thrust, and it will be many a week before he can handle a sword again. But we must stop the haemorrhage or he'll bleed to death." "Lend me your horse," cried HoUis, *' and I will go and fetch assistance." While he galloped away Wentworth and Hornby employed themselves, by means of handkerchiefs and bandages torn from their linen, to stanch the life stream that was so rapidly ebbing away from Launcelot 's bosom. While thus engaged they heard a voice say, " Here they are, my lady.'* And as Wentworth raised his head his eyes fell upon Ethel and his wife. The •CHAP, v.] THE DUEL. 87 younger lady pressed forward and uttered ^ cry of terror as she saw the senseless body lying in a pool of blood. "Oh, God, he is killed!" " No, he has only fainted," replied Wentworth. ''But why are you here — this is most unseemly, most " Here Ethel interrupted his stem tones, which were addressed to Lady Wentworth. " I alone am to be blamed — it is my wilfulness " Her voice failed her, and she would have fallen to the ground had not Hornby, who observed her stagger, sprung up and caught her in his arms. A strange expression stole over his rough features as he gazed upon the beautiful pale face that rested upwards upon his shoulder, and so absorbed did he become in its contemplation that he started when one of Wentworth's serving- men came forward to reheve him of his 88 AT WENTWOKTH-WOODHOUSE. [book i- burden, and his eyes followed her with a long, lingering yet troubled look as she was transferred to the care of her protectress. In the meantime Went worth had ad- vanced towards Savile who was reclining against a bank whither his second, Bellasis, had contrived to bear him and bandage his wound. " Had it been my sword, John Savile, instead of Mr. Franklin's, you would have been a dead man by this time,'' said Went- worth, standing over him, his dark face full of hatred. " But I am glad that it is as it is, it may reserve your punishment for me." "You see that Mr. Savile is miable ta speak," cried Bellasis, firing up, "but I will answer for him that he will be ready to- respond to your challenge as soon as he has the strength to do so. Or if you crave for haste I am ready to be his substitute." CHAP, v.] THE DUEL. 89 Wentworth deigned no reply, but turned upon his heel with a look of withering con- tempt. " I must speak with you to-night and alone," said Hornby in his ear. "Be in the park avenue at nine, then," repUed Wentworth in the same tone. Hornby made a sign of assent, mounted his horse and disappeared among the trees. Soon afterwards Hollis returned with four country fellows whom he had found working in a field. A litter of branches was constructed, upon which Launcelot was laid, still insensible, and borne towards Woodhouse. .^^^^ pl^^^l^p^ CHAPTER YI. SUMMONED BY THE KING. At her husband's request Lady Wentworth, accompanied by Ethel and the serving-man, went on in advance to prepare for the reception of the patient, who was to be conveyed to Woodhouse, as being much nearer than his own house. It was a long and tedious task carrying the wounded man on that rude litter over the rough roads and the uneven undulating park ground. Once a heavy jolt caused the wound to re-open, and they had to halt to rebind it. The blue of the sky had turned to purple, and the golden sunlight to crimson by the time they arrived at the house. The young man, still insensible, was conveyed to bed, CHAP. Ti.] SUMMONED BY THE KING. 91 his wounds were now carefully dressed, and without any medical aid, for in those days sword cuts and thrusts were such common ills that most people, especially ladies, knew how to treat them as well as an army surgeon nowadays. This being done a messenger was des- patched to Sir Richard Franklin to inform him of the accident that had befallen his son, and to allay his natural apprehensions as far as possible by assurances that he was in no danger and would be well tended. When the messenger returned he was accompanied by Sir Richard. There was little sociability between the two neigh- boiu-s. Wentworth was a staunch Church- man, the other, as we have before stated, a rigid Puritan, differences quite sufficient in those days to render them foes. In neither person, however, had feelings risen to positive enmity, although Mr. Blatherwick had once referred in unmistakable terms 92 AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book i. to the owner of Woodhouse as an enemy of Israel, and had denounced the intimacy between Launcelot and the Went worths as a consorting with the children of Baal ! The meeting between visitor and host was cold and ceremonious. By the time of the former's arrival Launcelot had re- covered consciousness, but was too weak from excessive loss of blood to speak. A faint smile of recognition crossed his face as his eyes fell upon his father's cold, harsh features, in which sour asceticism had crushed all human feeling, and he tried to lift his hand, but was incapable of such exertion. " How did this happen ?" inquired Sir Eichard of Hollis, who was standing beside the bed. " There has been a duel between him and young Savile, both are severely wounded, your son the worst of the two ; but do not CHAr-. VI.] SUMMONED BY THE KING. 93 be •uneasy, the sword has not touched any vital part and his excessive prostration is due to haemorrhage." " Were you present ?" " I and Sir Thomas came up in time to see both fall." " And you made no attempt to prevent this barbarous and unchristian act ?" "There you mistake," replied Hollis; *'both myself and my good brother here went to prevent this meeting." " And what was the cause of quarrel ?" Denzil hesitated and turned to Went- worth for a reply. " Mr. John Savile chose to use foul and disparaging language against my ward in your son's presence, and he took upon him- self to resent it," answered Wentworth, haughtily. "Worse and worse," muttered Sir Hichard. "It is a shame and sorrow to 94 AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book i. my grey hairs to know that a son of mine should be a brawler, with his hand upon his sword for every light word." '* And yet I have heard, Sir Richard," interposed Hollis, brusquely, "that you yourself were something of a ruffler once, ready to fight for any wench, Hght or other- wise, who wanted a champion." The Puritan s cadaverous face turned green. " Then you have heard what is not true, Mr. Hollis," he answered. "Truly, I did not always walk in the ways of the Lord .and I have kept company mth sinful men ; but I was never a fornicator nor a stabber. Neither, with the help of the Lord, shall my son be so. Therefore it behoves me to remove him from evil associates. To- morrow morning early I will have Launce- lot brought home, and I must request, Sir Thomas Wentworth, that for the future he may be a stranger to this house. Your CHAP. VI.] SUMMONED BY THE KING. 95 ways are not my ways, our paths in life are different." Wentworth replied, calmly, "Your de- sires shall be obeyed to the letter, Sir Richard Franklin, and the first of your name, be it he or any other, who crosses this threshold shall be expelled by my serving-men. And let me tell you that your son was guilty of an insolent pre- sumption in taking upon himself the chastisement of the traducer of my ward, and one for which I may yet call him to strict account. When the Wentworths cannot champion their own honour they will find some one nobler than a Franklin to take up their cause." Sir Eichard's gleaming eyes told how well these bitter words had struck home, and by an uncontrollable movement his hand grasped the hilt of his sword, but it was as quickly withdrawn, while his Kps murmured, " The Lord forgive me ;" and, as though fearfiil of -96 AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book i. trusting himseif to further speech he abruptly quitted the chamber and de- scended the stairs. As he reached the hall, which was lit by torches, Ethel crossed in front of him. His eyes fell upon her face and he stood for a moment watching her as she disappeared, through a doorway. '' Who is that ?" he asked of one of the domestics. "That is Mistress Ethel, Sir Thomas's ward," replied the man. The Puritan made no remark, but passed out into the courtyard with a pale, thought- ful visage. " It seems to me as though the tones of that man's voice were familiar to me," said Went worth, meditatively. " I have seen his face frequently since he first came into the neighbourhood, but I have never before, to my knowledge, heard him speak. And CHAP. Yi.] SUMMONED BY THE KING. 97 yet his tones struck my ears like an old memory." " I have heard some strange story about this Sir Richard FrankHn, but I cannot recall it to my mind," answered Hollis. And there the subject dropped. Fortunately for the sick man this inter- view had taken place not in his apartment, but in an ante-chamber beyond, where in his half-comatose condition he could hear nothing of what passed. Lady Wentworth was both grieved and indignant when she heard of Sir Richard's insolence ; grieved for the sake of Laun- celot, for whom she entertained a very warm friendship, and for Ethel, whom she believed to be in love with him ; and her proud blood was equally indignant at the insult which had been cast upon the house. That same evening she broke the news gently to Ethel. VOL. I. 7 98 AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book i. " I feel for you deeply, my poor child," said the kind lady, caressing her; "ay, both for you and for him. Your little romance is over, close the book and try to forget it, for after what has passed Sir Thomas will be inexorable." " I shall never disobey Sir Thomas, even in thought," answered Ethel. " Bless you, my sweet child, for those words," cried Lady Wentworth, kissing her affectionately ; " but I can feel what your obedience will cost you : if in our sweetheart days aught had happened to separate me from my lord, I should have died. But to confess my weakness is not the way to strengthen your heart. You must be braver than I. And then handsome and good and clever as he is, Launcelot is not my lord. But where, in all England, is there another so grand, so noble, so handsome ?" Ethel made no reply, she had sunk down CHAP. VI.] SUMMONED BY THE KING. 99 Upon a footstool and was lying back with her head upon the speaker's lap, gazing upwards through the open casement upon the purple night, moonless, but briUiant with stars ; soundless, but for the dreamy sough of the leaves as they stirred in the soft summer air. " Poor Launcelot !" she murmiu-ed pre- sently, rather to herself than to her companion. '' It is not of myself I think, but of him, he loves me so very, very dearly." And Lady Wentworth, whose hand was fondling her head, felt a tear trickling down her cheek. The next morning, soon after sunrise, a litter conveyed Launcelot from Woodhouse to his own home. He had greatly revived during the night, but his removal was a most dangerous experiment, as the re- opening of his wound, and consequent fresh bleeding, might have proved fatal. Fortu- 7—2 100 AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book r. nately he was brought to the paternal roof without any such unfortunate accident, but sorely troubled in mind. Wentworth did not see him after the- interview with Sir Richard, but he in- structed the attendant who waited in the sick chamber to inform her patient that hy his father's desire he would be removed to his home on the next day. Launcelot^ although he had heard nothing, could surmise something of what had passed, and knew that another link was broken between him and Ethel. Denzil HoUis departed for London that same morning, and the leave-taking between him and Wentworth was cold and formal. An uneventful week succeeded twenty- four hours fruitful in wonderful news and excitement. The ladies contrived to get bulletins, which assured them that Launce- lot was progressing favourably ; but they dared not speak of him in the presence of CHAP. Ti.] SUMMONED BY THE KING. 101 Sir Thomas, whose mood was unusually sombre and severe. Little time did he pass within doors, and that little was in restlessness and irritability. He spent the greater part of the day wandering in the woods with a book in his pocket, which he seldom opened, or in lying listlessly beneath the shadows. His soul, born for action, for the fiercest battles of life, was consuming itself in this idleness. But one day there came a letter that quickened all his pulses. It was a mandate jfrom the King requesting his presence at Whitehall. The royal missives had brought so much evil and so little good to Wood- house-Wentworth, that this one filled Lady Wentworth with alarm ; she feared some new machinations of her husband's enemies, and, above all, of Savile's, whom she knew would eagerly seek for an opportunity to be revenged for the late duel. " Fear nothing, sweetheart," said Went- 102 AT WENTWORTH-WOODHOUSE. [book i. worth, who was all excitement and ex- pectancy. '^ Now that his Majesty is free of that evil councillor, his own nature, which is gentle and benign, will assert itself Mark how gracious and condescending is the tone of his letter. There is the memory of the old time in it. He loved me well once. When I first went to Court in his father's time, during the life of Prince Henry, we were much together from simi- larity of tastes ; he loved reading, poetry, painting, and all elegant arts, and so did I. We were much of an age, and something alike in temperament as well as tastes, except that he was more gentle, more winning than I was. Indeed, I never met one who possessed such a marvellous and subtle power of attraction as he. When he chose to exert it he could subdue the most stubborn and unloving. I remember well how powerful was its efPect upon me. It was like a glamour ; I was the very slave CHAP. VI.] SUMMONED BY THE KING. 10^ of my love for him. But, by-and-by, Buckingham, who could endure no rival in the Prince's favours, came between us and alienated his heart from me. In our wrath we are always most bitter against those we love, and so it was with me. But all that will be healed now ; I can read between the lines of this letter what is invisible to you." Ere he went he succeeded in imparting to his wife something of his own hopeful- ness ; but still her loving heart was uneasy, and she implored him, as soon as his inter- view with the King was over, to despatch a messenger to Woodhouse with the result. He promised, and so, with some half dozen attendants, went on his way to London. BOOK THE SECOND. AT COURT, CHAPTER I. THE KING. It was about noon on the third day of his journey that Wentworth entered the city of "Westminster. Even then the Strand was a busthng thoroughfare. Lacqueys in gorgeous Hveries, splendidly dressed cava- liers on prancing steeds, gilded equipages, sedan-chairs bearing gorgeously attired ladies ; sober hackney coaches, then first introduced, with their freights of gaily- dressed citizens and citizenesses, formed a constantly moving panorama and a scene of almost bewildering excitement to a coun- try dweller fresh from the quietude of trees and flocks. CHAP. I.] THE KING. 105 As he passed the cancient cross of Charing and came in sight of Holbein's beautiful gateway, which formed the northern •entrance to the Palace at Whitehall, the throng both of people, horses, and equi- pages greatly increased. Here loitered a group of gentlemen atth^ed in that pic- turesque costume which we still admire on the canvas of Vandyke — the broad- leafed hat with its drooping plumes, the long curled hair, the point lace collars, and the rich velvet doublets ; the sweeping cloak hanging from one shoulder and negligently gathered beneath the left arm ; the lace and ribbon bordered breeches drawn tight to the knee ; the silken hose and velvet shoe, or boot of morocco wrinkled down to show the costly lace that lined the " bucket" tops. Pages gay as popinjays hurried hither and thither ; ladies in rustling silks and soft laces just alighting from their carriages 106 AT COURT. [book n. or sedans, darting demure looks from be- neath their silken hoods at the staring gallants ; couriers on horseback dashing in and out at furious speed endangering the limbs of pedestrians, domestics, soldiers, humble petitioners, artists, men of law, and all the swarm that hovered round the ancient Court. The palace was a large pile of irregular buildings extending from Scotland Yard almost to the Abbey ; bounded on the east by the river, and on the west by a narrow thoroughfare leading from Charing Cross to the Sanctuary at Westminster, the southern end of which was called, as now, King Street ; across this extended another handsome gateway, which was the southern entrance to the Palace. The ground now oc- cupied by the Admiralty, the Horse Guards and the Foreign Offices, was covered by a Tilt Yard and Tennis Court, beyond which was the enclosure, now St. James's Park. CHAP. I.] THE KING. 107 Passing beneath the Holbein gateway Wentworth entered a broad courtyard. On his left stood that splendid fragment of a grand design which would, if com- pleted, have ecHpsed Louvre and Escurial and given a glory to London it can never now possess — the banqueting hall of Inigo Jones, then in its first freshness, having been built scarcely ten years ; and on the other sides the various offices and buildings which made up the Palace. The veriest stranger would have needed no guide to the royal quarters, which were easily distinguished by the groups and loiterers that hung about them, and the numbers of people hurrying in and out. Giving his horse to one of his atten- dants he entered, and passed into a crowded ante-chamber where nobles, artists^ anti- quaries, authors, architects, soldiers, arti- ficers jostled each other, and evidenced the various and cultivated tastes of the king. 108 AT COURT. [book ii. From the foremost position he had held in the late Parliament, Wentworth had rendered himself a man of note both in town and country, and he had also been ■a frequenter of Whitehall during the last reign ; thus he was well-known to the cour- tiers, but not favourably, on account of his opposition to the Court, and his identifi- tion with the popular cause. His entrance into the ante-chamber attracted consider- able attention ; the buzz of conversation almost ceased, every eye was turned upon him ; then followed whispered speculations upon his probable business ; some sug- gested that he had come to humble himself to the King ; others, that he had been summoned to answer for some new offence against prerogative, but no one dreamed of the true cause. Wentworth, perfectly unembarrassed by the sensation he had created, glanced round at the whisperers ; many faces were famihar CHAP. I.] THE KING. 109 to him as old acquaintances — these shifted uneasily, gave a slight sign of recognition or pretended to be utterly unconscious of his presence ; others frowned, and nowhere did a friendly expression meet his eye ; but upon all alike did he cast the same look of cold disdain as he sat down to await the return of the usher whom he had desired to announce his arrival to the King. Presently there entered from the court- yard a gentleman about thirty years of age with dark, curling hair waving naturally to the nape of his neck, a smoothly shaven lace, remarkably pleasant in expression, and large, bright, penetrating eyes full of fire and genius. Every person in the room had a cordial greeting for him ; the artists and artificers were respectful, the courtiers familiar, but the manner of all betokened he was a person of some consequence. As, with a rapid step and smiles, bows and nods, he was passing on to the door which 110 AT COURT. [book ir. led to the royal apartments, he paused suddenly — his quick glance had caught a new face. " Sir Thomas Wentworth!" he exclaimed, speaking with a foreign accent, advancing with outstretched hand, " this is indeed an unexpected pleasure." " What, my old friend Anthony Van- dyke !" answered Wentworth, warmly grasping the proffered hand. At that moment the usher returned, and requested Sir Thomas to follow him. Vandyke, who was also seeking the royal presence, accompanied him through the long, dimly lit corridor, at the end of which was a second ante-chamber in which waited another but more select group, although similar in its elements to that just described. At the further extremity of this apart- ment was an archway, from which hung heavy curtains of purple velvet opening in CHAP. I.] THE KING. Ill the centre, and which were raised by two splendidly dressed pages, as people con- tinually passed in and out. At the entrance of Vandyke, who again exchanged nods, smiles, and bows with nearly all present, the draperies were instantly drawn aside, and the next mo- ment he and liis companion, whose every pulse beat fast with nervous excitement, stood in the royal presence. The apartment was deficient in grandeur of proportion, but the artistic magnificence of its decorations and fiirniture more than compensated for its lack of loftiness and its small, mulhoned windows, which admitted the daylight but sparingly. The walls were hung, like the doorway, with purple velvet draperies, upon which were embroidered in gold the royal cypher and the arms of England and France ; the chairs and seats were to match ; there were exquisitely carved cabinets of ivory and ebony inlaid 112 AT COURT. [book ir. with gold and precious stones ; between one of the windows was a Roman shield of buff leather, covered with a golden plate upon which was the head of a Gorgon made of the same costly material, the rim of the shield was encrusted with precious stones ; upon the walls, where the hangings were drawn aside, were some masterpieces of Titian and Tintoretto, and scattered upon tables and cabinets were miniatures set in jewels, silver statuettes, marble busts ; golden cups exquisitely chased, bearing in alto relievo mythological stories from the Latin poets, the figures of gods and goddesses being cut out of rubies and amethysts and other precious stones ; and this splendour was multiplied again and again in the large Venetian mirrors cun- ningly disposed in various parts of the chamber. In the background were grouped several officers of the household, and at a table in CHAP. I.] THE KIKG. 113 the centre of the apartment, conversing with three gentlemen, was the king him- self. There is probably no character of English history whose appearance is so famihar to us as that of the unhappy Charles Stuart ; while the canvas of Vandyke endures those refined, melancholy features, upon wliich Fate had cast its darkest shadow, will Hve for us and our posterity. To attempt any description of what is in the mind's eye of all would be impertinent as well as superfluous. He was engaged in examining a bust of himself, which had been executed by Bernini and just for- warded from Rome. He raised his eyes at the entrance of the new comers, and perceiving Sir Thomas, advanced with an an* of the most graceful condescension to receive him. " Sir Thomas Wentworth, you are wel- come once more to Whitehall," he said, VOL. I. 8 114 AT COURT. [book ii.. holding out his hand and speaking in that low, soft voice he knew so well how to modulate to the occasion, and regarding him with that sweet, melancholy smile, which went direct to the heart of every beholder. " You have been absent too long," he con- tinued, *' but more of that anon," checking all reply. " What do you think of this bust which the great Bernini has just executed for me. There is the copy sent him by our good friend, Anthony Vandyke," and he pointed to a picture standing against a chair, which was no other than the celebrated triple portrait, full, half, and three-quarter face, now at Windsor. " I do not know which to admire most, the bust or the picture, both are super- excellent," replied Wentworth, after a moment's examination. The three gentlemen, all artists, one of whom was the celebrated Dutch painter, Gerbier, formerly in the service of Buck- CHAP. I.] THE KING. 115 ingham, and who had just been knighted, were also loud in their praises of both performances. The king, more judicious in his judg- ment, pointed out where improvements might have been effected, and by the keen- ness and delicacy of his criticism proved himself to be what he really was — the finest and most sjnrituel connoisseur of his time. After this there were admitted several collectors, whom the king kept constantly employed in gathering for him those works of art from all parts of Europe, which were scattered again under the Commonwealth, to the irreparable loss of the nation. There were also mathematicians and mechanicians who brought curious pieces of workmanship for sale. With all these, and there were French, Spanish, and Itahan among them, he conversed in their native tongues, and whatever were the objects they brought 8—2 1J6 AT COURT. [book ii. for his inspection, whether pictures, coins, antique marbles, clocks, watches, he showed himself well acquainted with the nature of aU. At length all were dismissed, with the exception of two pages, who removed to such a distance as not to intrude upon the royal privacy, and the king and Wentworth were alone. CHAPTER 11. HENRIETTA MAKIA. As the curtains closed behind them, the animation which had ht up the King's face was clouded by an expression of sombre melancholy. " We have just half an hour before the council meets," he said, glancing at his watch. Then added, with a sigh, "But for such relaxations as these " — waving his hand towards the art treasures that were scattered about — *' I do not think I could endure the strain, the struggle, the turmoil of State affairs. How I miss Buckingham ; it seems that there remains to me no loyal servant now Buckingham is gone ; he alone had the courage to draw upon himself the storm of hatred which would have fallen 118 AT COURT. [book II. upon me. He had faults, and many ; but I can find no one to supply his .place." "One word of encouragement would bring to your side hundreds of loyal gentlemen ready to devote fortune and life to your service," replied Wentworth, warmly. "It is not for the Sovereign to solicit, but for the subject to proffer," replied Charles. "I do not speak of solicitation ; the encouragement I might advise, did I dare, is of another kmd." He paused in some embarrassment, not knowing how to proceed. "I think I catch your meaning," said the King, with a touch of sarcasm in his tone. " You would have me submit to the demands of my faithful Commons — dis- crown myself, and take for regent Pym or Hollis, or some other of their kind. That will I never do. God hath elected me his vicegerent over tliis kingdom, and in CHAP. II.] HENRIETTA MARIA. 119 defiance of the wicked machinations of rebels I will be faithful to that trust, even though it should bring upon me the fate of my unhappy grandmother, and lay my head upon the block." And he struck his hand excitedly upon the table ; in doing so, it fell so heavily upon the edge of a small antique dagger which lay there among other curiosities, as to inflict a wound. As he raised his hand very quickly, some blood spirted upon Bernini's bust, making a crimson splash across the back of the neck. No man of that age, however cultivated his mind, was proof against superstition — above all, the superstition of omens. There was something so starthng in this seeming answer to his defiance, that Wentworth, who was himself greatly moved, observed the King's face blanch. The pages were about to hurry away for a surgeon when Charles stopped them — 120 AT COURT. [book II. *' It is nothing," he said, recovering him- self, and binding his lace handkerchief round the wound. " I would govern only as my ancestors have governed," he went on, as though he had not been interrupted, " as the Henries and Edwards, the Plantagenets and Tudors, as Elizabeth herself, whose name is one of glory on every Enghsh lip, and yet she committed acts which might well be branded as tyranny. I would govern as my brother sovereigns rule — as France and Spain rule. Look abroad and you will see the sovereign power rising every day absolute and uncontrolled out of the rude chaos of feudalism ; and shall I alone be blind to God's finger which directs the destiny of Kings ; shall I alone, of his anointed, turn coward because his enemies and mine show a menacing front ? What the great Henry began in France, and Louis and his minister, Richelieu, are com- CHAP. 11.] HENRIETTA MARIA. 121 pletiiig, what Charles and Philip have accomplished in Germany and Spain, 1 will do in England." He pronounced this speech, walking excitedly up and down the apartment, with trembling lips and flashing eyes. Yet it was not the exaggeration of mere passion, but the utterance of an intense conviction. Not only did Charles proclaim the doctrme of divine right, but he believed it with all his soul, and died a martyr, to use the word in its primary sense, a witness to his faith. " And you, Wentworth," he went on, after a pause, " you whom I have loved, you w^ho can even claim kindred with our- selves, have joined these rebels in their clamour against their lawful King ; it is an evil day for the land when men such as you are forgetftil of those ties and duties which bind them to the throne. Oh, fie !" There was a tone of mournful reproach, but little of anger in the King's voice as 122 AT COURT. [book II. he uttered these words, which would have melted the sternest heart ; how profound then must have been its effect upon one which already yearned towards him, and Wentworth's tones trembled with tears as he replied — " Sire, you do me wrong, and yet I well deserve your reproach. Not against you have I joined the clamourers, for I call God to witness my heart has never known aught but love to your person, and devoted loyalty to your crown ; but against those evil councillors, the odium of whose crimes have been cast upon you. But even before I received your summons, I had resolved to break with these men, and told them as much. It is humiliating to confess that private injuries should make me false to myself, but so it was. Once you called me friend — pardon the presumption of the word, but it was your own. Such an honour was to me the dearest treasure of my life. CHAP. II.] HENRIETTA MARIA. 1^3 and when you witlidrew it, I not knowing why, unless it might have been my native unworthiness of such a boon, my heart was full of bitterness ; I need not recall what followed, the exaltation of my enemy, Sir John Savile, my public degradation in the open Cornet, and for no fault of which I had the least knowledge. Such injuries were all the more bitter to me knowing my heart to be full of loyal love, and I treated like a traitor. But this, sire, was not your work " "Xo more," interrupted the King, hastily ; "I know what you would say, but do not let us speak of him; he has gone to his account ; I loved him well ; may God assoihze him. My poor Wentworth, you have been wrongfully used, but your Sovereign asks your pardon, and will endeavour in the future to compensate you for the faults of the past." " Oh, sh^e, do not stoop to ask pardon of 1 24 AT COURT. [book ii.. me, am I not your subject, and as such bound to submit to your will whatever it may be '? But justice is a portion of a king's prerogative, and when evil coun- cillors violate that prerogative in his name it is but the duty of loyal men to bring their grievances before him, at least so I construe it." A slight shadow of vexation crossed the King's face during the latter part of this speech, which pleased him less than the commencement. But the conversation was here inter- rupted. The hangings behind the King were raised by invisible hands, and dis- closed a door and two pages, one standing on each side of it. There was a rustling of silk and velvet, and then a lady mth very dark eyes and a vivacity of expression which lent beauty to a countenance that would otherwise have been scarcely pretty, entered the room. CHAP. II.] HENRIETTA MARIA. 125 It was the Queen. " I thought you were alone, sir," she said, addressing the King with a strong French accent. Wentworth, after making a profound reverence, stepped back to the further extremity of the room, so as to permit the royal pair to converse. Henrietta Maria drew Charles towards the window. " Who is that ?" she inquired in her native tongue, and casting a glance over her shoulder. " It is Sir Thomas Wentworth," repHed the King with a little hesitation. " What, the parlementaire — the man that was put in prison ?" "The same." " What does he here ? Has he come to humble himself — to crave pardon on his knees for his rebellious insolence V "Hush, sweetheart, you are mistaken. J 26 AT COURT. [book ii. Sir Thomas was led aAvay by factious men, but he has broken with them — in our youthful days we were friends." " I do not like him, I do not like his face," she said, casting rapid glances towards Went worth, ''I should never like him. He is ugly. But," she added after another glance, " he has very beautiful hands." " Nevertheless he is a man of powerful mind, of acute and very highly cultivated intelligence," responded the King, lowering his voice ; '^ a dangerous foe, a firm friend, one of the few men upon whose devotion I could fully depend — there are few such about Court. The very man of whom we stand in need at this moment." "I do not like this temporising with traitors," answered the Queen, impatiently. " You are too lenient, too neglectful of your royal authority." " My subjects complain that I overstep CHAP, il] HENRIETTA MARIA. 127 it," responded Charles, with one of his melancholy smiles. " Which is right V ** Your subjects are traitors, I hate them aU." "Hush, dearest, walls have ears," inter- rupted the King, uneasily, " you must not speak thus." " But I have come to talk to you of the new masque," she resumed suddenly, changing her tone to one of eager vivacity. " By-and-by I mil come to you in your closet and we mil speak of it, but the council is waiting me now," and he led her towards the door by which she had entered. "Thus it is always," she answered,, poutingly, " you are lavish of your society to all save me : your painters, your nobles, your very servants would seem to have a prior claim to your Queen. Let these men wait your pleasure, are you not their King r "Would I were not," he repHed, sadly. 128 AT COURT. [book ir. " Could I cast off the cares and burdens of royalty, I would see its power and hollow splendour go with them without a sigh, and pass my days by thy side in a happi- ness I shall never know on this side the grave. But God's will be done," he added reverently, "it is not for man to repine against the decrees of Providence. " .A.nd with a look full of affection he raised her hand to his lips. " Let there be no more Buckinghams, my lord, to cast their dark shadows between us," she said, holding his hand and glancing in the direction of Went- worth. " That insolent man who turned your heart from me and dared to insult the daughter of Henri Quatre." " Hush, de mortuis nil nisi honum^' inter- rupted the Eang, leading her towards the private door by which she had entered. "Do not be long at the council," she CHAP. II.] HENRIETTA MARIA. 129 said, " for it is most important I should see you immediately about the masque." As soon as the curtains fell behind her, Charles turned to Wentworth, who was standing near the window. *' Our conference must end for to-day. Sir Thomas," he said, " but we will request you to remain at our Court some little time until we can carry out those intentions for your advancement, which we meditate. Till then, adieu." The familiar friend had suddenly given place to the monarch, stately in his affa- bihty. A suite of apartments was assigned Wentworth within the precincts of the palace. His first care was to pen an epistle to his wife, whom he knew to be most anxiously awaiting news from him, in which he recounted all that had passed in his inter- view with the king. He descanted warmly VOL. I. 9 130 AT COURT. [book II.. upon the reception he had met with, and the high hopes it had awakened. He despatched this by one of his trustiest servants, with strict injunctions to use all speed. CHAPTEE III. LUCY, COUNTESS OF CARLISLE. The next day Wentworth attended the King's levee. The gracious smile with which Charles recognised hiQi was not lost npon the watchful courtiers, whose visages, when turned upon him, now reflected the royal sunshine ; but those who attempted to make a more demonstrative show of their change of opinion were quickly re- pelled by the freezing pride with which he met all advances. As he was making his way through the crowd, he felt the light touch of a fan upon his shoulder ; turning round sharply he came face to face with a lady who had suddenly broken away from a buzzing, 9 — 2 132 AT COURT. [book ii. flattering group of butterfly courtiers to thus accost him. A deeper colour and an almost embar- rassed look overspread his features at the recognition, for he had observed her ere this, and had turned away his head to avoid being seen by her. It was no other than the famous Countess of Carlisle, she whom Dryden called " The Helen of her country ;" she whose charms are eulogised in more than one of the courtly Waller's poems ; the aunt of his Saccharissa, and the most famous and fascinating woman of her time. She was at this period in the very per- fection of her beauty, being little more than twenty-one years of age. Gazing upon Vandyke's portrait, with Waller's verses in our mind, a feeling of disappointment comes upon us that we cannot realise their glowing descriptions. But even that wonderful pencil could not CHAP. III.] LUCY, COUNTESS OF CARLISLE. 133 transmit to canvas the varying charms of expression which chased each other a& rapidly as shadows upon an April day across that fair face. In repose the features were haughty, yet pensive, with the languor of voluptuousness, a character which also distinguished the noble figure ; but the brilliant eyes when half veiled by their drooping lashes, the beautiful lips when they parted in smiles, the heightened colour raised by excitement, could meta- morphose the whole countenance to love and tenderness, and invest it with a halo of fascination that enslaved every heart. " The gay, the wise, the gallant, and the grave, Subdued alike, all but one passion have ; !No worthy mind but finds in hers there is Something proportioned to the rule of his ; While she with cheerful, but impartial grace (Born for no one, but to delight the race Of men), like Phoebus, so divides her light, And warms us, that she stoops not from her height.'* So wrote Waller. " What, not one word, and 'tis so long 134 AT COURT. [book ii. since we met," she said, in a voice and with a smile of the most bewitching fascina- tion. Wentworth was no more proof against the loveliness that beamed upon him than any other man, yet he replied almost €oldly, although in the courtly strain of the day — " It were impossible for Lady Carlisle to offend even did she wish to do so, and she has ever been most condescending to the humblest of her admirers ; but I could not thriist my country-bred and sombre person among the town gallants and their bravery of ribbons and laces." " And do you imagine I have any taste for the society of these fops and gadflies ?" she answered, her face suddenly lighting up with scorn. " I accept their homage as a queen does that of the meanest of her subjects, as my due, my right inahenable, but no more. You should know that mere CHAP. III.] LUCY, COUNTESS OF CARLISLE. 135 bravery of ribbons and laces lias no charms for me. Do not suppose that it is among such my hours are wasted. All women love flattery, it is the incense which men burn before the shrine of Venus, and it is grateful to every female nostril ; were I insensible to it I should be either more or less than woman, and I would be neither. Perhaps," she added, with a pretty assump- tion of confusion, " I defend myself too warmly ; but I love not to forfeit the esteem of those whom I respect and who once respected me." " Who still respects you. Lady Carlisle, as much as ever," answered Wentworth, his coldness melting away before her warmth. " Then you will visit me before you leave the Court ?" she said quickly. " To- morrow — yes, to-morrow it shall be — for I have company that will please you ; my poor house is honoured by something better 136 AT COURT. [book II. than mere courtiers and f bplings ; I promise that you shall find there men worthy even of your attention. Nay, I will take no denial. " Not knowing how to reject such persua- sions, Wentworth reluctantly gave his word to be there. This colloquy, which had taken place a little aside from the crowd, was observed by many eyes and commented upon by many tongues. '' What strange coquetry is this ?" inquired one of his companion. " What motive can induce the lovely Carlisle to lower her haughty eyes upon this country knight, who has rendered himself so obnoxious to the Court party." *' As well might you seek to solve the mystery of the Sphinx as to seek for the motives of a woman's actions, and above all those of the Countess of Carlisle," replied the other, shrugging his shoulders ; " her CHAP. III.] LUCY, COUNTESS OF CARLISLE. 137 plots and intrigues are numberless, and latterly she has inclined towards the Par- liament party, to judge by the favour she shows that vulgar fellow, Pym." " When Lady Carlisle smiles upon a man," chimed in a third, "it is a certain proof that he is rising ; she never favours the falhng one; she has a rare instinct that way. But know you not it is said there were love passages between them when she was Lucy Percy, before Sir Thomas married Arabella HoHis ?" And the trio fell to with great gusto discussing this Court gossip. Wentworth was most anxious to learn the King's intentions towards him, but majesty was not to be hurried, and so he was obliged to curb his impatience as best he could, and wait the royal pleasure. Towards the evening of the day following^ the levee, he remembered the promise he had given Lady Carlisle ; and although 138 AT COURT. [book II. little inclined, considered himself com- pelled in honour to observe it. The lady's house was situated close to the Palace, in what would now be con- sidered a strange place of abode for such a personage, King Street ; and yet that always narrow, and now grimy, thorough- fare, which has all but disappeared before the innovations of improvement, could boast amongst its residents names even more famous than hers. Here had lived the great High Admiral, Lord Howard, of Armada fame ; and here had died, in penury, Edmund Spenser; here also lived another poet, Thomas Carew, and a genera- tion after the time of which we write, the poet Earl of Dorset ; these are but a few of the illustrious names which once graced the street. In Paris the Duchess de Pambouillet ■created the first literary society of modern Europe, and the society of the Precieuses •CHAP. HI.] LUCY, COUNTESS OF CARLISLE. 139 was at this period in its highest perfection, not having yet degenerated into those absurdities which Mohere thereafter so felicitously ridiculed. It was Lady Car- lisle's ambition to render her house a second Hotel de Kambouillet, and herself a second Catherine de Vivonne. To this end her salons, if we may use the French •expression, were thrown open to all who were famous in literature, art, or distin- guished by birth or social position. The different conditions, however, of society in Paris and London, as well as the differing idiosyncrasies of the two famous ladies, rendered a perfect imitation impossible. In Paris, the iron hand of Hichelieu ren- dered politics a forbidden subject, and he himself was a constant frequenter of the Hotel ; in London, politics were gradually becoming the all-absorbing topic, to the exclusion of all others, and men and women could not meet together without discussing 140 AT COURT. [book li- the affairs of tlie day. Finally, Lady Carlisle herself was a political intriguante — ever eager for State secrets, and ever ready to mix herself up in plots ; she adhered to no party, but alternately favoured all according to humour or in- clination. Had she lived in France in the time of the Fronde she would have been of the foremost amongst the Chevreuses, de Longuevilles, de Sables, who by their plots and intrigues did more than all the men to embroil their country in civil war. Wentworth had no difficulty in discover- ing the house ; the doors were open, atten- dants and pages in liveries of blue and gold waited in the hall, and sedan-chairs were setting down visitors. Annoyed with himself for having promised this visit, he mounted the steps and gave his name. A page, bowing obsequiously, conducted him through an ante-chamber, at the end of which was a lofty archway covered by CHAP. III.] LUCY, COUNTESS OF CARLISLE. 1^1 curtains of blue velvet, fringed with gold. These, at a signal from the attendant, were parted in the centre by invisible hands, and raised for his admittance. So beautiful was the apartment in which he now found himself, that he stood for a moment gazing around him in silent admi- ration, forgetful of all else. By the soft light of tapers, shaded and concealed so as to subdue all glare, he saw a lofty, spacious saloon, the walls tastefully draped with blue velvet embroidered with gold; hanging from the ceilmg and from every niche were baskets of flowers ; flowers indeed were everywhere, gathered in vases and wreaths, or scattered singly and mak- ing part of every ornament. Persian car- pets covered the floor. The furniture, like the hangings, was blue and gold, and fashioned with all the skill of Italian arti- ficers. As in the King's closet, there were •cabinets of ivory and ebony of the most 142 AT COURT. [book ii. exquisite workmanship, costly articles of' vertu, works of art in gold and silver that Cellini had chased ; paintings from the- hands of Eubens and Vandyke ; tables of solid silver, Venetian mirrors ; indeed, all that taste and luxury could desire, and money purchase. Facing the archway by which he had entered were windows opening to the ground into gardens, the beauty of which was only dimly visible by the pale light of the moon ; but a peculiarly mystic effect was imparted by coloured lights artfully disposed among the trees and shrubs. Wentworth arrived early, and only a few guests had preceded him. Eagerly and with outstretched hand the hostess advanced to greet this desired visitor. " This is your first visit to my poor- abode, and I can perceive you are pleased with it," she said, looking up into his face.. CHAP, m.] LUCY, COUNTESS OP CARLISLE. 14^ *'I could not have imagined aught so beautiful," he answered warmly ; "I am almost tempted to ask whether I have not wandered in a dream into the en- chanted palace of Armida." '' Will you then allow the enchantress to lead you to her bower T she answered, laying her fingers upon his arm, and again gazing up at him with tender, half- veiled eyes ; " you need not fear, you have long- since proved yourself invulnerable to her spells." How beautiful that queenly face looked in its melting mood ; the fair skin flushed like the petals of a damask rose, its classic contour set off by the dark clustering hair curling upon the noble forehead, and flowing back upon the neck in ringlets confined by a jewelled bandeau ; those dark liquid orbs could flash as brightly as the diamond pendants in her ears, and the brilliants were not purer than the throat they encircled ; 144 AT COURT. [book ii. her dress was of blue velvet, sown with pearls, and half clouded with Spanish lace, a costume which softened the outlines of her haughty figure to an almost girlish beauty. Wentworth was indeed beneath the spells of an enchantress, and might well have trembled for his invulnerability. Although it was September, the night was soft and genial, and the foliage green and umbrageous as midsummer ; scarcely a breath of air disturbed the deep shadows that slumbered in the white moonlight ; out of the darkness of the embowered trees