Chapter XII A Faithful Friend
In the life of every one of us, from the cradle to the grave, there are landmarks. The child’s first tooth, its first step as it half tumbles across the floor into its mother’s arms, the first word from the baby’s lips, are stages in the child’s life and in the mother’s heart. So it goes on imperceptibly—the child, the youth, the man, school and college; these come to all. But there are waves which sweep over each individual soul, casting it ashore; a master wave, drawing us into the great sea of destiny.
The death of Colonel Newbolt changed the current of more lives than one. Ann had adored her father, and when Reginald took her forth out of that prison-house where he lay dead, she was as one stunned. How great the change in her life was to be she did not then conceive, for in the first hour of a great sorrow, that sorrow alone holds us.
Ann went back to Somerset House, and Patience and Agnes tried to comfort her; but on the morrow Reginald fetched her, and she went home to her mother.
Then a strange thing happened. One morning, as Patience and Agnes sat at work, a commissioner came and informed them that the king had given orders that the queen’s apartments, and, in fact, the whole of Somerset House, was to be put under repair. This was to be done quickly because of the king’s marriage and the return of her majesty, the queen dowager. “Therefore”, he said, “the king desires that you should remove to Hampton Court, to the apartments he has given you there.”
Patience listened in silence, and when the messenger had departed she went and shut herself into her own room and did not appear till supper-time, much to Agnes’s astonishment, for she had never before been left so many hours alone. The first words she spoke startled Agnes.
“You heard the order for us to leave this house and go to Hampton Court,” she began. “Well, I will not obey, because I do not choose that you should live in the midst of the king’s court. I find,” she continued, “that with great economy, and by living in some quiet country village, I have money enough to keep us for two or three years. Will you be content to live thus?”
“I shall be glad to do so,” said Agnes. “Ever since we were at Greenwich my heart has yearned for a country life. I told you a long time ago I was tired of courts. Take me where you will, Patience, as far out of the world as it pleases you. Of course, Ann and Reginald will know where we go?” she added.
“No,” said Patience, “nobody must know. I am taking you where it would be a danger for you to be known.”
Agnes’s face fell. “But I love my friends,” she said, “and would not be wholly parted from them.”
“For the present you must be,” said Patience. “What the future holds in store for you I cannot tell. May the Lord guide our footsteps in the right way!”
When Reginald called the next day to ask them to come to his mother and Ann, they were gone—no one could tell where, no one knew. They had left soon after dawn, taking Martha with them, also Rolfe, a north-country man who had accompanied Patience to France many years before. Evidently Patience had judged these two to be fitting persons to serve them, to be trusted.
Sad at heart, Reginald returned and told his mother what had happened.
“I am sorry,” she said. “I was going to ask Patience to take charge of Ann, because this night I had a call—I heard voices and I saw visions. The spirit of the Lord bids me forsake the world and serve Him only. Nothing must hinder me, and yet Ann stands in my way; she is there before me, blocking my path. What can I do with her? The Lord calls me and I must go. Within those prison gates my work lies; my work is the saving of the souls which He has given into my hands.”
“But, Mother,” said Reginald, “what can you do for so many?”
“Do!” she answered. “I will feed their bodies and souls; I will teach them and I will preach to them, if perchance I may save but one soul alive.”
“And who will care for you, Mother?” asked Ann.
“The Lord,” answered Mistress Newbolt, “He will care for me.”
Tears were pouring down Ann’s face.
“Ah, Mother, you will surely need someone,” she said. “I will tend you, I will love you, I will care for you; my heart tells me this is my work. We will leave this great house. We will take just two rooms without the prison gates; you can do your work and I will do mine. When you are weary you can rest, and I will tend you. Shall it not be so, Reginald?” And she turned to her brother.
“Ann speaks wisely, Mother,” said Reginald. “Let her remain with you.”
“I will not hinder you, Mother,” said Ann; “I will help you. To Newbolt we cannot go, because you know my father has willed that we should not dwell there.”
“In any case,” said Reginald, “I doubt if we shall keep it long. The king’s greed is great; he would not have suffered us to remain. Doubtless, now that my father is dead, he will take it in payment for the fine which would have been imposed.”
“Then sell it at once, and give the money to my poor,” said his mother.
“If I can,” answered Reginald; “but I doubt if that be possible. For myself, I shall go abroad. Surely better days will dawn ere long!”
He might well say this, he might well hope this. Throughout England and Scotland a religious persecution was waging: the Act of Uniformity was passed. Against the Independents and the Presbyterians the utmost rigour of the law was enforced; the prisons were filled with nonconformist ministers and their people. Many compared this time to the great St. Bartholomew massacre of the Huguenots. And what was still more grievous to all righteous souls, the court was a hideous place, full of evil-doings, grieving those who retained still the faintest semblance of morality.
The marriage of the king did not improve the state of things; indeed, it made matters worse, for the misery endured by the young queen, Catherine of Braganza, was very great. She was left in solitude, her own country-people were taken away from her, and she was forced to consort with the king’s friends, who, for the most part, were distasteful to her.
All the ideal dreams which Reginald and Ann had dreamt fell crumbling to the ground. They looked back with something almost of regret to the days of Cromwell’s rule, when the strictest observance of religious duty and of virtue was at least commended. Their hearts were sore within them. How would it end? There seemed much trouble in the future for both of them.
“If only a war would break out I would volunteer,” said Reginald. “I will not stay at home. If I cannot serve my king at home, I will serve my country by sea or by land.”
“And I will serve my mother,” said Ann; and timidly, because she feared her, and yet fondly, because she knew she was her mother, Ann threw her arms round her neck and whispered softly in her ears:
“Where thou goest I will go; thy God shall be my God.”
Mistress Newbolt did not return the caress, she merely answered:
“It is the will of the Lord. Thou shalt abide with me.”
That same day she dismissed all her servants, acting justly by them, even kindly, for she gave them their full wages and something over; then she and Ann went together into the city, and found two or three rooms at the top of a house in the Old Bailey.
Ann, who had been accustomed to open air and freedom, wondered how she would live there; but she did not oppose her mother. On the contrary, she fell in with her views, and for the next day or two they were busy moving what furniture was necessary from the great house to the poor lodging. Ann thought of many things, and her activity was very great. She piled up the linen, she took all she imagined could possibly be for their comfort; but her heart sank as she went up those narrow stairs, meeting ever and again strange faces of men and women such as she had never looked on before. To her it was an ugly life: would anything make it beautiful? She never thought of that; she only knew she had to live in the midst of it, and she prayed for strength to do her duty.
Sometimes for days together she never saw her mother. She wondered where she was, until at last Reginald told her that the governor had sent for her. It came to pass that when Mistress Newbolt ceased to go amongst the prisoners they had become insubordinate and had clamoured for her. Therefore the governor besought her to renew her work amongst them, for it meant a certain amount of peace, which no one else could secure, and she answered him:
“I was waiting for your call, sir; God told me it would come. I am ready.”
So Ann was left alone in the upper part of the strange house, with only an old woman whom she had taken to help her in the work, for her mother would have no servants. The old woman lived in the same house in a garret, and she had no belongings. The neighbours said that in winter time she was well-nigh starving, but in the summer she hawked flowers in the street, and sometimes fruit.
“You will do that no longer,” said Ann. “I will feed you, and you will do the rough work for me while my mother is out.”
Thus it was arranged. At first Ann would send her marketing—she was herself afraid of being alone in the streets—but gradually, as she grew familiar with her new life, she ceased to do this, and went out herself to make her purchases. The air did her good, and, as her mother gave her but little money, she had to be economical.
One day, as she and Reginald were walking down Drury Lane, she asked: “Where has all our father’s fortune gone?”
“Our mother is spending it,” he answered. “There are the rents of Newbolt Manor; she gets them all. I went to see our lawyer the other day. He told me that by my father’s will everything went to our mother, unconditionally. She is mistress of everything; we are dependent upon her.”
“It is not right,” said Ann; “we shall be beggars.”
“I am afraid we shall,” said Reginald, “but it cannot be helped. You will care for our mother; I, as best I can, will care for you both; but the glory is gone out of my life.”
“Tut, tut!” said a man’s voice, and a hand came down heavily on Reginald’s shoulder.
He turned sharply, put his hand to his hat, exclaiming: “My Lord Craven!”
“I was coming on behind you, and I heard you say that wicked thing, that the glory was gone out of your life,” said Lord Craven, “and you but a lad still. You are starting in life, and because you have one disappointment your heart fails you. Is that being a man? Turn in with me, and we will speak together. I am no longer young, and verily the glory has departed out of my life.” And his quaint face, neither old nor young, grew very sad.
Lord Craven had been all his life the champion of the Protestant religion throughout Europe, and the acknowledged knight of that beautiful but unfortunate queen, Elizabeth Stuart of Bohemia, aunt of Charles II. The queen had come to London, and had lived a few months at Lord Craven’s house in Drury Lane. She had died in the early spring, and so a life-long service had come to an end, and disappointment and ingratitude were to be his reward.
This is the romance of history, savouring of that mediæval worship of a woman which we meet with once and again, the Lauras and Beatrices of life; stories scattered here and there to show us what so few realize, the spiritual side of the life of man and woman; love which is content to live, asking for nothing, looking for nothing that this earth can give, wholly unselfish, content to serve, content to worship.
Both Reginald and Ann knew Lord Craven’s story well, they knew his devotion to the queen and to the Protestant faith, also his untiring goodness to the whole Stuart family. They had seen him, as all the world had seen him, follow the coffin of his “queen”, as he always called Elizabeth Stuart, holding in his hand his plumed helmet, in which was fastened always a small white glove, his token of service. Many mocked, some smiled at the little Lord Craven, as he was ofttimes called; but in their hearts all good-minded men honoured him.
That the earl should address him thus familiarly was a high honour for Reginald, and he felt it as such.
“My lord,” he said, “I thank you, but I have my sister with me, and cannot leave her.”
“Mistress Ann,” said Lord Craven, and his kindly face smiled down upon the girl, “it seems to me we do not live far apart. Had you not a house about here?”
“Yes, my lord, we lived in yonder house,” answered Reginald, and he pointed to their old home. “But my father was arrested and thrown into prison. He is dead, and we have moved to a humbler lodging.”
“I thought as much,” said the Earl. “Come and tell me all that has befallen you.” And with that graciousness which bespoke the man who had lived in courts, he bowed, and, looking at Ann, added:
“You will do me much honour if you will accompany your brother to my house.” And he doffed his hat, with the white glove.
Ann curtsied, and the three turned back together until they reached the great portal leading to the earl’s house at the corner of Drury Lane and Aldwych. The door was wide open, as was often the custom in those days, and men-servants stood here and there ready to receive and execute their master’s orders. Passing through the great hall, the earl conducted his guests to his private library, where he mostly sat himself. It looked out upon gardens, and seemed to all intents and purposes far removed from the busy world. Over the mantelpiece was a lovely portrait of Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia, and beneath it was written:
“Your most affectionate and most obedient slave, who loved you and will love you incessantly, infinitely, unto death”.
Such was the vow William Craven had made as a young man, and from which, now his hair was grey, death alone had released him.
To Ann and Reginald in their youth, with the glamour of life still before them, this room seemed a sanctuary.
“Sit down, sit down,” said the earl, “and tell me what your trouble is, and why the glory has gone out of your young life.”
He smiled as he repeated Reginald’s words. He recognized in them the impatient cry of youth.
Reginald never knew how it happened, but he poured out his whole soul to the earl. He told him how he had refused to have anything to do with Cromwell and the Commonwealth, how he had vowed allegiance to King Charles and the Stuarts, how his father had been, so to speak, done to death, and how he himself, seeing what the court of Charles II. was, had lost heart.
“You have been serving a man and not a cause,” said Lord Craven; “that is why you are in this plight. Forget the man, and think of the cause. You do not know the Stuarts as I know them. They are a wild race—they will not be curbed either for good or evil—daring, brilliant, beautiful!” He paused, his eyes turning involuntarily to the portrait of his queen. Then he continued, “They hold men’s hearts in their hands, and they break them without more ado than if they were of common clay. Look back to their past history!” he exclaimed, and his face had in it a strange beauty as he stood before the two young people and spoke to them. “Think of Mary Stuart; she lost her crown, her kingdom, everything, for love, and others lost everything for her. It is in their blood; they cannot help it any more than men can help kneeling before their shrine and worshipping them. We were a score of gentlemen who first vowed ourselves to the service of the Princess Elizabeth when she went forth out of England to wed the Prince Palatine. They are all dead; I am left alone. Do you think I have not suffered? And yet you, because you have high ideals and are disappointed, turn away in disgust, and would go over to the enemy.”
“No, not that,” said Reginald, “not that, but I will not be a courtier. I will be what you are, my lord, a soldier. I will fight if there be still a cause to fight for.”
“I think that will be easily found,” said the earl; “there is likely to be war with Holland before long. If you are truly desirous of seeing active service, I will take care that you have a place found for you. Will you serve under Prince Rupert?”
“Indeed I will,” answered Reginald. “I could hope for nothing better.”
“Then take courage,” said the earl, “I will speak for you. You say that your father is dead. He was like many another; the tables turned. Your estates are likely to be forfeited, you will surely have heavy fines to pay, but beyond that, seeing that you are yourself in the king’s service, and that you have never drawn sword against him, you will not suffer. What estates have you?”
“We have but one large estate,” said Reginald, “and my father with his dying breath bade me return it either to its lawful heirs or to God’s poor.”
“Where is it?” asked the earl.
“Up north, in Westmorland,” answered Reginald. “Newbolt Manor it is called now, but it was once De Lisle Abbey, and belonged to the De Lisles.”
“That’s strange,” said the earl; “poor Gilbert De Lisle! I knew him well. He was killed at Worcester, and he left a fair young wife, who died of a broken heart in child-birth. I never heard whether the child lived or died.”
“I have always understood it died,” said Reginald, “and that there was no heir to the estate.”
“Ah, well, then the king will bestow it on some of his favourites,” said Lord Craven. “And your sister, has she no fortune, no dower-money?”
“My father left some money,” answered Reginald, “but my mother is spending it.” And then rapidly he told the earl of his father’s imprisonment and death, and how by natural instinct his mother had taken up work in the prison, and now was spending all the wealth they had upon it.
“Then, Mistress Ann, we shall have to see to you,” said the earl; “only prevent this brother of yours from forsaking the cause. It has had its dark days; you must live them down. Be not down-hearted,” he said, turning to Reginald. “We cannot make the world as we would have it; we must take it as it comes and make the best of it. Resign your commission in the King’s Guards, and go abroad to Holland; I will give you an introduction to Prince Rupert.”
Reginald hesitated for a moment.
“My mother and my sister,” he said, “I cannot leave them unprovided for.”
“I will see to them,” said the earl; “they shall not suffer. We cannot afford to let young earnest souls like yours go adrift.”
“Thank you!” said Reginald, “I will think the matter over and bring you my answer, if you will let me; but in any case I thank you for your kindness to us strangers.”
“You are no strangers,” said Earl Craven. “I have heard of you from my friend Delarry.” As he said this he looked at Ann, whose face coloured and eyes drooped. “Moreover, I have watched you both. I knew of your father’s arrest and of his death, and I shall be glad to be of service to you. I am afraid the king is making enemies of those who would be faithful servants, so, as is my custom, I must step into the breach.”
“And we thank you,” said Reginald; “your generosity will not have been bestowed in vain.”
He bowed to Lord Craven, Ann curtsied, but the earl held out his hand to them both.
“We are friends. Think of me as such,” he said; “for I am a lone man, and would gladly boast of a son and daughter such as you are, to comfort me in my old age. My house is open to you; when you need me you will not be refused.”
With that he turned away, and Reginald and Ann went out together.
“Surely it is God’s hand,” said Ann. “We were well-nigh despairing, you and I, Reginald, and now we have a friend.”
“Yes,” answered Reginald, “not too soon; the world seemed very dark, and now, well, I see the sun.”
Ann looked up and smiled at him.
“So do I,” she said, and they went on together with light hearts. The young are so glad to cast a burden off their shoulders, to greet the sunshine, to welcome hope; it is the prerogative of youth!