Chapter V May-Day
Time flies for the young; the days, the weeks, the months seem to have wings; they heed it not, they are glad, because each day is a new joy, a new surprise.
So it was with the Princess Henrietta and Agnes. They had no cares, at least Agnes had none. She loved the winter, the biting cold, the snow, the frost; she would go out with Patience in all weathers, and ofttimes with the princess to St. James’s Park, where they would skate and otherwise disport themselves. Gradually, however, Agnes fell into the background; she was too young to be at all the court parties, and Patience observed this to the queen-dowager.
“She is but a child, and the late hours are injuring her,” she said; “let her abide at home with me.” And the queen acquiesced; indeed, she knew full well that the king’s court was no place for the young.
Arrangements were being made for Henrietta’s marriage to the Duke of Orleans, and many noblemen and courtiers came over from France to greet her. Her time was much taken up with all this, so that Agnes naturally drifted into a quieter world, and was seen less and less in public, excepting when there were grand receptions at Somerset House. Some of these she was permitted to attend, for girls were older for their years in those days than they are now; still, she was not as much at home in the court circle as she had been when she was only a spoilt child. She did not care for, or rather she did not understand, the compliments which were sometimes addressed to her—for she was very pretty, nay, she was beautiful, and attracted not a little attention from women as well as men. She was a general favourite, and if Patience would have allowed it she would have had many invitations and have been made much of. But Patience was a very dragon of propriety.
“You shall not go,” she said. “You are too young.”
“I do not care to go,” Agnes answered. “I cannot abide it.”
More than once Patience found her asleep, her pillow wet with tears. She did not question her, she guessed what it was. The first sorrow in her life would soon come. In June the Princess Henrietta was to be married, and then they would be parted and she would be alone.
“That will not be good for the child,” Patience reasoned. “What shall I do with her, where shall I take her?”
A curious thing happened. Ann Newbolt had returned to London and little by little had wound herself into Patience’s good graces. More than once they had met in the park when Agnes was taking her morning airing. Ann was given to coming thither at the same hour with two dogs which she brought with her to give them a free run.
“I could not be without them,” she would say, “and so I begged Father to let me bring them up from the manor for company’s sake. Our big London house is so dreary.”
Now Agnes had never had any animals of her own, and her delight was great when, after a few outings, Cæsar and Juno—for so they were called—learned to know her, and would bound across the park when they saw her coming, and well-nigh knock her down with joy. She would run with them, she would play with them. At first this was much to Patience’s displeasure; but Ann had her old nurse with her, and she said to Patience:
“Let the child be, let her run and play; she is too much cooped up in your palace. Do you not see she is growing pale?”
Ann chimed in, “She is like a hot-house plant; you are forcing her, Mistress Patience.”
“Not I,” returned Patience, “but those who surround her, those who do not understand that she is a child.”
“Why do you not take her into the country and let her run wild for a year or two?” asked Ann’s nurse. “Then you would bring her back as fresh and fair as a rose. Court life is not good for children.”
“I would I could do it,” said Patience; “but I am not mistress.”
“Shall you go back to France with the queen?” asked Ann.
“No, I will not do that,” said Patience; “I would rather carry her away and hide her. King Charles’s court is bad enough; what the Duke of Orleans will be I dare not even think. No, I will keep my sweet lamb unspotted if I can. She knows no evil, therefore she sees none, though she be hedged in with wrong-doers. But that will not always be. I promised her dear mother I would protect her, and so, help me God, I will.”
“You will do well,” said Ann. “She is a sweet flower, and worthy of all care; I would she were my sister.”
“I pray I may live to see her an honest man’s wife,” said Patience.
Such conversations as these were frequent between the two, Patience not having the remotest idea that it was the Newbolts who possessed the lands which should have been Agnes’s heritage.
The Newbolts were equally ignorant that Agnes was a De Lisle. To them she was, and had ever been, plain “Agnes Beaumont”, the queen’s favourite and the Princess Henrietta’s devoted companion.
But enlightenment was soon to come to Patience. The winter passed, and the spring began to show itself. The trees in the park were budding green; April showers succeeded March winds, and there was much gaiety in London. Gilded coaches went and came in the streets, barges floated up the Thames, and no one troubled, though many knew, that the royal exchequer was well-nigh empty. The people adored their king as they had never adored his saintly father. Wherever he passed there were shouts of, “Long live the king!” and his smiles and bows were received with enthusiasm.
Never had a king been so popular. There was laughter and merriment everywhere, dancing and songs even in the streets. The only place where any decorum was observed was at Somerset House. There the queen-dowager dwelt, and the people did not love her. She never had been a favourite. Many people were ready to lay the blame of her dead husband’s errors upon her shoulders, so they frowned upon the queen-dowager and her sombre court, while they laughed at the merry court at Whitehall, and would not listen to the evil reports of the goings-on within its precincts.
The pendulum had swung back; the order of the day had changed; they treated Charles, his follies, his sins, as they might have treated the peccadilloes of a spoilt child. When he rode forth in his gilded coach or went on horseback through the city with his favourites and his brother, the Duke of York, in his rich attire of gold and satin, his long, curled wig, great hat with plumes which swept almost on to his shoulders, the people were wild with delight, and would press round him in their eagerness; and he would speak to them, calling them his good people, bidding them make way for him, with that wonderful charm of manner, that smile, which was the inherent gift of the Stuart race, and won every heart. They cared not what he did nor what he said; he was their king, their chosen one, their beloved. If he squandered money they laughed, and hardly grumbled at supplying his extravagances. Had he not suffered dire poverty in those evil days when Cromwell sat in his seat and the Puritan preachers thundered their maledictions against him from St. Paul’s Cross? Every old English custom which could be raked up was brought to the fore, to the extreme delight of all men. He touched for the king’s evil, and the sick believed they were cured. In the people’s imaginings he could not do wrong, though wrong stared them in the face.
In olden days there had stood in the Strand a big May-pole, which was decorated on the first of May with flowers and ribbons, and round which sports, and dances, and great merriment were wont to take place; but when the Puritans were masters they exclaimed against this device, as they did against everything that savoured of pleasure, which they considered unholy. So the ancient May-pole, which stood a hundred feet high in the Strand, had been hewn to the ground; there were no more sports on May-Day. Indeed, there were few sports in England at all during that season of strict observance of the Sabbath.
Young men and maidens well-nigh forgot how to dance. They went softly, they laughed but little, because at any sign of outward rejoicing their elders frowned upon them. The faces of the men seemed to grow longer, the pretty curls on the maidens’ heads were smoothed away beneath tight-fitting caps. It was not a genial time, and so now, when the sun shone, and the flowers burst forth, there arose a gentle murmur throughout the land: “Let us have our May-poles again.”
London was, as usual, the first place whence this cry proceeded, and thousands responded to it—the king and the Duke of York among the foremost. Yes, they would have a May-pole, larger and finer than any previous one.
The citizens of London determined to make a display of their loyalty. We read in an old tract of the times, called “The City’s Loyalty Displayed”, how this tree was a most choice and remarkable piece. “’Twas made below bridge” (that is, below London Bridge), and brought in two parts up to Scotland Yard, near the king’s palace of Whitehall, and thence it was conveyed, on April 14, 1661, to the Strand, to be erected there. It was brought with streamers flourishing before it, drums beating all the way, and other sorts of music. It was so long that landsmen could not possibly raise it; therefore the Duke of York, Lord High Admiral of England, commanded twelve seamen to come and officiate in this business.
They came, and brought their cables, pulleys, and other tackle, along with six great anchors. After these were brought three crowns, borne by three men, bareheaded, and a streamer displayed all the way before them, drums playing, and other music; people thronging the streets with great shouts and acclamations all day long. The May-pole then being joined together and looped about with bands of iron, the crown and cane (“the sceptre”), with the king’s arms richly gilded, was placed on the head of it. A large hoop like a balcony was about the middle of it. Then, amidst sounds of trumpets and drums, and loud cheering, and the shouts of the people, the May-pole, far more glorious, bigger, and higher than any that had preceded it, was raised upright, “which”, we are told, “highly pleased the merry monarch and the illustrious prince, the Duke of York, and the little children did much rejoice, ancient people did clap their hands, saying, ‘the golden days had begun to appear’. A party of morris-dancers came forward, finely decked with purple scarves and their half shirts, with tabor and pipe—the ancient music—and danced round about the May-pole.”
This went on for some time, and there never was seen again such a May-day as in this year of Our Lord, 1661.
From the windows of Somerset House Princess Henrietta and Agnes watched the ceremonies. The putting up and the decking of this token that “the summer had come “, aroused a more tenacious loyalty than ever.
Day by day, as they watched, Agnes’s excitement increased; it was no use for Patience to tell her she should not be seen at the open window.
“I must, I must!” she cried; and, indeed, it would have been cruel to hinder her.
All over England that May-Day was remembered long afterwards. The king had come into his rights again, the people had come into theirs, and they would not be gainsaid.
As for Agnes, she tried to put care on one side, though she knew that Henrietta’s marriage loomed not far distant; sometimes she wondered what was to become of her when it was accomplished. Once or twice she approached Patience on the subject, but she frowned and answered her:
“Do not trouble, child. Think ye that you are of less account than the sparrows on the house-tops or the lilies in the field?” And she would hurry away, leaving Agnes with her own thoughts and her own fears.
No wonder if on the child’s face there came a serious expression, a certain sadness, which is often to be seen on the faces of children who are motherless and fatherless, a sort of yearning for something, they know not what, that has been denied to them.
And yet Agnes was not unhappy. Mistress Newbolt had refused at first to come up to London, but the colonel had insisted she should do so.
“It is injuring Ann’s prospects,” he said, “and I cannot entertain guests in a house where there is no mistress.” Therefore she had been obliged to yield, but she did so only in so far that she ruled the servants and saw that there was no wilful waste. For herself she remained in her own apartments, and would not join in the entertainments which her husband delighted in, neither would she permit Ann to do so.
Thus it came to pass that Agnes and Ann drew closer and closer one to the other. Not a day passed but they saw one another. Agnes delighted to go to their house, and, strange to tell, Mistress Newbolt took a vast liking to her. She would let her follow her into her store closet; she would let her watch her make the dainty comfits for which she was renowned; and she would send her away with all manner of good things piled in a little basket which she kept for that purpose. But if she did her these kindnesses, she insisted that every time she came to see her she should go with her to her closet, and there she would read to her some portion of the Bible and would pray with her. Agnes conformed meekly to her desires. She looked upon her as a saint, and though she was stern and cold, and never caressed her, there was a certain motherliness about her which appealed to the child’s heart.
So the month of June came, and the Princess Henrietta was carried over to France to meet the saddest fate that can befall any woman, namely to marry a bad man. Agnes thought her heart would break when she bade her and the queen adieu. Indeed, she fell quite sick with sorrow, lay on her bed, turned her face to the wall, and would not be comforted.