CHAPTER XXVII.

“When the Established Church of England forsook the spirit of Hooker for that of Laud, it made a false step which could only lead to painful defeat. Presbyterianism, with still less excuse, made a like aggression, and with like result. To a certain extent, therefore, Milton is the spokesman of the bulk of his countrymen. Priest and Presbyter alike he forbade in the name of England to fetter by force her free development, her realisation of her chosen ideals for the time being.”—Ernest Myers.

In after days it often seemed to Gabriel that his gradual recovery at Notting Hill was one of the happiest times of his life. The words from Hilary, though few and vague, gave him more reason to hope for a future reconciliation than he had as yet possessed. While the wonderful relief of having his father as his constant companion, after the severe sufferings of body and mind which he had undergone at Oxford, was indescribable.

There were countless things that he longed to hear about after his long deprivation of all news.

“Sir Robert Harley did his utmost to obtain your release,” said Dr. Harford, when one day the talk had turned on Gabriel’s old friend and schoolfellow, Ned. “But, besides his many duties in Parliament, he hath been himself in grievous trouble. Lady Brilliana, after bravely defending Brampton Castle during a six weeks’ siege by the Royalists, fell ill and died last October, not long after the raising of the siege.”

“What! was she alone, then?” said Gabriel. “Was not even Ned with her?”

“Neither husband nor son could be there,” said the doctor. “And you know how frail her health ever was.”

“Yet she had a great spirit, and was the sweetest and gentlest of ladies,” said Gabriel. “What hath befallen her children?”

“The six younger ones remain at Brampton, under the care of Dr. Wright and his wife, who were present during the siege and a great comfort to Lady Brilliana. ’Tis a sad household, though, and grievous harm hath been wrought in the village, for the King’s troops destroyed the church and parsonage and the mill, besides many dwelling-houses.”

“I can’t picture the place without its mistress,” said Gabriel. “All the noblest and the best seem to perish through this unhappy war. Do you think, sir, we are any nearer hopes of a settlement?”

The doctor shook his head sadly.

“Further than ever,” he said, with grave conviction. “Instead of an honourable and high-minded man like Lord Falkland, we have now the rash and unscrupulous Lord Digby as Secretary of State; and Cottington, who is almost openly a papist, has become Lord Treasurer.”

“And yet I don’t wish Lord Falkland back to the intolerable post he held,” said Gabriel. “There were few that shared my love for him among the prisoners at Oxford, but as long as I live I shall be thankful for having known him. I can better bear the degradation of these scars on my back by remembering that they were earned in seeking to shield his name.”

“In truth, I must ever hold his memory dear for the help he gave you, my son,” said the doctor, with a choking in his throat as he recalled all that Gabriel had borne since their last meeting. “He was a man centuries in advance of his age, and such must ever die broken-hearted.”

“Yes; war seemed to him a remedy so brutal that, spite of his natural love of adventure and his fearless and daring spirit, the misery and inhumanity of it drove him into a melancholy,” said Gabriel. “I understand him better since living through the hell of last October, and can see now what he meant by the words he let fall at Oxford when he visited me. Father, when my work with Sir William Waller is ended, I would fain follow in your steps and be a physician; for, in truth, the horrors I have seen make me long to save life and to heal as you do.”

“I am glad of your choice, lad,” said the doctor. “We will tell your good friend and physician, Sir Theodore Mayerne, when next he sees you. Indeed, he seems to have a great regard for you, and has given you more of his time than he usually bestows on the highest in the land. What doth Mr. Neal purpose doing until he regains his property, or so much of it as the war hath left?”

“Indeed, I know not,” said Gabriel. “He is much to be pitied—being well-nigh alone in the world.”

“Humph!” remarked the Doctor, with a smile, “I’m not so sure that he will long be that. A most promising romance is being enacted down below while you lie here in this quiet room.”

“A romance?” said Gabriel.

“Ay, to be sure, there is naught like a mutual friend and a mutual anxiety for drawing hearts together. And then, when the friend recovers, why the two begin to realise that in joy there is need of close sympathy too.”

“Can it be that he hath fallen in love with Major Locke’s daughter?” asked Gabriel eagerly. “I should be right happy if so good a match could be found for her.”

“While your grandmother half wishes that you could have fancied the pretty little heiress yourself.”

Gabriel shook his head, with a smile that was more than half sad.

“That was what her own father desired. Ah, poor man! I can see him now lying on the grass on that burning July day with his ghastly wound, and his effort even then to jest with us. I promised him ever to be a friend to Mistress Helena, but told him I was not free to wed her.”

“Well, I shall be much surprised if she does not reward the devotion of Mr. Neal, and in truth it diverts me highly to watch his wooing. Now I shall leave you to rest in peace, for you have talked enough, and I purpose making one or two visits in the city. Bishop Coke implored me if possible to bear a letter from him to the Archbishop, and I have leave through Sir Robert Harley to visit him in the Tower. You’ll not, I think, grudge me for an hour even to your arch-enemy, Dr. Laud.” Gabriel smiled.

“I thought often of him as I lay in Oxford Castle,” he said, quietly, “and have lost all my rancorous hatred of him as a man. Now that the days of his tyranny and harsh government are ended I marvel that they do not let him go free.”

“I understand that the Parliament would be quite willing that he should escape,” said the Doctor thoughtfully. “But I will speak with you again on that point when I return.”

Provided with the necessary order, Dr. Harford found no difficulty in gaining access to Archbishop Laud, who, indeed, through the greater part of his imprisonment in the Bloody Tower, was allowed to receive visitors.

Ushered up the winding stairs and into the long, narrow cell, with its deeply-splayed window, the Doctor found himself once again in the presence of the little man who had rated him with such angry violence years before, and he was touched to find how greatly adversity had softened and mellowed the Archbishop. The real goodness of the man, the sincerity of his faith, shone out now like pure gold; his fussiness, his overbearing temper, his misguided zeal, were things of the past—the dross which had sadly marred his career, yet would not in the end triumph over him.

Always an unhealthy man, he was now worn and prematurely aged, seeming, indeed, to have the most precarious hold on life. The physician longed to see him released, for although he was permitted as much air and exercise as he pleased within the grounds of the Tower, and found great solace in the services of the Tower Church, yet the monotony and the inevitable restrictions of prison life were evidently preying on his feeble powers.

“I come as the bearer of this letter to your Grace,” said Dr. Harford. “Having occasion to journey from Hereford to London, I visited Bishop Coke at Whitbourne, and he charged me to deliver this into your hands.”

The Archbishop thanked him. “Your name seems familiar to me,” he said; “yet I think I have never before met you.”

“Your Grace would scarcely recall the occasion; it was many years ago in the Archdeacon’s Court at Hereford,” said Dr. Harford.

A light of remembrance kindled in the Archbishop’s face; he recalled the whole scene, the—to him incomprehensible—position sturdily maintained by the physician, and the way in which his little son, with eyes ablaze with indignation, had heard the sentence pronounced. He was as far as ever from understanding the inward and spiritual adoration which avoids everything that may possibly degenerate into mere ceremonialism, and which sees in deep reserve and stillness the truest reverence. But suffering and patient endurance had made him more loving towards humanity, and less engrossed in his favourite religious system.

“I remember your son,” he said, “and the love betwixt you. If I recollect right, he used to visit Bishop Coke during his brief imprisonment here; he once came to my aid when I had fallen while pacing Tower-green.”

“In truth, your Grace, it was to see my son Gabriel that I journeyed to London. He lay at death’s door after undergoing great hardships in Oxford Castle, from which on Christmas Day he, with thirty-nine of his fellow prisoners of war, contrived to escape.”

“And he hath recovered his health?” asked Dr. Laud.

“He is out of danger, thank God! Hearing that I was to visit you he told me that often in his imprisonment he had thought of your Grace, and he wished you were set at liberty.”

Dr. Laud smiled.

“I am over old to escape,” he said; “that is for the young and daring. With your permission, I will read Bishop Coke’s letter, and see if any immediate answer is needed.”

He read the letter hastily, then carefully destroyed it.

“For the Bishop’s sake and for yours, sir,” he remarked, “I will take that precaution, lest perchance I receive a visit from Mr. Prynne, who makes free with any papers he can lay hands on.”

Dr. Harford had heard that Prynne, whose cruel sufferings at the hands of the Archbishop in the past had aggravated a naturally stern and sour disposition, thirsted to mete out the measure that had been dealt to him, and was full of bitter enmity to Dr. Laud.

“I am sorry you are troubled by visits from Mr. Prynne,” he said. “His fierce zeal and the sufferings he hath undergone ill fit him for such an office.”

“I could pardon him for taking my papers,” said the Archbishop, “but I think he might have spared me the book of private devotions I had compiled, for I sorely miss it.”

“He would doubtless find it impossible to understand that written prayers could solace your Grace,” said Dr. Harford. “Folk are too apt to think all men are framed on one pattern, and must be fed with the same food; whereas we physicians know well enough that one man’s meat is another man’s poison.”

The Archbishop mused for a minute in silence. Had the system, which had seemed to him flawless, failed just in this particular? With a sigh he reverted to his lost manual of devotion.

“Mr. Prynne knew well enough how greatly I prized the book, for I pleaded hard to keep it. I even”—and he smiled pathetically—“made him a present of a pair of my gloves hoping to propitiate him. He took the gloves, but he took the manual as well.”

“That was hard measure,” said the physician. “Yet, who knows, some word in the book may perchance shame him for his lack of charity. He will not be the only Puritan who hath found comfort in the prayers of a devout High Churchman. There is my friend, Mr. John Milton, the scholar, whose works on ‘Reformation in England’ and ‘Prelatical Episcopacy’ do not keep him from being one of the most sincere admirers of Bishop Andrews—his Latin poem on that dead saint being, as all admit, most noteworthy.”

The Archbishop looked interested, and said he would like to see the poem could a copy be procured, an errand which the physician gladly undertook.

“But, your Grace,” he said, “something was hinted to me by Bishop Coke, as to the suggestion he had made in his letter, and in obtaining the order to come here I learnt from a Member of Parliament that the plan might very easily be carried out.”

“I know it,” said the Archbishop, with a long, weary sigh. “My friend, Hugo Grotius, who himself escaped from prison in Holland, would fain have me make a like attempt. I have long observed that my enemies would willingly permit me to fly, for every day a passage is left free in all likelihood for this purpose, that I should take advantage of it. But, sir, I am almost seventy years old, and shall I now go about to prolong a miserable life by the trouble and shame of flying?”

“In truth, your Grace, I see no reason why you should not pleasure your friends by making the attempt,” said Dr. Harford.

“Whither should I fly?” * said the Archbishop, sadly. “Should I go to France, or any other Popish country, it would be to give some seeming ground to that charge of Popery they have endeavoured with so much industry, and so little reason, to fasten upon me. If I should get into Holland I should expose myself to the insults of those sectaries there to whom I am odious. No! I am resolved not to think of flight, but continuing where I am, patiently expect and bear what a good and wise Providence has appointed for me, of what kind so ever it be.”

     * These are Dr. Laud’s own words.

After that it seemed useless to urge the matter further, and indeed the physician was doubtful whether the physical energies of the Archbishop were sufficient to carry him through the toils and perils of an escape. His day had passed, and having in the time of success wielded the greatest power, not merely in the Church, but in secular matters, he had now only the strength left to endure with patience. Whether the past or the present was the time of his truest greatness, was a question upon which men and angels probably held different opinions.

Dr. Harford, being before all things a physician, and one who absorbed himself in trying to relieve suffering of any sort, thought mainly of the old man’s needs, suggested one or two remedies for the ailments to which the prisoner was subject, and left him a good deal cheered by the courtesy and consideration of his visitor.

It was late before he returned to Notting Hill Manor, and Gabriel, refreshed by sleep and food, was eager to hear how he had prospered.

“I should have been with you long ere this,” explained his father, “but on leaving the Tower I found the city completely blocked by a great concourse of people, proceeding from Mr. Stephen Marshall’s sermon to Merchant Taylors’ Hall, where the Sheriffs and Aldermen are giving a banquet to the Lords and Commons, the Scots Commissioners and the Assembly of Divines. While you have been lying ill here, a fresh plot of the King’s hath been discovered. It seems that the very day after your escape from the Castle a letter was despatched from Oxford which luckily fell into the hands of the Committee of Safety.”

“What did it reveal?” asked Gabriel, eagerly.

“It revealed a plot by which Sir Basil Brooke, the well-known papist, was to win over the City to the Royalist cause, and with it was seized a copy of the King’s proclamation to those who supported him, to come to what he terms a ‘Parliament’ at Oxford.”

“The plots seem endless,” said Gabriel. “Yet the King himself is no papist. Humphrey Neal tells me that at Oxford not long since, he interrupted the Communion Service, and expressly declared himself a protestant.”

“Yes, very like,” said Dr. Harford; “but he intrigues with men of all persuasions, promises everything, and holds faith with none. His shifty dishonesty will prove his ruin. Truly, I believe that one main cause of his failure to understand the people is that he lacks all national feeling, and ’tis scarce to be wondered at. Himself half Scotch, half Danish, and with a grandmother bred in France by a French mother, why, there is absolutely nothing national about him! The sturdy old English love of honest dealing will, however, in the end baffle his intrigues, I think. Colonel Hutchinson has many fellow countrymen who, rather than betray a trust, would refuse the King’s bribe of 拢10,000 and a peerage. But this is overserious talk for a sick man. I will tell you rather how, by good fortune, I came across an old friend of my youth, Mr. John Milton. He hath returned some three years from his tour in Italy, and as I perforce stood still in Cheapside, where the people were burning a pile of popish trinkets and pictures, I found myself pushed against him by the crowd.”

“I remember him,” said old Madam Harford, “in the days before your marriage, when he was a boy at St. Paul’s School, and truly the most beautiful boy ever seen, I take it.”

“He keeps his comely face and long light hair yet,” said Dr. Harford, “but hath grown sad and stern through the conduct of his wife; she quitted him when they had but been wedded a few weeks, and doth refuse to return.”

“Is it true, as the gossips say, that he wrote that ill-advised pamphlet on divorce, published anonymously, which hath so scandalised all people?”

“Ay, he wrote it in the first flush of his anger at his bride’s desertion, and himself told me that he hath now a second edition in the press, which will bear his name on the cover. I have some compassion for the foolish young wife, however, for John Milton doth not understand women. Maybe they will yet make up their quarrel, for ’tis but a matter of lack of understanding—there hath been no great offence on either side.”

“Had you much talk with him?”

“Yes, for he would have me go to his house in Aldersgale Street, I having asked him if he yet had the Latin poem he wrote on the death of Bishop Andrews. He hath also let me bring for your perusal two manuscript poems, which seem to me so full of beauty that they should, be published instead of lying unseen in his desk. Here is one, Gabriel, that will delight you, for it hath the very breath of the country about it, and will make you fancy yourself in Herefordshire once more.”

“What of the Archbishop, sir?” asked Gabriel.

Dr. Harford told him what had passed.

“I fear,” he added, “from what Mr. Milton tells me, that the discovery of Brooke’s Plot will make people the more determined to proceed with the Archbishop’s impeachment. The plot, will, however, tell favourably for the cause of freedom in this fashion, that it will assuredly alienate many of those who have hitherto supported the King.”

And how true this statement was, Gabriel had reason to discover as time passed by, for the so-called “Oxford Parliament” failed utterly, and a steady “stream of converts began to flow from Oxford to London.”

Just at present, however, the convalescent was much more inclined to enjoy the exquisite beauty of Milton’s “L’Allegro,” than to vex his soul over the problems of the day, and as his father read him the poem, he forgot war and strife and theological controversy, and was once more transported to his beloved Herefordshire, and the country life so dear to him.

After that first night of Dr. Harford’s arrival, Hilary’s name had not once been mentioned between them. Gabriel’s rereserve was great; moreover, he was not without an instinctive dread that further questioning might disturb the relief and comparative peace he had gained from those memorable words which had dragged him back from the very door of death. And his father understood the silence, and thought that it would be rash to break it. Only on the very eve of Dr. Harford’s departure did they venture to approach the subject which was seldom far from their thoughts.

Gabriel, now so far convalescent that he was able to sit in a great armchair by the hearth, asked if his father would see Bishop Coke on his return.

“Ay, I shall ride to Whitbourne and bear him the Archbishop’s message,” said Dr. Harford. “Those two will never again meet in this world, for Bishop Coke also grows old and infirm.”

“You will see Hilary?” said Gabriel, with an effort.

“Yes, if she is still at Whitbourne,” said the Doctor. “She is sometimes there, and sometimes with her uncle, Dr. William Coke.”

“I never met him,” said Gabriel. “When you see her, sir, tell her that her message had more to do with my cure than the skill of Sir Theodore Mayerne.”

Dr. Harford laughed.

“That is all the thanks we poor physicians get,” he said, lightly. “In happier times, my son, when you yourself are in the profession, I’ll recall that speech to you. Shall I tell Hilary that you wish to forsake the Bar and to tread in my footsteps?”’

“I fear that work will not find much more favour in her eyes, than my present work,” said Gabriel, ruefully. “She ever held that the Bar was the only profession worthy of a gentleman. I seem fated to displease her.”

“I should not trouble much on that score,” said the Doctor. “In sorrow or need, or when her heart is really reached, trifles of that sort make no difference to her, as I saw plainly enough at the time of her mother’s death. So courage, my son! Wait and see what time will bring forth. It seems likely that for those two young people below, Hymen will shortly appear


In saffron robe, with taper clear,


and I yet hope, when this war is ended, that Whitbourne may be the scene of such


Pomp, and feast, and revelry,


as now you scarce dare think on.”

Gabriel did not reply, but a happier light dawned in his eyes, and as he gazed into the glowing depths of the wood fire he saw visions of a future that should make up for all the present suffering and separation.