of silence from the pulpit. The preacher declared that it was not God’s will that England should lapse to Rome, while search was made for a prince who had forsworn courtly vanities and usages; and no one knew but that this young princely soul might be saved by such a task as the redemption of England being appointed to it. The present might be the precious hour for saving prince and kingdom both. But how were the eyes of the Prince and Princess of Orange to be blinded, and their ears to be stopped to these movements at the Hague? The doubt, however, was faithless, and the preacher desired to take back his words. Florien replied that there was no need. The Duke was not now living at the Hague, but at Brussels; and in a retirement which was at present full of grief. One in whom Florien could repose trust had reason to know what the grief had been. Through the long night which had succeeded the arrival of the news of the Duke’s father being dead, and his uncle proclaimed in his place, the groans and sobs of the young man were mournful to hear. Yes, Florien said, his own friend had heard them.
When this point was reached, a common idea seemed to take possession of the preacher and the whole congregation. The discussion was closed by an appointment of three of the elders to meet the preacher to-morrow at a spot beyond five miles from Lyme, to arrange for opening a communication with the exiles,—if not with the highest exile of all. The discourse thus strangely interrupted was resumed for a few minutes,—in order to point out how the Divine blessing had been manifestly bestowed on the opening of this house of prayer,—the congregation having been brought together to hear great tidings of hope in the darkest hour of Popish triumph. An ardent thanksgiving followed; and the general enthusiasm would gladly have found vent in the shouting of a gladsome psalm: but this could not be permitted. Nothing could be allowed in these night meetings but a low chant by a few select voices. It was said that these could scarcely be heard in any neighbouring house; and if they should chance to penetrate to any chamber, they would be as the music of dreams in the ear of the sleeper. Or the devout who solaced the night-watches with prayer might naturally suppose these strains to be the response of spiritual beings, who, as John Milton had said, are wont to walk the earth both when men wake and when they sleep.
The church clock tolled four as the Battiscombes entered their own yard. No one had spoken on the way home; and their hearts were so full that no one seemed inclined to speak in the hall,—except that the parents whispered the indispensable blessing before going to rest, and that the Squire said as he stroked his daughters’ cheeks that there must not be many such short nights for young Christians, or the fairest roses in God’s garden would fade before their time.
At the head of the stairs, Christopher was stopped by his mother’s hand on his shoulder. She whispered,
“I thought it was your intention not to inform Reuben Coad of the preaching to night?”
“Certainly, mother. I spoke no word of it to him or any other.”
“How, then, was he present?—Nay, it is true. I saw him, in the shadow,—far behind us. You will find he was there.”
“Then he will be full of it on our ride to-morrow.”
“I hope he will. And I trust you will leave it to him to begin. I would have you watch that man closely, Christopher.”
“I will, mother: but I am certain you need not fear him,—unless for some indiscreet zeal.”
All found food in their chambers, placed there by Nurse. When they met at breakfast, no child or servant in the house saw anything in their faces which betrayed that the night had not been spent in sleep.
CHAPTER II. CONSPIRACY, COULEUR DE ROSE.
Though March was not past, it was a warm spring afternoon in the sunny spaces of the park at Brussels when certain messengers from other countries paced the avenues in consultation. Round two sides of the park there were grounds, some of them deserving the title of parks themselves. These belonged to palaces and mansions, one of which was the present abode of the Duke of Monmouth.
On the wide lawn which spread from the terrace in front of the mansion to the boundary of the park, the fine old trees were parting with their wintry aspect; and some were tinged with green, as the fan-like chestnut leaves began to promise to unfurl their folds, and the sycamores showed bursting buds. A lady, in a light cloak of black taffety, with the hood folded back on the top of her head, sat on a garden seat carved out of a group of yews. A flickering sunlight played over her, and made her look very beautiful. She was trifling with a pencil and a sketch-book, aiming at sketching a noble chestnut-tree at a little distance, but making no great progress, because she was restless and preoccupied. A lady stood near enough for conversation, and a page not too far off to receive his mistress’s orders. These orders had been so often repeated in the last half-hour that she was ashamed to send him on the same errand again: and she therefore looked every minute to see whether the Duke was coming, instead of inquiring of any other. She and her lady agreed that the season was advanced, that the violets now made no secret of their whereabout, that the oak would be out before the ash, that the city chimes sounded most musically in this retreat, and that the chestnut was not the easiest of trees to draw; and then the lady listened, and her mistress turned, and the page approached, and the Duke emerged from the shade close at hand, his black suit and mourning sword having prevented his being seen among the trees, as he would have been in his ordinary splendour of dress. The attendants withdrew to a more distant walk when the Lady Henrietta went to meet the Duke, and he drew her arm within his, to return to the yew seat.
“No trouble, I trust?” she said, looking anxiously in his face.
“All interruption of our peace is trouble,” Monmouth replied. “Why cannot my friends leave me in quiet? I am sure Mary and Orange ought to know me well enough by this time to see that it is best to let me be content while I am willing to be so.”
“What would they have?”
“Orange sends me this letter. Read it, love.”
When it was read, he went on:
“He was not satisfied with writing his advice and his offers in this way, but he sent Bentinck to exhibit to me all the honours and political weight to be obtained by fighting the Turks, and parading before Christendom in the Emperor’s train.”
“It is not empty advice,” Henrietta remarked. “Here are generous offers of means which should spare us all danger of your being mistaken for a soldier of fortune.”
“But why should I be a soldier at all?”
Henrietta laughed in his face, with a glance which said, as plainly as words could have spoken, “Because you are so brave, and dashing, and glorious!”
Monmouth smiled a gratified smile, saying that this was all very well when war was necessary, but it was no reason for a man’s leaving a life that pleased him, and turning to one that did not, without any need so to mortify himself.
Henrietta sank into thought for a while, and sighed, Monmouth watching her countenance. Then he sighed too, and said women could not love like men. He believed she would have him go and fight the Turk, and leave her in solitude, when the reason why he did not go was that he could not live apart from her.
“And is that a sign of want of love, or of an over-mastering love?” asked Henrietta. “Is it love, or lack of love, think you, which makes me ready to undergo dreary days, and nights of terror, that my love may win his right place before Europe and the world? If you were slain, what would my life be to me but a long-drawn pain? Yet I long to venture this, because, if you escape the risk, life will be to you what life should be to my Monmouth. Is it love, or lack of love, to feel thus, and to dare and desire the sacrifice?”
“Well,
