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'SIR ROWLAND, an' it please you,' said the prisoner, his boyish
vanity roused by misfortune, and passing itself upon him for
dignity.
'Mere ignorance must be pardoned, sir Rowland,' returned Richard: 'I
was unaware of your dignity. But think you, sir Rowland, you do well
to ride on such rough errands, while yet not recovered, as is but
too plain to see, from former wounds?'
'It seems not, Mr. Heywood, for I had not else been your prize, I
trust. The wound I caught at Naseby has cost the king a soldier, I
fear.'
'I hope it will cost no more than is already paid. Men must fight,
it seems, but I for one would gladly repair, an' I might, what
injuries I had been compelled to cause.'
'I cannot say the like on my part,' returned sir Rowland. 'I would I
had slain thee!'
'So would not I concerning thee--in proof whereof do I now lead thee
to the best leech I know--one who brought me back from death's door,
when through thee, if not by thy hand, I was sore wounded. With her,
as my prisoner, I shall leave thee. Seek not to make thy escape,
lest, being a witch, as they saw of her, she chain thee up in
alabaster. When thou art restored, go thy way whither thou pleasest.
It is no longer as it was with the cause of liberty: a soldier of
hers may now afford to release an enemy for whom he has a
friendship.'
'A friendship!' exclaimed sir Rowland. 'And wherefore, prithee, Mr
Heywood? On what ground?'
But they had reached the cottage, and Richard made no reply. Having
helped his prisoner to dismount, led him through the garden, and
knocked at the door,
'Here, mother!' he said as mistress Rees opened it, 'I have brought
thee a king's-man to cure this time.'
'Praise God!' returned mistress Rees--not that a king's-man was
wounded, but that she had him to cure: she was an enthusiast in her
art. Just as she had devoted herself to the puritan, she now gave
all her care and ministration to the royalist. She got her bed ready
for him, asked him a few questions, looked at his shoulder, not even
yet quite healed, said it had not been well managed, and prepared a
poultice, which smelt so vilely that Rowland turned from it with
disgust. But the old woman had a singular power of persuasion, and
at length he yielded, and in a few moments was fast asleep.
Calling the next morning, Richard found him very weak--partly from
the unwonted fatigue of the previous day, and partly from the old
woman's remedies, which were causing the wound to threaten
suppuration. But somehow he had become well satisfied that she knew
what she was about, and showed no inclination to rebel.
For a week or so he did not seem to improve. Richard came often, sat
by his bedside, and talked with him; but the moment he grew angry,
called him names, or abused his party, would rise without a word,
mount his mare, and ride home--to return the next morning as if
nothing unpleasant had occurred.
After about a week, the patient began to feel the benefit of the
wise woman's treatment. The suppuration carried so much of an old
ever-haunting pain with it, that he was now easier than he had ever
been since his return to Raglan. But his behaviour to Richard grew
very strange, and the roundhead failed to understand it. At one time
it was so friendly as to be almost affectionate; at another he
seemed bent on doing and saying everything he could to provoke a
duel. For another whole week, aware of the benefit he was deriving
from the witch, as he never scrupled to call her, nor in the least
offended her thereby, apparently also at times fascinated in some
sort by the visits of his enemy, as he persisted in calling Richard,
he showed no anxiety to be gone.
'Heywood,' he said one morning suddenly, with quite a new
familiarity, 'dost thou consider I owe thee an apology for carrying
off thy mare? Tell me what look the thing beareth to thee.'
'Put thy case, Scudamore,' returned Richard.
And sir Rowland did put his case, starting from the rebel state of
the owner, advancing to the natural outlawry that resulted, going on
to the necessity of the king, &c., and ending thus:
'Now I know thou regardest neither king nor right, therefore I ask
thee only to tell me how it seemeth to thee I ought on these grounds
to judge myself, since for thy judgment in thy own person and on thy
own grounds, or rather no grounds, I care not at all.'
'Come, then, let it be but a question of casuistry. Yet I fear me it
will be difficult to argue without breaking bounds. Would my lord
marquis now walk forth of his castle at the king's command as
certainly as he will at the voice of the nation, that is, the
cannons of the parliament?'
'The cannons of the cursed parliament are not the voice of the
nation? Our side is the nation, not yours.'
'How provest thou that?'
'We are the better born, to begin with.'
'Ye have the more titles, I grant ye, but we have the older
families. Let it be, however, that I was or am a rebel--then I can
only say that in stealing--no, I will not say STEALING, for thou
didst it with a different mind--all I will say is this, sir Rowland,
that I should have scorned so to carry off thine or any man's
horse.'
'Ah, but thou wouldst have no right, being but a rebel!'
'Bethink thee, thou must judge on my grounds when thou judgest me.'
'True; then am I driven to say thou wast made of the better
earth--curse thee! I am ashamed of having taken thy mare--only
because it was in a half-friendly passage with thee I learned her
worth. But, hang thee! it was not through thee I learned to know my
cousin, Dorothy Vaughan.'
The recoiling blood stung Richard's heart like the blow of a whip,
but he manned himself to answer with coolness.
'What then of her?' he said. 'Hast thou been wooing her favour, sir
Rowland? Thou owest me nothing there, I admit, even had she not sent
me from her. Besides, I am scarce one to be content with a mistress
whose favour depended on the not coming between of some certain
other, known or unknown. This I say not in pride, but because in
such case I were not the right man for her, neither she the woman
for me.'
'Then thou bearest me no grudge in that I have sought the prize of
my cousin's heart?'
'None,' answered Richard, but could not bring himself to ask how he
had sped.
'Then will I own to thee that I have gained as little. I will madden
myself telling thee whom I hate, and to thy comfort, that she
despises me like any Virginia slave.'
'Nay, that I am sure she doth not. She can despise nothing that is
honourable.'
'Dost thou then count me honourable, Heywood?' said Scudamore, in a
voice of surprise, putting forth a thin white hand, and placing it
on Richard's where it lay huge and brown on the coverlid: 'Then
honourable I will be.'
'And, in that resolve, art, sir Rowland.'
'I will be honourable,' repeated Scudamore, angrily, with flushing
cheek, and hard yet flashing eye, 'because thou thinkest me such,
although my hate would, an' it might, damn thee to lowest hell.'
'Nay, but thou wilt be honourable for honour's sake,' said Richard.
'Bethink thee, when first we met, we were but boys: now are we men,
and must put away boyish things.'
'Dost call it a boyish thing to be madly in love with the fairest
and noblest and bravest mistress that ever trod the earth--though
she be half a puritan, alack?'
'She half a puritan!' exclaimed Heywood. 'She hates the very wind of
the word.'
'She may hate the word, but she is the thing. She hath read me such
lessons as none but a puritan could.'
'Were they not then good lessons, that thou joinest with them a name
hateful to thee?'
'Ay, truly--much too good for mortal like me--or thee either,
Heywood. They are but hypocrites that pretend otherwise.'
'Callest thou thy cousin a hypocrite?'
'No, by heaven! she is not. She is a woman, and it is easy for women
to say prayers.'
'I never rode into a fight but I said my prayer,' returned Richard.
'None the less art thou a hypocrite. I should scorn to be for ever
begging favours as thou. Dost think God heareth such prayers as
thine?'
'Not if He be such as thou, sir Rowland, and not if he who prays be
such as thou thinkest him. Prithee, what sort of prayer thinkest
thou I pray ere I ride into the battle?'
'How should I know? My lord marquis would have had me say my prayers
at such a time, but, good sooth! I always forgot. And if I had done
it, where would have been the benefit thereof, so long as thou, who
wast better used to the work, wast praying against me? I say it is a
cowardly thing to go praying into the battle, and not take thy fair
chance as other men do.'
'Then will I tell thee to what purpose I pray. But, first of all, I
must confess to thee that I have had my doubts, not whether my side
were more in the right than thine, but whether it were worth while
to raise the sword even in such cause. Now, still when that doubt
cometh, ever it taketh from my arm the strength, and going down into
the very legs of my mare causeth that she goeth dull, although
willing, into the battle. Moreover, I am no saint, and therefore
cannot pray like a saint, but only like Richard Heywood, who hath
got to do his duty, and is something puzzled. Therefore pray I thus,
or to this effect:
'"O God of battles! who, thyself dwelling in peace, beholdest the
strife, and workest thy will thereby, what that good and perfect
will of thine is I know not clearly, but thou hast sent us to be
doing, and thou hatest cowardice. Thou knowest I have sought to
choose the best, so far as goeth my poor ken, and to this battle I
am pledged. Give me grace to fight like a soldier of thine, without
wrath and without fear. Give me to do my duty, but give the victory
where thou pleasest. Let me live if so thou wilt; let me die if so
thou wilt--only let me die in honour with thee. Let the truth be
victorious, if not now, yet when it shall please thee; and oh! I
pray, let no deed of mine delay its coming. Let my work fail, if it
be unto evil, but save my soul in truth."
'And in truth, sir Rowland, it seemeth to me then as if the God of
truth heard me. Then say I to my mare, "Come, Lady, all is well now.
Let us go. And good will come of it to thee also, for how should the
Father think of his sparrows and forget his mares? Doubtless there
are of thy kind in heaven, else how should the apostle have seen
them there? And if any, surely thou, my Lady!" So ride we to the
battle, merry and strong, and calm, as if we were but riding to the
rampart of the celestial city.'
Rowland lay gazing at Richard for a few moments, then said:
'By heaven, but it were a pity you should not come together! Surely
the same spirit dwelleth in you both! For me, I should show but as
the shadow cast from her brightness. But I tell thee, roundhead, I
love her better than ever roundhead could.'
'I know not, Scudamore. Nor do I mean to judge thee when I say that
no man who loves not the truth can love a woman in the grand way a
woman ought to be loved.'
'Tell me not I do not love her, or I will rise and kill thee. I love
her even to doing what my soul hateth for her sake. Damned
roundhead, she loves THEE.'
The last words came from him almost in a shriek, and he fell back
panting.
Richard sat silent for a few moments, his heart surging and sinking.
Then he said quietly:--
'It may be so, sir Rowland. We were boy and girl together--fed
rabbits, flew kites, planted weeds to make flowers of them, played
at marbles; she may love me a little, roundhead as I am.'
'By heaven, I will try her once more! Who knows the heart of a
woman?' said Rowland through his teeth.
'If thou should gain her, Scudamore, and afterward she should find
thee unworthy?'
'She would love me still.'
'And break her heart for thee, and leave thee young to marry
another--while I--'
He laughed a low, strangely musical laugh, and ceased--then
resumed:--
'But what if, instead of dying, she should learn to despise thee,
finding thou hadst not only deceived her, but deceived thy better
self, and should turn from thee with loathing, while thou didst love
her still--as well as thy nature could?--what then, sir Rowland?'
'Then I should kill her.'
'And thou lovest her better than any roundhead could! I will find
thee man after man from amongst Ireton's or Cromwell's horse--I know
not the foot so well:--fanatic enough they are, God knows! and many
of them fools enough to boot!--but I will find thee man after man
who is fanatic or fool enough, which thou wilt, to love better than
thou, thou poor atom of solitary selfishness!'
Rowland half flung himself from the bed, seized Richard by the
throat, and with all the strength he could summon did his best to
strangle him. For a time Richard allowed him to spend his rage, then
removed his grasp as gently as he could, and holding both his wrists
in his left hand, rose and stood over him.
'Sir Rowland,' he said, 'I am not angry with thee that thou art weak
and passionate. But bethink thee--thou liest in God's hands a
thousandfold more helpless than now thou liest in mine, and like
Saul of Tarsus thou wilt find it hard to kick against the pricks.
For the maiden, do as thou wilt, for thou canst not do other than
the will of God. But I thank thee for what thou hast told me, though
I doubt it meaneth little better for me than for thee. Thou hast a
kind heart. I almost love thee, and will when I can.'
He let go his hands, and walked from the room.
'Canting hypocrite!' cried sir Rowland in the wrath of impotence,
but knew while he said the words that they were false.
And with the words the bitterness of life seized his heart, and his
despair shrouded the world in the blackness of darkness. There was
nothing more to live for, and he turned his face to the wall.
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