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DOMUS DISSOLVITUR.
Scudamore was now much better, partly from the influence of reviving
hopes with regard to Dorothy, for his disposition was such that he
deceived himself in the direction of what he counted advantage; not
like Heywood, who was ever ready to believe what in matters personal
told against him. Tom Fool had just been boasting of his exploit in
escaping from Raglan, and expressing his conviction that Dorothy,
whom he had valiantly protected, was safe at Wyfern, and Rowland was
in consequence dressing as fast as he could to pay her a visit, when
Tom caught sight of Richard riding towards the cottage, and jumping
up, ran into the chimney corner beyond his mother, who was busy with
Scudamore's breakfast. She looked from the window, and spied the
cause of his terror.
'Silly Tom!' she said, for she still treated him like a child,
notwithstanding her boastful belief in his high position and merits,
'he will not harm thee. There never was hurt in a Heywood.'
'Treason, flat treason, witch!' cried the voice of Scudamore from
the closet.
'Thee of all men, sir Rowland, has no cause to say so,' returned
mistress Rees. 'But come and break thy fast while he talks to thee,
and save the precious time which runneth so fast away.'
'I might as well be in my grave for any value it hath to me!' said
Rowland, who was for the moment in a bad mood. His hope and his
faith were ever ready to fall out, and a twinge in his shoulder was
enough to set them jarring.
'Here comes master Hey wood, anyhow,' said the old woman, as
Richard, leaving Lady at the gate, came striding up the walk in his
great brown boots; 'and I pray you, sir Rowland, to let by-gones be
by-gones, for my sake if not for your own, lest thou bring the
vengeance of general Fairfax upon my poor house.'
'Fairfax!' cried Scudamore; 'is that villain come hither?'
'Sir Thomas Fairfax arrived two days agone, answered mistress Rees.
'Alas, it is but too sure a sign that for Raglan the end is near!'
'Good morrow, mother Rees,' said Richard, looking in at the door,
radiant as an Apollo. The same moment out came Scudamore from the
closet, pale as a dying moon.
'I want my horse, Heywood!' he cried, deigning no preliminaries.
'Thy horse is at Redware, Scudamore; I carry him not in my pocket. I
saw him yesterday; his flesh hath swallowed a good many of his bones
since I looked on him last. What wouldst thou with him?'
'What is that to thee? Let me have him.'
'Softly, sir Rowland! It is true I promised thee thy liberty, but
liberty doth not necessarily include a horse.'
'Thou wast never better than a shifting fanatic!' cried sir Rowland.
'An' I served thee as befitted, thou shouldst never see thy horse
again,' returned Richard. 'Yet I promise thee that so soon as Raglan
hath fallen, he shall again be thine. Nay, I care not. Tell me
whither thou goest, and--Ha! art thou there?' he cried,
interrupting himself as he caught sight of Tom in the chimney
corner; and pausing, he stood silent for a moment. '--Wouldst like
to hear, thou rascal,' he resumed presently, 'that mistress Dorothy
Vaughan got safe to Wyfern this morning?'
'God be praised!' said Tom Fool.
'But thou shalt not hear it. I will tell thee better if less welcome
news--that I come from conducting her back to Raglan in safety, and
have seen its gates close upon her. Thou shalt have thy horse, sir
Rowland, an' thou can wait for him an hour; but for thy ride to
Wyfern, that, thou seest, would not avail thee. Thy cousin rode by
here this morning, it is true, but, as I say, she is now within
Raglan walls, whence she will not issue again until the soldiers of
the parliament enter. It is no treason to tell thee that general
Fairfax is about to send his final summons ere he storm the
rampart.'
'Then mayst thou keep the horse, for I will back to Raglan on foot,'
said Scudamore.
'Nay, that wilt thou not, for nought greatly larger than a mouse can
any more pass through the lines. Dost think because I sent back thy
cousin Dorothy, lest she should work mischief outside the walls, I
will therefore send thee back to work mischief within them?'
'And thou art the man who professeth to love mistress Dorothy!'
cried Scudamore with contempt.
'Hark thee, sir Rowland, and for thy good I will tell thee more. It
is but just that as I told thee my doubts, whence thou didst draw
hope, I should now tell thee my hopes, whence thou mayst do well to
draw a little doubt.'
'Thou art a mean and treacherous villain!' cried Scudamore.
'Thou art to blame in speaking that thou dost not believe, sir
Rowland. But wilt thou have thy horse or no?'
'No; I will remain where I am until I hear the worst.'
'Or come home with me, where thou wilt hear it yet sooner. Thou
shalt taste a roundhead's hospitality.'
'I scorn thee and thy false friendship,' cried Rowland, and turning
again into the closet, he bolted the door.
That same morning a great iron ball struck the marble horse on his
proud head, and flung it in fragments over the court. From his neck
the water bubbled up bright and clear, like the life-blood of the
wounded whiteness.
'Poor Molly!' said the marquis, when he looked from his
study-window--then smiled at his pity.
Lord Charles entered: a messenger had come from general Fairfax,
demanding a surrender in the name of the parliament.
'If they had but gone on a little longer, Charles, they might have
saved us the trouble,' said his lordship, 'for there would have been
nothing left to surrender.--But I will consider the proposal,' he
added. 'Pray tell sir Thomas that whatever I do, I look first to
have it approved of the king.'
But there was no longer the shadow of a question as to submission.
All that was left was but the arrangement of conditions. The marquis
was aware that captain Hooper's trenches were rapidly approaching
the rampart; that six great mortars for throwing shells had been got
into position; and that resistance would be the merest folly.
Various meetings, therefore, of commissioners appointed on both
sides for the settling of the terms of submission took place; and at
last, on the fifteenth of August, they were finally arranged, and
the surrender fixed for the seventeenth.
The interval was a sad time. All day long tears were flowing, the
ladies doing their best to conceal, the servants to display them.
Every one was busy gathering together what personal effects might be
carried away. It was especially a sad time for lord Glamorgan's
children, for they were old enough not merely to love the place, but
to know that they loved it; and the thought that the sacred things
of their home were about to pass into other hands, roused in them
wrath and indignation as well as grief; for the sense of property
is, in the minds of children who have been born and brought up in
the midst of family possessions, perhaps stronger than in the minds
of their elders.
As the sun was going down on the evening of the sixteenth, Dorothy,
who had been helping now one and now another of the ladies all day
long, having, indeed, little of her own to demand her attention,
Dick and Marquis being almost her sole valuables, came from the
keep, and was crossing the fountain court to her old room on its
western side. Every one was busy indoors, and the place appeared
deserted. There was a stillness in the air that SOUNDED awful. For
so many weeks it had been shattered with roar upon roar, and now the
guns had ceased to bellow, leaving a sense of vacancy and doubt, an
oppression of silence. The hum that came from the lines outside
seemed but to enhance the stillness within. But the sunlight lived
on sweet and calm, as if all was well. It seemed to promise that
wrath and ruin would pass, and leave no lasting desolation behind
them. Yet she could not help heaving a great sigh, and the tears
came streaming down her cheeks.
'Tut, tut, cousin! Wipe thine eyes. The dreary old house is not
worth such bright tears.'
Dorothy turned, and saw the marquis seated on the edge of the marble
basin, under the headless horse, whose blood seemed still to well
from his truncated form. She saw also that, although his words were
cheerful, his lip quivered. It was some little time before she could
compose herself sufficiently to speak.
'I marvel your lordship is so calm,' she said.
'Come hither, Dorothy,' he returned kindly, 'and sit thee down by my
side. Thou wast right good to my little Molly. Thou hast been a
ministering angel to Raglan and its people. I did thee wrong, and
thou forgavest me with a whole heart. Thou hast returned me good for
evil tenfold, and for all this I love thee; and therefore will I now
tell thee what maketh me quiet at heart, for I am as thou seest me,
and my heart is as my countenance. I have lived my life, and have
now but to die my death. I am thankful to have lived, and I hope to
live hereafter. Goodness and mercy went before my birth, and
goodness and mercy will follow my death. For the ills of this life,
if there was no silence there would be no music. Ignorance is a spur
to knowledge. Darkness is a pavilion for the Almighty, a foil to the
painter to make his shadows. So are afflictions good for our
instruction, and adversities for our amendment. As for the article
of death, shall I shun to meet what she who lay in my bosom hath
passed through? And look you, fair damsel, thou whose body is sweet,
and comely to behold--wherefore should I not rejoice to depart? When
I see my house lying in ruins about me, I look down upon this ugly
overgrown body of mine, the very foundations whereof crumble from
beneath me, and I thank God it is but a tent, and no enduring house
even like this house of Raglan, which yet will ere long be a
dwelling of owls and foxes. Very soon will Death pull out the
tent-pins and let me fly, and therefore am I glad; for, fair damsel
Dorothy, although it may be hard for thee, beholding me as I am, to
comprehend it, I like to be old and ugly as little as wouldst thou,
and my heart, I verily think, is little, older than thine own. One
day, please God, I shall yet be clothed upon with a house that is
from heaven, nor shall I hobble with gouty feet over the golden
pavement--if so be that my sins overpass not mercy. Pray for me,
Dorothy, my daughter, for my end is nigh, that I find at length the
bosom of father Abraham.'
As he ended, a slow flower of music bloomed out upon the silence
from under the fingers of the blind youth hid in the stony shell of
the chapel; and, doubtful at first, its fragrance filled at length
the whole sunset air. It was the music of a Nunc dimittis of
Palestrina. Dorothy knelt and kissed the old man's hand, then rose
and went weeping to her chamber, leaving him still seated by the
broken yet flowing fountain.
Of all who prepared to depart, Caspar Kaltoff was the busiest. What
best things of his master's he could carry with him, he took, but a
multitude he left to a more convenient opportunity, in the hope of
which, alone and unaided, he sunk his precious cabinet, and a chest
besides, filled with curious inventions and favourite tools, in the
secret shaft. But the most valued of all, the fire-engine, he could
not take and would not leave. He stopped the fountain of the white
horse, once more set the water-commanding slave to work, and filled
the cistern until he heard it roar in the waste-pipe. Then he
extinguished the fire and let the furnace cool, and when Dorothy
entered the workshop for the last time to take her mournful leave of
the place, there lay the bones of the mighty creature scattered over
the floor--here a pipe, there a valve, here a piston and there a
cock. Nothing stood but the furnace and the great pipes that ran up
the grooves in the wall outside, between which there was scarce a
hint of connection to be perceived.
'Mistress Dorothy,' he said, 'my master is the greatest man in
Christendom, but the world is stupid, and will forget him because it
never knew him.'
Amongst her treasures, chief of them all, even before the gifts of
her husband, lady Glamorgan carried with her the last garments, from
sleeve-ribbons to dainty little shoes and rosettes, worn by her
Molly.
Dr. Bayly carried a bag of papers and sermons, with his doctor's
gown and hood, and his best suit of clothes.
The marquis with his own hand put up his Vulgate, and left his Gower
behind. Ever since the painful proofs of its failure with the king,
he had felt if not a dislike yet a painful repugnance to the volume,
and had never opened it.
It was a troubled night, the last they spent in the castle. Not many
slept. But the lord of it had long understood that what could cease
to be his never had been his, and slept like a child. Dr. Bayly, who
in his loving anxiety had managed to get hold of his key, crept in
at midnight, and found him fast asleep; and again in the morning,
and found him not yet waked.
When breakfast was over, proclamation was made that at nine o'clock
there would be prayers in the chapel for the last time, and that the
marquis desired all to be present. When the hour arrived, he entered
leaning on the arm of Dr. Bayly. Dorothy followed with the ladies of
the family. Young Delaware was in his place, and 'with organ voice
and voice of psalms,' praise and prayer arose for the last time from
the house of Raglan. All were in tears save the marquis. A smile
played about his lips, and he looked like a child giving away his
toy. Sir Toby Mathews tried hard to speak to his flock, but broke
down, and had to yield the attempt. When the services were over, the
marquis rose and said,
'Master Delaware, once more play thy Nunc dimittis, and so meet me
every one in the hall.'
Thither the marquis himself walked first, and on the dais seated
himself in his chair of state, with his family and friends around
him, and the officers of his household waiting. On one side of him
stood sir Ralph Blackstone, with a bag of gold, and on the other Mr.
George Wharton, the clerk of the accounts, with a larger bag of
silver. Then each of the servants, in turn according to position,
was called before him by name, and with his own hand the marquis,
dipping now into one bag, now into the other, gave to each a small
present in view of coming necessities: they had the day before
received their wages. To each he wished a kind farewell, to some
adding a word of advice or comfort. He then handed the bags to the
governor, and told him to distribute their contents according to his
judgment amongst the garrison. Last, he ordered every one to be
ready to follow him from the gates the moment the clock struck the
hour of noon, and went to his study.
When lord Charles came to tell him that all were marshalled, and
everything ready for departure, he found him kneeling, but he rose
with more of agility than he had for a long time been able to show,
and followed his son.
With slow pace he crossed, the courts and the hall, which were
silent as the grave, bending his steps to the main entrance. The
portcullises were up, the gates wide open, the drawbridge down--all
silent and deserted. The white stair was also vacant, and in solemn
silence the marquis descended, leaning on lord Charles. But beneath
was a gallant show, yet, for all its colour and shine, mournful
enough. At the foot of the stair stood four carriages, each with six
horses in glittering harness, and behind them all the officers of
the household and all the guests on horseback. Next came the
garrison-music of drums and trumpets, then the men-servants on foot,
and the women, some on foot and some in waggons with the children.
After them came the waggons loaded with such things as they were
permitted to carry with them. These were followed by the principal
officers of the garrison, colonels and captains, accompanied by
their troops, consisting mostly of squires and gentlemen, to the
number of about two hundred, on horseback. Last came the foot-
soldiers of the garrison and those who had lost their horses, in all
some five hundred, stretching far away, round towards the citadel,
beyond the sight. Colours were flying and weapons glittering, and
though all was silence except for the pawing of a horse here and
there, and the ringing of chain-bridles, everything looked like an
ordered march of triumph rather than a surrender and evacuation.
Still there was a something in the silence that seemed to tell the
true tale.
In the front carriage were lady Glamorgan and the ladies Elizabeth,
Anne, and Mary. In the carriages behind came their gentlewomen and
their lady visitors, with their immediate attendants. Dorothy,
mounted on Dick, with Marquis's chain fastened to the pommel of her
saddle, followed the last carriage. Beside her rode young Delaware,
and his father, the master of the horse.
'Open the white gate,' said the marquis from the stair as he
descended.
The great clock of the castle struck, and with the last stroke of
the twelve came the blast of a trumpet from below.
'Answer, trumpets,' cried the marquis.
The governor repeated the order, and a tremendous blare followed, in
which the drums unbidden joined.
This was the signal to the warders at the brick gate, and they flung
its two leaves wide apart.
Another blast from below, and in marched on horseback general
Fairfax with his staff, followed by three hundred foot. The latter
drew up on each side of the brick gate, while the general and his
staff went on to the marble gate.
As soon as they appeared within it, the marquis, who had halted in
the midst of his descent, came down to meet them. He bowed to the
general, and said:--
'I would it were as a guest I received you, sir Thomas, for then
might I honestly bid you welcome. But that I cannot do when you so
shake my poor nest that you shake the birds out of it. But though I
cannot bid you welcome, I will notwithstanding heartily bid you
farewell, sir Thomas, and I thank you for your courtesy to me and
mine. This nut of Raglan was, I believe, the last you had to crack.
Amen. God's will be done.'
The general returned civil answer, and the marquis, again bowing
graciously, advanced to the foremost carriage, the door of which was
held for him by sir Ralph, the steward, while lord Charles stood by
to assist his father. The moment he had entered, the two gentlemen
mounted the horses held for them one on each side of the carriage,
lord Charles gave the word, the trumpets once more uttered a loud
cry, the marquis's moved, the rest followed, and in slow procession
lord Worcester and his people, passing through the gates, left for
ever the house of Raglan, and in his heart Henry Somerset bade the
world good-bye.
General Fairfax and his company ascended the great white stair,
crossed the moat on the drawbridge, passed under the double
portcullis and through the gates, and so entered the deserted court.
All was frightfully still; the windows stared like dead eyes--the
very houses seemed dead; nothing alive was visible except one scared
cat: the cannonade had driven away all the pigeons, and a tile had
killed the patriarch of the peacocks. They entered the great hall
and admired its goodly proportions, while not a few expressions of
regret at the destruction of such a magnificent house escaped them;
then as soldiers they proceeded to examine the ruins, and
distinguish the results wrought by the different batteries.
'Gentlemen,' said sir Thomas, 'had the walls been as strong as the
towers, we should have been still sitting in yonder field.'
In the meantime the army commissioner, Thomas Herbert by name, was
busy securing with the help of his men the papers and valuables, and
making an inventory of such goods as he considered worth removing
for sale in London.
Having satisfied his curiosity with a survey of the place, and left
a guard to receive orders from Mr. Herbert, the general mounted
again and rode to Chepstow, where there was a grand entertainment
that evening to celebrate the fall of Raglan, the last of the
strongholds of the king.
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