Hocking Joseph
The Coming of the King
"Not that I blame the king for all. The episcopal bishops and the popishly inclined clergy have allowed him no rest. My brethren have appealed for justice, but in order to please the clergy, Parliament hath passed one law after another, each more abominable in the sight of God than the other. Our greatest enemies everywhere have been those who have wanted the heresies of the Prayer-book. They have hunted us from place to place, they have given information to the magistrates, and have not been contented until the Nonconformists have either sworn allegiance to the Prayer-book or been thrust into prison. As for the king, he careth more for his pleasures than aught else."
"But if this is all for the good of religion?" I asked presently, although my heart went not with my words.
"Religion!" cried the old man. "Religion! where can we find it? Religion is laughed at on every hand. Those in high places live in open sin, and there are none to say them nay. The Court is turned into a pigsty. Obscene plays are in all the theatres, while vice and profligacy are actually boasted of in the streets of London. Even while we Nonconformists be imprisoned in stinking cells the very worst sins are condoned, excused, and in many places even praised, while the clergy openly proclaim that they would rather have open sin than Nonconformity. But this cannot be for long."
"Why, do you think the king will relent?"
"Relent! It is well known that he careth little for religion. How can he, seeing the life he lives? It is said by those who know him best, that he favours the Papist religion more than any other, and would bring it back if he could. His mother hath a host of intriguing priests from Rome with her every day; these priests are treated like great nobles, and the king allows it – nay, smiles upon it. I have been told that Charles Stuart doth not believe in our Lord Christ at all, and calls himself a Deist. Such is the state of religion. People live for carnal pleasures, while the virtue of maidens is laughed at as an idle tale."
Conversation like this I heard again and again during the next few months, and I judged from all that came to me from the outside world that it was true. Meanwhile the prison became more and more crowded with Nonconformists. Men, women, and even children were packed in this evil-smelling place, and as far as I could discover their only crime was that they desired to pray and to preach according to the dictates of their conscience.
Meanwhile, I learnt no more concerning Constance. I asked many questions, but no man could give me an answer except that the king regarded her with favour.
Not once did my father visit me, at the which I wondered greatly, for I knew that he loved me, and would not willingly allow me to remain here to die like a rat in a hole as I was like to do. One day, however, after I had been a long time here, my heart gave a great leap, for I heard his voice speaking to a gaoler, and shortly after we were alone together.
"I grieve much for you, Roland," he said presently, "and yet it is your own fault."
"My own fault, father?"
"Ay, your own fault."
"Why, what have I done?" I asked.
"You have opposed the king's will," he replied; "you have used your information like a fool."
"But perchance you do not know all that hath taken place," I said; "you do not know what the king would have had me do?"
"Ay, I have heard all. Not that the news hath long come to me, for I have only but lately arrived from France, where I have been at the behest of James of York. Had I known earlier I would have been to see you before, but I never dreamed that you would have been such a fool."
My heart grew cold at these words, for my father spoke, as I thought, strangely.
"I went away with a light heart," he went on, "for I believed that you had wit enough to make good use of whatever you should find out. I left you enough money for all needs, and I believed that when I came back I should find you in high favour with the king. Instead, I find that you have espoused the cause of the daughter of a regicide, that you have refused to obey the king's commands, and that you have acted like a fool in relation to the discovery which you made."
"What would you have had me do?" I asked.
"Do!" he replied. "Did I not tell you from your earliest childhood that no man would do aught for you, except that which would help forward his own plans? And did I not trust you to make a wise use of your knowledge? That is why I laid down no plan of action for you when we met at Dover. I said 'the boy hath all his wits, and will be able to act wisely when the right time comes,' Why, having once obtained the ear of the king, thou shouldst have gone to him after what thou didst find out, and thou shouldst have appeared before him as one anxious to serve him. He would then, in his own interests, have rewarded thee with some fair demesne and a wealthy dame's hand. Instead, what dost thou do? Thou dost become the aider and abettor of this daughter of John Leslie, and when obedience to the king would have found his favour, thou didst like a fool refuse to do his bidding. Ay, and what happened then? The king, being desirous of keeping his marriage with Lucy Walters a secret, and knowing that thou wert a dangerous fool, clapped thee into prison."
"And you, father," I said, "what have you done?"
"I have done what I meant to do," he replied. "If the son is a fool there is no reason why the father should be. I have so managed the king, through His Grace of York that I have got my old lands back, so that in spite of thine own foolishness thou wilt no longer be a landless Rashcliffe. The king's marriage with Lucy Walters was not the only card I had to play, so when my time came I played it, and I took the trick too."
At this I was silent, for somehow I felt my father to be a different man.
"If ever a man had his chances you had," my father went on. "I had known for years that Katharine Harcomb had been trying to find out through Lucy Walters' mother where the old madman Walters was, and I knew that when she found out she would come and tell me."
"How did you know?" I asked.
"Because I had power over her. Because in her young days she had done that which, if I had chosen to make known, would have sent her to the gallows. Because I had made her promise that if ever she found out where old Solomon, as he called himself, was, she dared do no other than to tell me. She knew that he had got hold of the marriage contract; the question was, where the old man was hiding." And then my father told me a long story which I will not here set down, because it hath no real bearing on my history.
"You have disappointed me greatly," he went on presently. "You had a chance such as few men have, and you spoiled it; you have gained the king's enmity, and you have allowed yourself to be mewed up here in this stinking hole with a lot of psalm-singing Nonconformists. Besides, you have done no good by it all. The story hath come out, and the king hath taken an oath that he did never wed Lucy. Therefore your knowledge doth avail nothing."
"But I saw the contract," I cried.
"Ay, but the king hath taken his oath," he laughed.
"What, to a lie!" I said.
"The oath of Charles Stuart!" said my father. "What was his father's oath worth? What is the son's oath worth? But you have spoiled your chance. What matters whether the thing is a forgery or no? Now that the thing hath come to light it doth not matter. That is what angers me. The son in whom I trusted to have clever wits hath acted like a Puritan."
"And am I to remain in gaol?" I asked.
"As to that, no," he replied. "Now that the thing hath come to light nought matters. Had I come back earlier I had set you at liberty long ago. As soon as I discovered how matters stood I took steps to gain your freedom."
"Then I may leave this place?" I cried.
"Ay, be thankful that your father is not a fool. You can e'en return to your old home to-morrow."
"And know you aught of Mistress Constance Leslie?" I asked.
"Ay, I do," he replied.
"What? Tell me!" I cried.
My father turned and looked around him before speaking, as though he feared some one was listening.
CHAPTER XXVII
HOW I LEFT FLEET PRISON
"Tell me all you know concerning her," he said. I told him quickly, feverishly, for I was eager to hear what he knew. I noticed, however, that he paid but little heed to our meeting near Folkestone, nor to my account of my journey to Bedford to set her at liberty. But when I described our meeting with the king he was all attention.
"The blackguard," he said presently, between his teeth.
"Who?" I asked.
"Charles Stuart," he said; "but pay no heed to me. After all, the king is king."
"But where is Constance now?" I asked. "I have been told that her father was hanged at Tyburn. Where is she?"
"What is she to you?" asked my father.
"She is everything to me," I replied.
"You fancy you are in love with her?"
I did not reply, for my father spoke, I thought, scornfully.
"I will admit that the maid is a brave maid. It is not often one hears of such daring, such resolution," he said presently.
"Ay," I replied, my heart all aglow. "She took her sister's guilt upon her own shoulders. For months she defied all pursuers, and when at last she stood before the king, she refused to do his bidding, refused to betray her sister's hiding-place. But what happened to her afterwards? Tell me, father, for pity's sake."
"You do not know? You have heard of nought that took place after the night when you behaved like a fool before the king, and were sent hither?"
"I have heard nothing."
"It was the best joke I have heard of for years," laughed my father. "Verily I believe it was that which made Charles hang old John Leslie. He hath let more guilty men go free; besides, Sir John was a harmless old fool, with nought against him save that he was over-religious."
"But tell me, father; tell me," I pleaded.
"Well," said my father, "no sooner did she leave his Majesty's presence than it seems that she began to look around for a means of escape. It seems also that during the time she appeared before the king, half-a-dozen young gallants lost their hearts over her, and she being a quick-Pwitted maid singled out the biggest fool of the whole batch. I suppose that during her midnight audience with the king these young fools waited around the corridors in the hope of having speech with her. How she did it I don't know; but she managed to gain audience with the young fool I have mentioned, and in five minutes he became wax in her hands. She persuaded him to bring her the gay and full outfit of a young Court gallant, and offered to run away with him."
"And then?" I cried, for my father stopped in the middle of his recital to laugh, as though he were telling a good joke.
"Then the next night, while the king was at supper, she managed to escape with this silly loon. It seems that they went away under the trees, both of them dressed like gay cavaliers, until they came to a spot where two horses where waiting for them. Then they both mounted, the maid I am told having the firmer seat of the two, and galloped away together. By this time night had come on, and then before this addlepate, Charles Fitzroy by name, knew where he was, he found himself alone. The girl had galloped away with his horse, and his fine attire, leaving him to get out of his scrape as best he could."
Again my father stopped to laugh.
"But how do you know the truth of this?" I cried.
"Oh, it was easy to know," replied my father. "Young Master Fitzroy rode around through the night, calling vainly for his lady-love until daylight, and presently happened upon another love-sick swain who had also been away love-making. Master Fitzroy was so overcome with grief that he actually told the other all that had happened."
"But was he not punished by the king?"
"As to that," replied my father, "he knew enough not to return to brave the king's anger. He ran away to Holland, and the king having been much beholden to Fitzroy's father hath not sent after him. Nevertheless, Charles was very angry. He was much struck with the maid's beauty; moreover, from what I can hear, his discomfiture hath been much laughed at by the wits of the town. Oh, the maid was clever, there can be no doubt of that, and verily she hath made me believe, almost in spite of myself, in the virtue of women."
"But you said you know where she is now," I said, for although my heart rejoiced at what I had heard, I longed much to know how she fared after these long weary months of my imprisonment.
"Did I say that?" said my father. "Then I said too much; but methinks I may be able to tell you that which may set you thinking."
"What?" I cried feverishly.
"As you know," went on my father, "the bishops and clergy of the Episcopal Church have prevailed on the king to pass stringent laws concerning these prating Puritans. In truth these men of God have so hedged them around, that a Nonconformist is nearly as badly placed as were Protestants during the reign of Mary. They are not allowed to preach, or to pray, except according to the bishops' will. In fact they are hardly able to live at all, for they be hunted like foxes and rats from one place to another. It is true they ought to subscribe to the Prayer-book, and take all the oaths which the king prescribes, but you see they will not. Thus they are fined and imprisoned by the hundreds."
"I have heard this," I cried; "but what hath it to do with the whereabouts of Constance?"
"I am coming to that," replied my father; "and the less you interrupt me the sooner you will know all I have to tell. As a consequence of these laws, there be hundreds of families without homes or friends, whom God must indeed pity. They have no shelter but the hedgeside; no food but what is free to the rabbits and the fowls of the air. Many of them were parish ministers, and since the Act of Uniformity and the other Acts their condition hath been piteous. Of course they be fools, for why cannot they swallow their scruples and be done with it? But they will not. The clergy refuse to be episcopally ordained, and they will continue to preach, and hence the trouble. Well, it seems that a Master Leslie, who was own cousin to Sir John, was one of these Presbyterian or Independent ministers who refused to be ordained by a bishop, and thus he was cast into the lanes, with a wife and six children. For a long time I suppose he had no shelter but the hedges, for the farmers were afraid even to give them a hiding place in their barns. At length, however, a farmer was brave enough to give them shelter in an outhouse; at any rate, he did not inform the vicar or the magistrates about them. Some say he even brought them food, but concerning that I have no certain knowledge. About a fortnight ago, however, the magistrates heard of them, and sent the constables to take them, on what pretext I don't know. It seems that just as the constables were entering the barn they saw a woman come out, and one of them swears it was Mistress Constance Leslie."
"Where was this?" I cried.
"At a parish about three miles from Bedford; I have forgotten the name."
"And how long ago?"
"I have just told you; it was about a fortnight ago."
"And was the constable sure it was she?"
"He can take his oath to it, he saith; he also rushed after her to take her, but she escaped in the darkness. Some say she tripped the constable up, and blew out the candle in his lantern. However, it may be all a mistake, especially as since that time the whole district hath been searched, and nought hath come of it. Especially hath search been made at Goodlands, the place which belonged to Sir John Leslie, but not a sight of her hath there been."
"And what hath become of Goodlands?" I asked, with a fast beating heart.
"Oh, it still appertaineth to the Leslies. It seems that the king is still determined to capture the pretty Constance, and so he hath done nought by Sir John's estates except to appropriate the rents. He believes that sooner or later the daughters will claim their property, and by this means he will be able to lay hands upon them. I am told that at present one of Leslie's farmers lives in the house."
I did not speak concerning this, nevertheless my heart beat high with hope. I had heard Constance say that when she was once in her father's house at Goodlands she had no fear of searchers. Was it not possible that she had escaped thither, and was still in hiding? I knew that her heart would go out in sympathy with the distressed clergyman who had been driven from his parish, and his vicarage, and that she would seek to bring him food and comfort. What more likely then than my father's story was true. But as I have said I was silent, for I knew that he would not be likely to think of her as I did.
"That is all there is to tell," he said presently, and I saw that his eyes rested searchingly on me, as though he would read the thoughts in my mind.
"What are you going to do?" he continued at length.
"I am going to find her," I said.
"And then?"
"I do not know," I replied, for although I was sure I had seen the light of love in her eyes that night when we stood in the presence of the king, I was afraid she had forgotten all about me during the long weary months I had been lying in prison.
"But what would you?" he asked.
"I would wed her," I replied.
"What, wed the daughter of a regicide!" he cried. "Wed a woman with a price set upon her head! Destroy all your chances in life, and that for no benefit to you save to satisfy a mad fancy!"
"What would you do if you were in my place, father?" I asked. "If Constance were my mother and you were my age, what would you do?"
For a moment my father's lips quivered, and then I knew that although he had become more cynical than of old, his heart was still warm towards the memory of my mother, and towards me his only son.
"But can you do aught? I tell you it is only through the influence of the king's brother that I have obtained your liberty. If his Majesty discovers that you have in aught tried to help this woman he will have no mercy. Doubtless he is easygoing as far as the State is concerned; for that matter his best friends see that he is ruining the country over which he pretends to reign. But he is bitter in his private hatreds. See how he hath treated those who had aught to do with his father's death. Not one shred of mercy hath he shewn. All are hanged, or imprisoned, save those who have escaped across the seas. You, Roland, have thwarted his will, and he believes that it is because this maid cares for you, that she fled from Windsor that night. I tell you he will have no mercy, and even although I have found the weak side of Duke James of York, I could do nothing for you."
"Still I must find her if I can."
"But you can do no good. If she hath a hiding-place you will only endanger her by trying to find her."
"No; I will not endanger her," I cried. "Besides, I know not what she may be suffering; I do not know what difficulty she hath in evading those who would place her under the king's power."
"You know her hiding-place?" said my father.
"No, I do not know it," I replied; "I can only guess."
"I tell you Goodlands is watched closely, and the whole countryside is watched. If she is anywhere in the district then – ," and my father shrugged his shoulders, French fashion, as he ceased to speak.
"Then she needs me all the more."
"Oh, you fool, you fool!" said my father, and yet I thought his voice was kind and caressing.
"Look here," he went on presently. "I have influence with Duke James of York, who I verily believe will soon be king. Charles will not live to be an old man. He cannot. No man can live long who spends his days and nights as he doth. And let me tell you this: Duke James doth not think unkindly of you, if Charles doth. Even now I can put you into the way of advancement, for Duke James hath much power. If you give up all thoughts of this woman I can even yet promise you a career. The duke thought you a dashing youth with a ready wit and a strong arm. But if you do what is in your heart to do, I can see nothing for you but the prison or the gallows."
"Neither," I cried boldly, for what he had said had made me brave and hopeful.
"What then?"
"I know not. But I will go and help the woman I love. If she will wed me, no man in England will be so happy as I."
"How will you live?" said my father with a sneer.
"I will escape to New England, even as some of our forefathers did," I cried. "Some of her forefathers are also there."
"And if you did this what would you do?"
"I am not a fool, even although you say I am," I cried. "I am young, and at her side I shall be strong. Men no better than I have had a career in other lands, and I will be in no whit behind them."
My father smiled sadly. "Well, come with me to the old home, and then we can think of these things together," he said presently.
"If mother were where Constance is, what would you do?" I asked again.
At this my father became silent for a time, then he burst out.
"Have you any of these Puritan beliefs?"
"Which would you rather I became?" I said. "A Puritan, or like unto the swashbucklers which I am told throng the king's court?"
"But hath this woman converted you?"
"I do not know," I replied; "but I would be worthy of her. Whom would you have me wed, father, a woman such as she is, or one of the women whom Charles loves to have around him."
"The women of Charles' Court!" he cried, and he seemed to be speaking to himself rather than to me. "Great God! I have thought since I returned, that there doth not remain a pure woman in London. The example of the king hath corrupted the country. Morality is laughed at, while the preachers wink at things which five years ago were regarded with holy horror. And yet no man can find favour in these days unless he licks Charles' boots and praises his way of living. I did not realize it while I was in France, but since I have returned I have seen what I thought might come. England is turned into a pigsty, and those who would live for faith and purity are treated like vermin!"
"Then what would you have me do father?" I asked.
He was silent for a time, then he said quietly —
"You will be able to walk out of here to-morrow a free man. I have seen to that. It is not far from here to the Virgin Queen, where our old servant Caleb Bullen lives. Caleb will expect you, and you may find out when you get there what I would have you do."
He kissed me affectionately as he bade me good-bye; indeed, it seemed to me as though he were taking a long farewell. But I knew not what was in his mind, neither did I ask questions, for my father was never a man who made known his secret thoughts with readiness. And yet the feeling which had possessed me at first concerning him had passed away. He had grown more and more like he was during my boyish days as our interview proceeded. Nay, more; I thought he had sympathized with me as I spoke to him, even although he was angry that I had not behaved with more worldly wisdom.
When I left the prison on the following morning I heard the Nonconformists comforting each other by singing hymns, and by prayers, so that while I could not understand many of their scruples my heart went out to them in sympathy. I noticed, too, that my gaolers paid me much respect as I left, and I judged that my father had somehow made them think of me as different from those whom they usually guarded.
As I walked up Ludgate Hill towards St. Paul's Cross no one paid heed to me, and yet as I caught sight of myself in one of the windows as I passed by, I scarce knew myself, for I had grown a beard several inches long, while my face was as pale as the face of a dead man.
When I entered the Virgin Queen old Caleb Bullen started back like a man frightened.
"Great Lord! Is that you, Master Roland?" he cried. "If it had been night I should e'en have taken you for a ghost."
"If you will give me some breakfast, I will prove to you that I am no ghost, Caleb," I replied.
"Ay, but that hath been ready this last half-hour, Master Roland," he replied. "Your father gave orders concerning it last night. In truth, so particular was he about it, that I cut a new ham, the very best I have, and six eggs have I had fried for you. But come this way, Master Roland," and he led me into the room I had occupied long months before.
"My father," I said, to Caleb, "is he here?"
"Not one word will I speak about him till you have had something to eat," said Caleb. "Faith, Master Roland, but it makes my flesh creep to see you. No, no, I will speak no word, not one word until you have eaten half a pound of ham. It was a good pig, Master Roland, twenty score weight, and fed on good barley."
In truth, although I was anxious to know what my father had said to him, the smell of the ham was so appetising that I fell to eating without further parley, while Caleb stood by watching me as though he was deriving great comfort by doing so.
"It does me good to see you, Master Roland," he said presently. "Why, you are looking better already. Another rasher now, Master Roland, just one more rasher."
"Not another particle, Caleb," I said with a laugh, for a hearty meal had made me feel like a new man. "Now tell me, is my father here?"
"No, Master Roland."
"Where is he? Do you know?"
"No, I do not, but he left this for you," and he brought a bag and placed it on the table before me.
I heard the jingle of money, and on opening the bag I found a large number of gold pieces. As I judged, there must have been a hundred pounds. But it was not of this that I paid so much heed. Besides the gold pieces I found a letter, and this was what my father had written:
"God bless you, my son – my only son. I do not think you have disappointed me much, though for a time I was sorely angered. After all, a youth cannot help loving at some time, and if the woman he loves be good and true, his love should not be laughed at. In my young days we said that the more danger there was in the rescue, the more was the rescue worthy of a brave man. I grieve much that we cannot spend some days together in the old home, but that I must leave to you. Black Ben is in the stable of the Virgin Queen. I knew you would like to have him, so I obtained him, although with difficulty. In this bag are a hundred pounds; you may need them. Rest a day and a night before you begin to do what is in your heart. You will need all your strength. I can do nought for you, but your mother would, I know, have you do what is in your heart. So would I. If you succeed, and have need to come to the old home, see that you take many precautions. But whatever may happen, be sure that your father loves you."
My eyes were full of tears when I finished reading this, and I knew then that although he often spoke words which seemed hard and bitter, his heart was full of love towards me.
I rushed out to the stable, where Black Ben welcomed me with a whinney. In truth, I thought he trembled with joy as he saw me.
"I have more work for you, my beauty!" I said, whereupon he rubbed his nose against my arm.
"Great God, help me!" I prayed, as I thought of what lay before me; and into my heart came a great resolution to do what was in my heart to do. I longed much to start on my journey that day, but I was too weak. Nevertheless, at an early hour next morning, I rode through Barnet on my way to Bedford.
