 Chapter 45 of St. George and St. Michael, Volume 3. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. St. George and St. Michael, Volume 3 by George MacDonald, Chapter 45, The Secret Interview. Between the 3rd of July, when he first came, and the 15th of September, when he last departed, the King went and came several times. During his last visit, a remarkable interview took place between him and his host, the particulars of which are circumstantially given by Dr. Bailey. In the little book he calls Surtiman, Religi Awesome, to me it falls to recount after some of the said particulars, because although Dorothy was brought but one little step within the sphere of the interview, certain results were which bore a large influence upon her history. Though money came from him, that is, the marquee, like drops of blood, says Dr. Bailey, yet was he contented that every drop within his body should be let out, if only he might be the instrument of bringing his majesty back to the bosom of the Catholic Church. A bosom which no doubt the marquee found as soft as it was capacious, but which the King regarded as a good deal resembling that of a careless nurse rather than mother, frizzed with bins, and here and there a cruel needle. Therefore, expecting every hour that the King would apply to him for more money, the marquee had resolved that, at such time as he should do so, he would make an attempt to lead the stray sheep within the fold, for the marquee was not one of those who regarded a Protestant as necessarily a goat, but the King shrink from making the request in person, and having learned that the marquee had been at one point in his history under the deepest obligation to Dr. Bailey, who, having then preserved both his lordship's life and a large sum of money he carried with him, by concealing both for the space that the moon useth to be twice in riding of her circuit, had thereafter become a member of his family and a sharer in his deepest confidence, greatly desired that the doctor should take the office of mediator between him and the marquee. The King's will, having been already conveyed to the doctor, in the King's presence, Colonel Lingen came up to him and said, Dr. Bailey, the King, much wishing your aid in this matter, sayeth he delights not to be a beggar, and yet is constrained thereon too. I am at his Majesty's disposal, return the doctor. Although I confess myself somewhat loathe to be the beetle head that must drive this wedge, nay, said the Colonel, they tell me that no man can make a divorce between the Babylonish garment and the wedge of gold sooner than they self. Good doctor. The end was that he undertook the business, though with reluctance, unwilling to be made an instrument to let the same horse bleed whom the King himself had found so free, and sought the marquee in his study. My Lord, he said, the thing that I feared is now fallen upon me. I am made the unwelcome messenger of bad news. The King wants money. Hold, sir. That's no news. Interrupt at the marquee. Go on with your business. My Lord, said the doctor, there is one comfort yet. That, as the King has brought though, so are his demands. And, like his army, we are come down from thousands to hundreds, and from paying the soldiers of his army to buying bread for himself and his followers. My Lord, it is the King's own expression, and his desire is but three hundred pound. Lord Warchester remained a long time silent, and Dr. Bailey waited, knowing by experience that in such cases it was best leaving him to himself, and to let that nature, that was so good, work itself into an act of the highest charity, like the diamond which is only polished with its own dust. Come hither, come nearer, my good doctor, said his lordship at length. Heth the King himself spoken unto thee concerning any such business. The King himself hath not, my Lord, but others did. In the King's hearing, might I speak unto him, said the marquee, but I was never thought worthy to be consulted with. Though in matters merely concerning the affairs of my own country, I would supply his wants, were they never so great, or whatsoever they were. If the King knew as much, my Lord, you might quickly speak with him, remarked the doctor. The way to have him knows so much is to have somebody to tell him of it, said the marquee testily. Will your lordship give me to thee, the informer? asked the doctor. Truly I spake it to the purpose, answered the marquee. Away ran the little doctor, ambling through the pitcher gallery, half going and half running, like some short winged bird. His heart trembling, lest the marquee should change his mind and call him back. And so his pride in his successful mediation be mortified to the King's chamber, where he told his majesty with diplomatic reserve, and something of diplomatic cunning, enhancing the difficulties that he had perceived his lordship desired some conference with him, and that he believed. If the King granted such conference, he would find a more generous response to his necessities than perhaps he expected. The King readily consenting. The doctor went on to say that his lordship much wished the interview that very night. The King asked how it could be managed, and the doctor told him the marquee had contrived it before his majesty came to the castle, having for that reason appointed the place where they were for his bedchamber, and not that in the great tower, which the marquee himself liked the best in the castle. I know my lord stripped well enough, said the King, smiling, either he means to chide me, or else to convert me to his religion. I doubt not, Sire, returned the doctor. But your majesty is temptation-proof, as well as correction-free, and will return the same man you go, having made a profitable exchange of gold and silver for words and sleep. Upon Dr. Bailey's report of his success, the marquee sent him back to tell the King that at eleven o'clock he would be waiting his majesty in a certain room to which the doctor would conduct him. This was the room the marquee's father had occupied, and in which he died, called therefore, my lord, privy seals chamber. Since then the marquee had never allowed anyone to sleep in it, hardly anyone to go into it, whence it came, that although all the rest of the castle was crowded, this one room remained empty and fit for their purpose. To understand the precautions taken to keep their interview a secret, we must remember that, although he had not a better friend in all England, such reason had the King to fear losing his protestant friends from their jealousy of Catholic influence, that he had never invited the marquee of Warchester to sit with him in council, and that the marquee on his part was afraid both of injuring the cause of the King, and of being himself impeached for treason. Should any of the King's attendant lords discover that they were closeted together, he dreaded the suspicion and accusation of another gallery conspiracy even. His lordship therefore instructed Dr. Bailey to go, as the time drew nigh, to the drawing room, which was next the marquee's chamber, and the dining parlor, through both of which he must pass to reach the appointed place, and clear them of the company which might be in them, the chaplain desiring to know how he was to manage it, so that he should not look strange in aroused suspicion, and what he should do if any were unwilling to go. I will tell you what you should do, said the marquee hastily, so that you shall not need to fear any such thing. Go unto the yeomen of the wine cellar, and bid him leave the keys of the wine cellar with you, and all that you find in your way, invite them down into the cellar, and show them the keys, and I warrant you, you shall sweep the room of them, if there were a hundred, and when you have done, leave them there. But having thus arranged the marquee grew anxious again, he remembered that it was not unusual to pass to the hall from the northern side of the fountain court, where were most of the rooms of the lady's gentle women through the picture gallery, entering it by a passage and a stair which connected the bell tower with one of its deep window recesses, and leaving it by a door in the middle of the opposite side, admitting to a stair in the thickness of the wall, which led downwards, opening to the menstrual gallery on the left hand, and a little further below to the organ loft in the chapel on the right hand. It was not the least likely that any of the ladies or their attendants would be passing that way so late at night, but there was a possibility, and that was enough, the marquee being anxious and nervous, to render him more so. There was, however, another and more threatening possibility of encounter. He remembered that Mr. Delaware, the master of his horse, had lately removed to that part of the house, and the fear came upon him, thus his blind son, who frequently turned night into day in his love for the organ, and was uncertain in his movements between chapel and chamber, the direct way being that just described, should by evil chance appear at the very moment of the king's passing, and alarm him. For through the gallery Dr. Bailey must lead his majesty to reach my Lord Prevy Seal's chamber, the marquee, therefore, although reluctant to introduce another event to the externals of the plot, felt that the assistance of a second confidant was more than desirable, and turning the matter over, could think of no one whom he could trust so well, and who at the same time would, if seen, be so little liable to the sort of suspicion he dreaded as dorthy, he therefore sent for her, told her as much as he thought proper, gave her the key of his private passage to the gallery, leading across the top of the hall door, the only direct communication from the southern side of the castle, and generally kept close, and directed her to be in the gallery ten minutes before eleven, to lock the door at the top of the stairs leading down into the hall, and take her stand in the window at the foot of the stair from the bell tower, where the door was without a lock, and see that no one entered by order of the marquee for the king's repose, and joining upon her that, whatever she saw or heard from any other quarter, she must keep perfectly still, nor let any one discover that she was there. With these instructions, his lordship, considerably relieved, dismissed her, and went to lie down upon his bed, and have a nap if he could. He had already given the chaplain the key of his chamber, the door of which he always locked, that he might enter and wake him when the appointed hour was at hand. As soon as he began to feel that eleven o'clock was drawing near, Dr. Bailey proceeded to reconnoitre the marquee's plan, although he could think of none better, was not altogether satisfactory, and it was to his relief that he found nobody in the dining room when he entered the drawing room, however, there, to his equal annoyance. He saw in the light of one expiring candle the dim figure of a lady. He could not offer her the keys of the wine cellar. What was he to do? What could she be there for? He drew nearer, and, with a positive pang of relief, discovered that it was Dorothy. A word was enough between them, but the good doctor was just a little annoyed that a second should share in the secret of the great ones. The next room was the anti-chamber to the marquee's bedroom, timorously on tiptoe he stepped through, it, fearful of waking the two young gentlemen. For Skudamore's place had been easily supplied, who waited upon his lordship, opening the inner door as softly as he could. He crept in, and found the marquee fast asleep. So slowly, so gently, did he wake him, that his lordship insisted he had not slept at all. But when he told him that the time was come, what time, he asked. For meeting the king, replied the doctor, what king, rejoined the marquee, in a kind of bewildered horror. The more he came to himself, the more distressed he seemed, and the more unwilling to keep the appointment he had been so eager to make, so that at length, even Dr. Bailey was tempted to doubt something evil in the design that carried with it such a conflict within the bosom of the actor. It soon became evident, however, that it was but the dread of such possible consequences as I have already indicated, that thus moved him. Fi, fi, he said, I would to God I had let it alone. My lord, said the doctor, you know your own heart best. If there be nothing in your intentions but what is good and justifiable, you need not fear. If otherwise, it is never too late to repent. Ah, doctor, return the marquee with troubled look. I thought I had been sure of one friend, and that you would never have harbored the least suspicion of me. God knows my heart. I have no other intention towards His Majesty than to make Him a glorious man here, and a glorified saint hereafter. Then, my lord, said Dr. Bailey, shake off these fears together with the drowsiness that begat them. Haniswa krimali panse. Oh, but I am not of that order, said the marquee. But I thank God I wear that motto about my heart to as much purpose as they who wear it about their arms. He then, reports the doctor, began to be a little pleasant, and took a pipe of tobacco and a little glass full of aquamarabilis, and said, Come now, let us go in the name of God, crossing Himself. My love for the marquee has led me to recount this curious story with greater minuteness than is necessary to the understanding of Dorothy's part in what follows. But the worthy doctor's account is so graphic that even for its own sake, had it been fitting, I would glad they have copied it word for word from the certimen religiosum. It is indeed a strange story, king and marquee, attended by a doctor of divinity, of the faith of the one but the trusted friend of the other, meeting at midnight. Although in the house of the marquee, to discuss points of theology, both king and marquee and mortal terror of discovery. Meantime Dorothy had done, as she had been ordered, had felt her way through the darkness to the pitcher gallery, had locked the door at the top of the one stair, and taken her stand in the recess at the foot of the other, and pitched darkness, close to the king's bed chamber, for the gallery was thirteen feet in width. Keeping watch over him, the darkness fell like a awe round her, the door of the chamber opened. It gave no sound, but the glimmer of the night light shone out. By that she saw a figure enter the gallery. The door closed softly and slowly, and awe was darkness again. No sound of movement across the floor followed, but she heard a deep sigh, as from a sorely burdened heart. Then, in an agonized whisper, as if wrung by torture from the depths of the spirit, came the words, Oh Stafford, thou art avenged, I left thee to thy fate, and God had left me to mine, thou disco for me to the scaffold, but thou wilt not out of my chamber. Oh God, deliver me from blood guiltiness. Dorothy stood in dismay, a mere vessel containing a talment of emotions. The king re-entered his chamber, and closed the door. The same instant a light appeared at the further end of the gallery, a long way off, and Dr. Bailey came, like a willow the wisp, gliding from afar, till, softly walking up, he stopped with an yard or two of the king's door, and there stood, with his candle in his hand. His round face was pale that should have been red, and his small keen eyes shone in the candlelight, with mingled importance and anxiety. He saw Dorothy, but the only notice he took of her presence was to turn from her with his face towards the king's door, so that his shadow might shroud the recess where she stood. A minute or so passed, and the king's door reopened. He came out, said a few words in a whisper to his guide, and walked with him down the gallery, whispering as he went. Dorothy hastened to her chamber, threw herself on the bed, and wept. The king was cast from the throne of her conscience, but taken into the hospital of her heart. What followed between the king and the marquis belongs not to my tale. When, after a long talk, the chaplain had conducted the king to his chamber in return to Lord Worchester. He found him in the dark upon his knees. Chapter 46 of St. George and St. Michael, Volume 3 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. St. George and St. Michael, Volume 3, by George McDonald. Chapter 46 Gifts of Healing Soon after the king's departure, the marquis received from him a letter containing another address to our attorney or solicitor general for the time being in which he commanded the preparation of a bill for his majesty's signature, creating the marquis of Worchester, Duke of Somerset. The enclosing letter required, however, that it should be kept private, until I shall esteem the time convenient. In the next year we have causes enough for the fact that the king's pleasure never reached any attorney or solicitor general for the time being. About a month after the battle of Naysby, and while yet the king was going and coming as regards raglan, the wounded roland, long before he was fit to be moved from the farmhouse where his servant had found him shelter, was brought home to the castle. Chef Toe, faithful as hair-brained, had come upon him almost accidentally, after long search, and just in time to save his life, Mistress Watson received him with tears, and had him carried to the same turret chamber whence Richard had escaped. In order that she might be nigh him, the poor fellow was but a shadow of his former self, and looked more likely to vanish than to die in the ordinary way, hence he required constant attention, which was so far from lacking that the danger, both physical and spiritual, seemed rather to lie in over-surface. Hitherto of the family, it had been the marquee chiefly that spoiled him, but now he was so sorely wounded for the king, and lay at death's door. All the ladies of the castle were admiring, pitiful, tender, ministerant, paying him such attentions as nobody could be trusted to bear uninjured except a doll or a baby. One might have been tempted to say that they sought his physical welfare at the risk of his moral ruin, but there is that in sickness which leads men back to a kind of babyhood, and while it lasts, there is comparatively little danger. It is with returning health that the peril comes, then self and self fancied worth awake, and find themselves again, and the risk is then great indeed that all the ministrations of love be taken for homage at the altar of importance. How often has not a mistress found that after nursing a servant through an illness, perhaps an old servant even, she has had to part with her for unendurable arrogance and insubordination, but present sickness is a wonderful antidote to vanity, and nourish her of the gentle primeval simplicities of human nature. So long as man feels himself a poor creature, not only physically unable, but without the spirit to desire to act, kindness will move gratitude and not vanity. In Roland's case, happily it lasted until something better was able to get up its head a little, but no one can predict what the first result of suffering will be, not knowing what seeds lie nearest the surface. Roland's self satisfaction had been a hard pan beneath which lay thousands of germinal possibilities invaluable, and now the result of its tearing up remained to be seen, if in such case truths, never ceasing pull at the heart, begins to be felt, allowed, considered, if conscience begin, like a thing weary with very sleep. To browse itself in motions of pain from the stiffness of its repose, then is their hope of the best. He had lost much blood, having lain a long time, as I say, in the fallow field before Shaftou found him, oft recurring fever, extreme depression, an intermittent and doubtful progress life words followed through all the commotion of the king's visits, the coming and going, the clanging of hoofs and clanking of armor, the heaving of hearts and clamor of tongues, in a laughter and ignorance administration hidden from the world in death to the gnawing of its wheels, prisoned in a twilight dungeon, to which Richard Sword had been the key. The world went grinding on and on, much the same, without him, whom it had forgotten. But the overworld remembered him, and now and then looked in at a window, while dungeons have one window which no jailer and no tyrant can build up. The marquee went often to see him, full of pity for the gay youth thus brought low, but he would lie pale and listless, now and then turning his eyes, worn large with the wasting of his face, upon him, but looking as if he only have heard him. His master grew sad about him. The next time his majesty came, he asked him if he remembered the youth, telling him how he had lain wounded ever since the battle of Naysby. The king remembered him well enough, but never missed him. The marquee then told him how anxious he was about him, for that nothing woke him from the weary heartlessness into which he had fallen. I will pay him a visit, said the king. Sir, it is what I would have requested. Had I not feared to pay in your majesty, return the marquee. I will go at once, said the king. When Roland saw him, his face flushed. The tears rose in his eyes. He kissed the hand the king held out to him and said feebly, pardon, Sire. If I had wrote better, the battle might have been yours. I reached not the prince. It is the will of God, said the king, remembering for the first time that he had sent him to Rupert. Thou didst thy best, and man can do no more. Nay, Sire, but an I had written honestly. Returned Roland. I mean, had my mare been honestly come by, then I had done your majesty's message. How is that? asked the king. Ha, said the marquee. Then it was, hey would met thee, and would have his own again. Told I not thee so. Ah, that mare. Roland. That mare. But Roland had to summon all his strength to keep from fainting, for the blood had fled again to his heart, and could not reply. Thou didst thy duty like a brave knight and true. I doubt not. Said the king, kindly wishful to comfort him. And that my word may be a true one, he added, drawing his sword and laying it across the youth's chest. Although I cannot tell thee to rise and walk, I tell thee, when thou dost arise, to rise up, Sir Roland Scudamore. The blood rushed to Sir Roland's face, but fled again as fast. I deserve no such honor, Sire, he murmured. But the marquee struck his hands together with pleasure, and cried, There, my boy, there is a king to serve. Sir Roland Scudamore, there is for thee. And thy wife will be my lady. Think on that. Roland did think on it, but bitterly. He summoned strength to thank his majesty, but failed to find anything courtier like to add to the bear thanks. When his visitors left him, he sighed sorely and said to himself, Honor without dessert, but for the round heads taunts. I might have run to Rupert and saved the day. The next morning the marquee went again to see him. How fair is Sir Roland? he said. My lord, return Scudamore, in beseeching tone, break not my heart with honor unmerited. How, dearest thou, boy, set thy judgment against the kings, cried the marquee. Sir Roland, thou art, and Sir Roland will the archangel cry when he calls thee from thy last sleep. To my endless disgrace, added Scudamore, what has not done thy duty? I tried, but I failed, my lord. The best as often fail, as the worst, rejoined his lordship. I mean not merely that I failed of the end, that, alas, I did, but I mean that it was my own fault that I failed, said Roland. Then he told the marquee all the story of his encounter with Richard, ending with the words, And now, my lord, I care no more for life. Stuff and nonsense, exclaimed the marquee. Thinkest thou the round head would have let thee run to Rupert? It was not to that end he spared thy life. Thy only chance was to fight him. Does your lordship think so indeed? asked Roland, with a glimmer of eagerness. On my soul I do. Thou art weak-headed from thy sickness and weariness. You comfort me, my lord, a little, but the stolen mare, my lord. Ah, there indeed I can say nothing. That was not well done, and evil came thereof, but comfort thyself that the evil is come and gone. And think not that such chances are left to determine great events. Nays be, fight had been lost, spite of a hundred messages to Rupert. Not care for life? Boy, leave that to old men like me. Thou must care for it. For thou hast many years before thee, but nothing to fill them with, my lord. What meanest thou there, Roland? The king's cause will yet prosper, and pardon me, my lord. I spoke not of the king's majesty or his affairs. Hardly do I care even for them. It is a nameless weight, or rather emptiness, that oppresseth me. Wherefore is there such a world? I ask, and why are men born there into? Why should I live on and labor on therein? Is it not all vanity and vexation of spirit? I, with the round head, had but struck a little deeper, and reached my heart. I admire at thee, Roland. Truly my gout causeth me so great grief that I have much adieu to keep my unruly member within bounds, but I never yet was a weary of my life. And scarce know what I should say to thee. A pause followed. The marquee did not think what a huge difference there is between having too much blood in the feet and too little in the brain. I pray, sir, can you tell me if mistress Dorothy knoweth it was before Heywood I fell, said Roland at length? I know not. But me thinks, had she known, I should sooner have heard the thing myself. Who, indeed, should tell her? For Shaftow knew it not. And why should she conceal it? I cannot tell. My lord, she is not like other ladies. She is like all good ladies in this. That she speaketh the truth. Why then not ask her? I have had no opportunity. My lord, I have not seen her since I left to join the army. Tut, tut, said his lordship, and frowned a little. I thought not. The damsel had been overnight. She might well have favored a wounded knight with a visit. She is not to blame. It is my own fault, sighed Roland. The marquee looked at him for a moment pitifully, but made no answer, and presently took his leave. He went straight to Dorothy, and expostulated with her. She answered him no farther or otherwise than was simply dubious, but when at once to seize Gettemore. Mistress Watson was in the room when she entered, but left it immediately. She had never been in spirit reconciled to Dorothy. Their relation had in it too much of latent rebuke for her. So Dorothy found herself alone with her cousin. He was but the ghost of the gay, self-satisfied, good-natured, jolly Roland, pale and thin, withdrawn face and great eyes. He held out a wasted hand to Dorothy, and looked at her not pitifully, but despairingly. He was one of those from whom take health and animal spirits, and they feel to themselves as if they had nothing, nor have they in themselves anything. With those he could have borne what are called hardships fairly well. Those gone, his soul sat aghast in an empty house. My poor cousin, said Dorothy, touched with profound compassion at sight of his lost look. But he only gazed at her, and said nothing. She took the hand he did not offer, and held it kindly in hers. He burst into tears, and she gently laid it again on the cover lid. I know you despise me, Dorothy, he sawed. And you are right. I despise myself. You have been a good soldier to the king, Roland, said Dorothy, and he has acknowledged it fitly. I care nothing for king or kingdom, Dorothy. Nothing is worth caring for. Do not mistake me. I am not going to talk presumptuously. I love not thee now, Dorothy. I never did love thee. And thou dost write to despise me, for I am unworthy. I would, I were dead. Even the king's majesty hath been no wit the better for me, but rather the worse for another man. One, I mean, who was not mountain on a stolen mare, would have performed his hess unhindered of foregone fault. Thou dost not think, thou wasst doing wrong, when thou stolest the mare, said Dorothy, seeking to comfort him. How knowest thou that, Dorothy? There was a spot in my heart that felt ashamed all the time. He that is sorry is already pardoned. I think, cousin, then what thou hast done evil is gone and forgotten. Nay, Dorothy, but if it were forgotten, yet would it be if I forgot it myself? Yet would I not cease to be the man who had done it? And thou knowest, Dorothy, in how many things I have been false, so false that I counted myself honorable all the time. Tell me, wherefore should I not kill myself and rid the world of me? What withholdeth that thou art of consequence to him that made thee? How can that be, when I know myself worthless? Will he be mistaken in me? No, truly, but he may have regard to that. Thou shall get be. For surely he sent thee here to do some fitting work for him. More talk followed, but Dorothy did not seem to herself to find the right thing to say, and retired to the top of the tower with a sense of failure, and oppressed with helpless compassion for the poor youth. The doctors of divinity and of medicine differed concerning the cause of his sad condition. The doctor of medicine said it arose entirely from a check in the circulation of the animal spirits. The doctor of divinity thought, but did not say, only hinted, that it came of a troubled conscience, and that he would have been well long ago, but for certain sins, known only to himself. That bore heavy upon his life. This gave the Marquia good ground of argument for confession, the weight of which argument was by the divine felt and acknowledged. But both doctors were right, and both were wrong. Could his health have been at once restored? A great reaction would have ensued. His interest in life would have reawakened. And most probably he would have become indifferent to that which now oppressed him. But on the slightest weariness or disappointment, the same overpowering sense of desolation would have returned, and indeed at times amidst the warmest glow of health, and keenest consciousness of pleasure. On the other hand, if by any argument addressed to his moral or religious nature his mind could have been a little eased, his physical nature would most likely have at once responded in improvement. But he had no individual actions of such heavy guilt as the divine presumed to repent of, nor could any amount or degree of sorrow for the past have suffice to restore him to peace and health. It was a poet of the time who wrote, The soul's dark cottage battered and decayed, Let's in new light, through chinks that time has made. Sickness had done the same thing as time with Rowland, and he saw the misery of his hovel. The cure was a deeper and harder matter than Dr. Bailey yet understood, or then probably Rowland himself would for years attain to. While yet the least glimmer of its approach would be enough to initiate physical recovery. Chapter 47 The Poet Physician Time passed, but with little change in the condition of the patient. Winter began to draw on, and both doctors feared a more rapid decline. Early in the month of November Dorothy received a letter from Mr. Herbert, informing her that her cousin, Henry Vaughn, one of his late twin pupils, would, on his way from Oxford, be passing near Raglan, and that he had desired to call upon her, willing enough to see her relative. She thought little more of the matter, until at length the day was at hand, when she found herself looking for his arrival with some curiosity as to what sort of person he might prove of whom she had heard so often from his master. When at length he was ushered into Lady Glamorgan's parlor, where her mistress had desired her to receive him. Both her ladyship and Dorothy were at once prejudiced in his favor. They saw a rather tall young man of five or six and twenty, with a small head, a clear gray eye, and a sober yet changeful countenance. His carriage was dignified yet graceful, self-restraint, and no other was evident therein. A certain sadness brooded like a thin mist above his eyes, but his smile now and then broke out, like the sun through a gray cloud. Dorothy did not know that he was just getting over the end of a love story, or that he had a book of verses just printed, and had already begun to repent it. After the usual greetings, and when Dorothy had heard the last news of Mr. Herbert, for Mr. Vaughn had made several journeys of late between Brecknock and Oxford, taking Langetok Rectory in his way, and could tell her much she did not know concerning her friend. Lady Glamorgan, who was not sorry to see her interested in a young man whose royalist predilections were plain and strong, proposed that Dorothy should take him over the castle. She led him first to the top of the tower, showed him the reservoir and the prospect. But there they fell into such a talk, as revealed to Dorothy, that there was a man who was her master in everything towards which, especially since her mother's death and her following troubles, she had most aspired, and a great hope arose in her heart for her cousin, Skedomor. For in this talk it had come out that Mr. Vaughn had studied medicine, and was now on his way to settle for practice at Brecknock. As soon as Dorothy learned this, she entreated her cousin Faughn to go and visit her cousin Skedomor. He consented, and Dorothy, scarcely allowing him to pause even under the admirable roof of the Great Hall as they passed through, led him straight to the turret chamber, where the sick man was. They found him sitting by the fire, folded in blankets, listless and sad. When Dorothy had told him whom she had brought to see him, she would have left them. But Rowland turned on her, such beseeching eyes, that she remained, by no means unwillingly, and seated herself to hear what this wonderful young physician would say. It is very irksome to be thus prisoned in your chamber. Sir Rowland, he said, No, answered Skedomor. Or yes, I care not. Have you no books about you? asked Mr. Vaughn, glancing round the room. Books, repeated Skedomor, with a wand, contemptuous smile. You do not then love books. Wherefore should I love books? What can books do for me? I love nothing. I long only to die and go, suggested, rather than asked. Mr. Vaughn, I care not wither anywhere away from here. If indeed I go anywhere, but I care not. That is hardly what you mean, Sir Rowland, I think. Will you allow me to interpret you? Have you not the notion that if you were hence you would leave behind you a certain troublesome attendant who is scarce worth his wages? Skedomor looked at him, but did not reply. And Mr. Vaughn went on. I know well what aileth you, for I am myself, but now recovering from a similar sickness, wrought upon me by the haunting of the same evil one who torments you. You think, then, that I am possessed? said Rowland, with a faint smile and a glance at Dorothy, that verily thou art and grievously tormented. Shall I tell thee who hath possessed thee? For the demon hath a name that is known amongst men, though it frighteneth few and droth many. Alas, his name is self, and he is the shadow of thy own self. First he made thee love him, which was evil, and now he hath made thee hate him, which is evil also. But if he be cast out, and never more enter into thy heart, but remain as a servant in thy hall, then wilt thou recover from this sickness, and be whole and sound, and shall find the varlet serviceable. Art thou not an exorcist? Then, Mr. Vaughn, as well as a discerner of spirits, I with thou couldst drive the said demon out of me, for truly I love him not. Through all thy hate thou lovest him more than thou knowest. Thou seeest him vile, but instead of casting him out, thou mournest over him with foolish tears, and yet thou dreamest that by dying thou wouldst be rid of him. No, it is back to thy childhood thou must go to be free. That were a strange way to go, sir. I know it not. There seems to be a purpose in what you say, Mr. Vaughn, but you take me not with you. How can I rid me of myself, so long as I am rolling scud amore? There is a way, sir Vaughn, and but one way. Human words, at least, however it may be with some high heavenly language, can never say the best things, but by a kind of stumbling wherein one contradiction keepeth another from falling. No man, as thou sayest, truly can rid him of himself and live, for that involveeth an impossibility, but he can rid himself of that, haunting shadow of his own self, which he hath pampered and fed upon shadowy lies, until it is bloated in black with pride and folly. When that demon king of shades is once cast out, and the man's house is possessed of God instead, then first he findeth his true substantial self, which is the servant, nay, the child of God. To rid thee of thyself, thou must offer it again to him that made it. Be thou empty, that he may fill thee. I never understood this until these latter days. Let me impart to thee certain verses I found but yesterday, for they will tell thee better what I mean. Thou knowest the sacred volume of the blessed George Herbert. I never heard of him or it, said Scudamore. It is no matter as now. These verses are not of his. Prithee, Prithee Harkin. I carry with me, Lord, a foolish fool, that still his cap upon my head would place. I dare not slay him. He will not to school. And still he shakes his bubble in my face. I seize him, Lord, and bring him to thy door. Bound on thine altar threshold him I lay. He weepeth. Did I heed? He would implore. And still he cries, a lack, and well a day. If thou wouldst take him in and make him wise, I think he might be taught to serve thee well. If not, slay him. Nor heed his foolish cries. He's but a fool that mocks and brings a bell. Something in the lines appeared to strikes Scudamore. I thank you, sir, he said. Might I put you to the trouble? I would request that you would write out the verses for me, that I may study their meaning at my leisure. Mr. Vaughn promised. And, after a little more conversation, took his leave. Now, whether it was from anything he had said in particular, or that Scudamore had felt the general influence of the man, Dorothy could not tell. But from that visit she believed Rowland began to think more and to brood less. By and by he began to start questions of right and wrong, suppose cases, and asked Dorothy of what she would do in such and such circumstances. With many cloudy relapses there was a suspicion of dawn, although a rainy one most likely, on his flower horizon. Does thou really believe, Dorothy? He asked one day that a man ever did love his enemy. Didst thou ever know one who did? I cannot say I ever did, returned Dorothy. I have, however, seen few that were enemies, but I am sure that had it not been possible, we should never have been commanded here too. The last time Dr. Bailey came to see me he read those words, and I thought within myself all the time of the only enemy I had, and tried to forgive him, but could not. Had he then wronged thee so deeply? I know not, indeed, what women call wronged, least of all what thou, who art not like other women, wouldst judge. But this thing seems to me strange, that when I look on thee, Dorothy, one moment it seems as if for thy sake I could forgive him anything, except that he slew me not outright. And the next that never can I forgive him, even that were in he never did me any wrong. What hate is thou then him that struck thee down in fair fight? Sure thou art of meaner soul than I judge thee? What man in battlefield hates his enemy? Or thinks it less than enough to do his endeavor to slay him? Knowest thou whom thou wouldst have me forgive? He who struck me down was thy friend. Richard Haywood. Then he hath this mare again, cried Dorothy eagerly. Rowland's face fell, and she knew that she had spoken heartlessly, knew also that, for all his protestations. Rowland yet cherished the love she had so plainly refused, but the same moment she knew something more. For, by the side of Rowland, in her mind's eye, stood Henry Vaughn, as wise as Rowland was foolish, as accomplished and learned as Rowland was narrow and ignorant. But between them stood Richard, and she knew as something in her which was neither tenderness nor reverence, and yet included both. She rose in some confusion and left the chamber. This good came of it, that from that moment Skudamore was satisfied she loved Haywood, and, with much mortification, tried to accept his position, and slowly the deeper life that was at length to become his began to inform him. Heartless and poverty-stricken as he had hitherto shown himself, the good in him was not so deeply buried under refuse, as in many a better seeming man. Sickness had awakened in him a sense of requirement, of need also, and loneliness, and dissatisfaction. He grew ashamed of himself and conscious of defilement. Something new began to rise above and condemn the old. There are, who would say, that the change was merely the mental condition resulting from, and corresponding to, physical weakness, that repentance, and the vision of the better, which maketh shame, is but a mood, sickly as are the brain and nerves which generate it. But he who undergoes the experience believes he knows better, and denies neither the wild beasts nor the stars. Because they roar and shine through the dark, Mr. Vaughn came to see him again and again, and with the concurrence of doctor's spot prescribed for him. As the spring approached he grew able to leave his room. The ladies of the family had him to their parlors to pet and feed. But he was not now so easily to be injured by kindness as when he believed in his own merits. End of Chapter 47 Chapter 48 of St. George and St. Michael, Volume 3 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona St. George and St. Michael, Volume 3 by George MacDonald Honorable Disgrace January of 1646, according to the Division of the Year, arrived and with it the heaviest cloud that had yet overshadowed Raglan. One day, about the middle of the month, Dorothy, entering Lady Glamorgan's parlor, found it deserted. A moan came to her ears from the adjoining chamber, and there she found her mistress on her face, on the bed. Madam, said Dorothy in terror. What is it? Let me be with you. May I not know it? My Lord is imprisoned, gassed Lady Glamorgan, and bursting into fresh tears, she sobbed in moan. Has my Lord been taken in the field, Madam, or by cunning of his enemies? Would to God it were either, sighed Lady Glamorgan. Then were it a small thing to bear. What can it be, Madam? You terrify me, said Dorothy. No words of reply, only a fresh outburst of agonized. Could it also be angry? We've been followed. Since you will tell me nothing, Madam, I must take comfort that of myself I know one thing. Prithee, what knowest thou? Asked the Countess. But as if careless of being answered, so listless was her tongue, so nearly inarticulate her words. That is but what bringeth him fresh honor, my Lady? Answered Dorothy. The Countess started up, threw her arms about her, drew her down on the bed, kissed her, and held her fast, sobbing worse than ever. Madam, Madam, murmured Dorothy from her bosom. I thank thee, Dorothy, she sighed out a link, for thy words and my thoughts have ever been of a peace. Sure, my lady, no one did ever yet dare think otherwise of my Lord, retorn Dorothy, amazed. But many will now, Dorothy, my God. They will have it that he is a traitor. Which thou believeth, child? He is a prisoner in the castle of Dublin. But it's not Dublin in the hands of the King, my Lady? I, there lies the sting of it. What treacherous friends are these heretics? But how should they be anything else? Having denied their Saviour, they may well malign their better brother. My Lord Varkiev Orman says frightful things of him. One thing more I know, my Lady, said Dorothy, that as long as his wife believes him the true man he is, he will laugh to scorn all that false lips may utter against him. Thou art a good girl, Dorothy, but thou knowest little of an evil world. It is one thing to know thyself innocent, and another to carry thy head high. But, Madam, even the guilty do that, wherefore not the innocent then. Because, my child, they are innocent, and innocent so hate it the very shadow of guilt that it cannot brook the wearing it. My Lord is grievously abused, Dorothy. I say not by whom. By whom should it be but his enemies, Madam? Not certainly by those who are to him friends, but yet, alas, by those to whom he is the truest of friends. Is my Lord of Orman then false? Is he jealous of my Lord, Glamorgan? Have he falsely accused him? I would, I understood all, Madam. I would, I understood all myself, child. Certain papers had been found bearing upon my Lord's business in Ireland. All ears are filled with rumors of forgery and treason, coupled with the name of my Lord, and he is a prisoner in Dublin Castle. She forced a sentence from her, as if repeating a hated lesson, then gave a cry, almost a scream of agony. Weep not, Madam, said Dorothy, in the very foolishness of sympathetic expostulation. What better cause could I have out of hell, returned the Countess angrily? Then it were no lie, Madam. It is true, I tell thee, that my Lord is a traitor, Madam? Lady Glamorgan dashed her from her and glared at her like a tigress, and evil words on her lips, but her better angel spoke, and ere Dorothy could recover herself, she had listened and understood. God forbid, she said, struggling to be calm, but it is true that he is in prison. Then give God thanks, Madam, who hath forbidden the one and allowed the other, said Dorothy, and, finding her own composure on the point of yielding, she curtsied and left the room. It was a breach of etiquette without leave announced and given, but the face of the Countess was again on her pillow, and she did not heed. For some time, things went on as in an evil dream. The Marquis was in angry mood, with no gout to lay it upon. The gloom sped over the castle and awoke all manner of conjecture and report. Soon, after a fashion, the facts were known to everybody, and the gloom deepened. No further enlightenment reached Dorothy. At late one evening, her mistress having sent for her, she found her much excited, with a letter in her hand. Come here, Dorothy, come here, Dorothy, see what I have, she cried, holding out the letter with a gesture of triumph, and weeping and laughing ultimately. Madam, it must be something precious indeed, said Dorothy, for I have not heard your ladyship laugh for a very while. May I not rejoice with you, madam? You shall, my good girl. Harken, I will read. My dear heart, who is it from, thinkest thou, Dorothy? Can't guess? My dear heart, I hope these will prevent any news shall come unto you of me since my commitment to the castle of Dublin. To which I assure thee, I win as cheerfully and as willingly as they could wish, whosoever they were, by whose means it was procured, and should as unwillingly go forth were the gates both of the castle and town open unto me, until I were cleared. As they are willing to make me unserviceable to the king, and let me aside, who have procured for me this restraint, when I consider thee a woman, as I think I know you are, I fear lest you should be apprehensive. But when I reflect that you are of the house of Thulman, and that you are once pleased to say these words unto me, that I should never, in tenderness of you, desist from doing what in honor I was obliged to do, I grow confident that in this you will now show your magnanimity and buy it the greatest testimony of affection that you can possibly afford me, and am also confident that you know me so well that I need not tell you how clear I am, and void of fear, the only effect of a good conscience, and that I am guilty of nothing that may testify one thought of disloyalty to his majesty, or of what may stay in the honor of the family I come of, or set a brand upon my future posterity. The count has paused and looked at general illumination at Dorothy. I told you so, madam, you turned Dorothy, rather stupidly perhaps. Little fool, rejoined the countess, half-angered. Dust, suppose, the wife of a man like my Ned needs to be told such things by a green goose-like bee? That wouldst have had me content that the man was honest, me, who had forgotten the word in his tenfold more than honesty. Bah, child! Then know us not the love of a woman. I could weep salt tears over a hair pulled from his noble head, and thou to talk of telling me so? Hussy! Mary, foresooth! And taking Dorothy to her bosom, she wept like a relenting storm. One sentence more, she read, ere she hurried with the letter to her father-in-law. The sentence was this. So I paid, not let any of my friends that's there believe anything until ye have the perfect relation of it for myself. The pleasure of receiving news from his son did but little, however, to disperse the cloud that hung about the marquee. I do not know whether, or how far, he had been advised if the provision made for the king's clearness by the anticipated self-sacrifice of Glamorgan, but I doubt that the full knowledge thereof gives any ground for disagreement with the judgment of the marquee, which seems, pretty plainly, to have been, that the king's behavior in the matter was neither that of a Christian nor a gentleman. As in the case of Strafford, he had accepted the offered sacrifice, and, in view of possible chances, had in Glamorgan's commission pre-termitted the usual authoritative formalities, thus keeping it in his power with Glamorgan's connivance, it must be confessed, but at Glamorgan's expense to repudiate his agency. This he had now done in a message to the parliament, and this the marquee knew. His majesty had also written to Lord Ormond as follows, and albeit I have too just cause for the clearing of my honor to prosecute Glamorgan in legal way, yet I will have you suspend the execution, etc. At the same time, his secretary wrote thus to Ormond in the council, and since the warrant is not sealed with the signet, etc., etc., your lordships cannot but judge it to be at least surreptitiously gotten, if not worse. For his majesty sayeth he remembers it not. And thus again privately to Ormond, the king hath commanded me to advertise your lordship that the patent for making be said Lord Herbert of Rikeland, Earl of Glamorgan, is not past the great seal here, so as he is no peer of his kingdom, notwithstanding he styles himself and hath treated with the rebels in Ireland by the name of Earl of Glamorgan, which is as vainly taken upon him as his pretended warrant, if any such be, was surreptitiously gotten. The title hath, meanwhile, been used by the king himself in many communications with the Earl. These letters never came, I presume, to the Marquis' knowledge, but they go far to show that his feeling, even worried a little embittered by the memory of their midnight conference and his hopes therefrom, went no farther than the conduct of his majesty justified. It was no wonder that the straightforward old man, walking erect to ruin for his king, should fret and fume, yea, yield to downright wrath and enforced contempt. Of the king's behavior in the matter, Dorothy Hyber knew nothing yet. One day, towards the end of February, a messenger from the king arrived at Raglan, on his way to Ireland to Lord Ormond. He had found the road so beset, for things were by this time, whether from the successes of the parliament only, or from the negligence of disappointment on part of Lord Worchester as well, much altered in Wales and on its borders, that he had been compelled to leave his dispatches in hiding, and had reached the castle only with great difficulty and after many adventures. His chief object in making his way thither was too big of Lord Charles a convoy to secure his dispatches and protect him on his farther journey. But Lord Charles received him by no means cordially, for the whole heart of Raglan was sore. He brought him, however, to his father, who, although indisposed and confined to his chamber, consented to see him. When Mr. Bottler was admitted, Navy Glamorgan was in the chamber, and there remained. Probably due respect to the king's messenger, which had influenced the marquee to receive him, would have gone further and modified the expression of his feelings a little when he saw him, but that, like many more men, his lordship, although fairly master of his temporal horses within health, was apt to let them run away with him upon occasion of even slighter illness than would serve for an excuse. Half-thou and I dispatches any letters from his majesty to my son Glamorgan, Master Bottler, he inquired, fronting unconsciously. Not that I know of my lord, answered Mr. Bottler, but there may be such with the Lord Marquia Bormans. He then proceeded to give a friendly message from the king concerning the Earl, but at this the smoldering fire outbreak from the bosom of the injured father and subject. It is the grief of my heart, cried his lordship, wrath predominating over the regret which was yet plainly enough to be seen in his face and heard in his tone. It is the grief of my heart that I am enforced to say that the king is wavering and fickle. To be the more his friend, it too plainly apparent is but to be the more handled as his enemy. Say not so, my lord, returned Mr. Bottler. His gracious majesty, look at not for such unfriendly judgment from your lips. Have I not brought your lordship a most gracious and comfortable message from him concerning my lord Glamorgan, with his royal thanks for your former loyal expressions? Mr. Bottler, thou knowest not of the matter, that thou has brought me a budget of fine words, I go not to deny. But words may be but schematics. Deeds along are certainly of the true faith. Verily the king's majesty set up his words in the forefront of the battle, but his deeds flack in the rear and let his words be taken prisoners. When his majesty was last here, I let him a book to read in his chamber, the beginning of which I know he read, but if he had ended, it would have showed him what it was to be a fickle prince. My lord, my lord, surely your lordship knoweth better of his majesty. To know better may be to know worse, Mr. Bottler. Was it not enough to suffer my lord Glamorgan, to be unjustly imprisoned by my lord Marky of Orman, for what he had his majesty's authority for, but that he must in print protest against his proceedings and his own allowance, and not yet recall it? But I will pray for him, and that he may be more constant to his friends, and as soon as my other employments will get lead, you shall have a convoy to fetch securely your dispatches. Herewith Mr. Bottler was dismissed, Lord Charles accompanying him from the room. False as ice, muttered the Marky to himself, left as he supposed alone. My boy, that house built on a quicksand, and thy health goeth down to the deep. I am wroth with myself that ever I dreamed of moving such a bag of chaff to return to the bosom of the most honorable mother. My lord, said Lady Glamorgan from behind the bed curtains, have you forgotten that I and my long years are here? Ha! Art thou indeed there, my mad Irish woman? I had barely forgotten me, but it's not this king of ours as the minotaur, dwelling in the labyrinths of deceit, and devouring the noblest in the land. There was his own strafford, next to his foolish lot, and now comes my son, worth a host of such. In his letter, my lord of Glamorgan complainedeth not of his Majesty's usage, said the Countess. My lord of Glamorgan is patient as grizzle. He would pass through the pains of purgatory with never a grumble, but purgatory is for none such as he. In good sooth I am made of different stuff. My soul doth love deceit, and worse in a king than a clown. What king is he that will lie for a kingdom? Day after day passed, and nothing was done to speed the messenger, who grew more and more anxious to procure his dispatches and be gone. But Lord Worchester, through the king's behaviour to his honourable and self-forgetting son, with whom he had never had a difference except on the point of his blind devotion to his Majesty's affairs, had so lost faith in the king himself that he had no heart for his business. It seems also that for his son's sake he wished to delay Mr. Butler in order that a messenger of his own might reach the morgue and before Ormond should receive the king's dispatches. For a whole fortnight, therefore, no further steps were taken, and Butler, weird out, bethought him of applying to the Countess to see whether she would not use her influence in his behalf. I am thus particular about Butler's affairs, because through it Dorothy came to know what the king's behaviour had been and what the Marquis thought of it. She was in the room when Mr. Butler waited on her mistress. May it please your ladieship, he said. I have sought speech of you that I might beg your aid for the king's business, remembering you of the hearty affection my master the king beareth towards your Lord and all his house. Indeed, you do well to remember me of that, Master Butler, for it goes so hard with my memory in these troubled times that I hadn't forgotten it, said the Countess, Riley. I most certainly know, my lady, that his Majesty hath gracious intentions towards your Lord. Intention is but an adult egg, said the Countess. Give me deeds if I may choose. Alas, the king hath but little in his power and the less that his business is thus kept waiting. Your haste is more than your matter, Master Butler. Believe me, whatsoever you consider of it, you're going so hurriedly is of no great account, for to my knowledge there are others gone already with duplicates of the business. Madam, you astonish me. I speak not without book. My own cousin, William Winter, is one, and he is my husband's friend, and hath no relation to my Lord Marquieu or Mon, said Lady Glamorgan significantly. My Lord, Madam, is your Lord's very good friend, and I am very much his servant, but if his Majesty's business be done, I care not by whose hand it is. But I thank your honour, for now I know wherefore I am stayed here. With these words, Butler withdrew, and withdraws from my story, for his further proceedings are in respect of it of no consequence. When he was gone, Lady Glamorgan, turning a flushed face and encountering Dorothy's pale one, gave a hard laugh and said, Why, child, thou locus like a ghost, was a fear of the man in my presence? No, Madam, but it seemed to me marvellous that his Majesty's messenger should receive such words from my mistress, and in my Lord of Warchester's house. I, Faith, marvellous it is, Dorothy, that there should be such good cause so to use him, returned Lady Glamorgan, tears of excation rising as she spoke, but and they'll think I used the man roughly, thou shouldest have heard my father speak to him his mind of the king, his master. Hath the king then shown himself unkingly, Madam? said Dorothy aghast, whereupon Lady Glamorgan told her all she knew and all she could remember of what she had heard the Marquis saved a bottler. Trust me, child, she added, my Lord Warchester, no less than I am, is cut to the heart by this behavior of the kings, that my husband, silly angel, should say nothing, is but like him, he would bear and bear till all was born. But, said Dorothy, the king is still the king. Let him be the king, then, returned her mistress. Let him look to his kingdom. Why should I give him my husband to do it for him and be disowned therein? I think heaven I can do without a king, but I can't do without my net, and there he lies in prison for him who cons him no thanks. Not that I would over much heed the prison if the king would but share the blame with him, or for the king to deny him, to say that he did all of his own motion and without authority. Why, child, I saw the commission with my own eyes, nor count myself under any further obligation to hold my peace concerning him. I know my husband will bear all things, even disgrace itself, undeserved, for the king's sake. He is the loveliest of martyrs, but that is the reason why I should bear it. The king have no heart and no conscience. No, I will not say that, but I will say that he hath little heart and less conscience. My good husband's fair name is gone, blasted by the king, who raises the myth of Amorgan's dishonor that he may hide himself safe behind it. I tell thee, Dorothy Vaughn, I should not have grudged his majesty my lord's life, and he had been but a right kingly king. I should have wept enough and complained too much, in womanish fashion, doubtless, but I tell thee, Earl Thoman's daughter would not have grudged it, but my lord's truth and honor are dear to him, and the good report of them is dear to me. I swear I can ill-broke carrying the title he hath given me. It is my husbands and not mine, else would I fling it in his face who thus wrongs my Herbert. This explosion from the heart of the wild Irish woman sounded dreadful in the years of the king worshipper. But he whom she thus accused the king of wronging had been scarcely less revered of her, even while the idol with the feet of clay yet stood, and had certainly been left greatly more than the king himself. Hence, notwithstanding her struggle to keep her hard to its allegiance, such a rapid change took place in her feelings, that ere long she began to confess to herself that if the Puritans could have known what the king was, their conduct would not have been so unintelligible. Not that she thought they had an atom of right on their side, or in the least feared she might ever be brought to think in the matter as they did, she confessed only that she could then have understood them. The whole aspect and atmosphere of Raglan continued changed. The Marquis was still very gloomy. Lord Charles often frowned and bit his lip, and the flush that so frequently overspread the face of Lady Glamorgan as she sat silent at her embroidery showed that she was thinking in anger of the wrong done to her husband. In this feeling, all in the castle shared, for the matter had now come to be a little understood, and as they loved the Earl more than the king, they took the Earl's part. Meantime, he for whose sake the fortress was troubled, having been released on large bail, was away with free heart to Kilkenny, busiest ever on behalf of the king, full of projects and eager in action, not a trace of resentment to be manifest, only regret that his majesty's treatment of him in destroying his credit with Catholics as the king's commissioner, had put it out of his power to be so useful as he might otherwise have been. His brain was ever contriving how to remedy things, but parties were complicated, and none quite trusted him now that he was disowned at his master. End of Chapter 48 Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona Chapter 49 of St. George and St. Michael, Volume 3 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen, Gilbert, Arizona St. George and St. Michael, Volume 3 by George McDonald Siege Things began to look threatening. Raglan's brooding disappointment and apprehension was like the electric overcharge of the earth, but waving and drawing to it, the hovering cloud, the lightning and thunder of the war began at length to stoop upon the yellow tower of Gwent. When the month of May arrived once more, with its moonlight and apple blossoms, the cloud came with it. The doings of the Earl of Blomorgan in Ireland had probably hastened the vengeance of the parliament. There was no longer any royal army. Most of the king's friends had accepted the terms offered them, and only a few of his garrisons amongst the rest that of Raglan held out. No longer, however, in such trim for defense as at first. The walls, it is true, were rather stronger than before. The quantity of provisions was large, and the garrison was sufficient. But their horses were now comparatively few, and, which was worse, the fodder and store was, in prospect of a long siege, scanty. But the worst of all, indeed the only wheat and therefore miserable fact was that the spirit did not mean the courage of the castle was gone. Its enthusiasm had grown syrah. Its inhabitants no longer loved the king as they had loved him, and even stern-faced journal duty cannot bring up his men to a hand-to-hand conflict with the same e-lines as Queen Love. The rumour of approaching troops kept gathering, and at every fresh report Gouda Moore's eyes shone. Sir Roland, said the governor one day, has not had enough of fighting yet for all thy lame shoulder? It is but my left shoulder, my lord, answered Gouda Moore. Thou lookest for the siege as and it were but a tussle and over, a flash and a roar, and thou had to answer for the place like me. Well, nay, my lord, I would feign show the round heads what an honest house can do to hold out rogues. I, but there's the rub, returned Lord Charles. Will the house hold out the rogues? Be think thee, Roland, there's never a spot in it fit for defense except the keep in the kitchen. We can make sallies, my lord, to be driven in again by ten times our number and kept in while they knock our walls about our ears. However, we will hold out while we can. Who knows what turn affairs may take? It was towards the end of April when the news reached Ragman that the king, desperate at length, had made his escape from beleaguered Oxford and in the disguise of a serving man, be taken himself to the headquarters of the Scots army to find himself no king, no guest even, but a prisoner. He sought shelter and found captivity. The marquee dropped his chin on his chest and murmured, all is over. But the pen that shod to his heart awoke wounded loyalty, he had been angry with his monarch and justly, but he would fight for him still. See to the gates Charles he cried almost springing spite of his unwieldliness from his chair. Tell Casper to keep the power mill going night and day. Would to God my boy Ned were here. His Majesty hath wrung me, but throned a prison he is my king still. The church must come down, Charles. The dead are for the living and will not cry out. For in St. Cadocus's church lay the tombs of his ancestors. On deliberation it was resolved, however, that only the tower, which commanded some portions of the castle should fall. To Dorothy it was like taking down the standard of the Lord. She went with some of the ladies to look a last look at the ancient structure and saw mass after mass fall silent from the top to clash hideous at the foot amidst the broken tombstones. It was sad enough, but the destruction of the cottages around it, that the enemy might not have shelter there, was sadder still. The women wept and wailed. The men growled and said what was ragland to them that their houses should be pulled from over their heads. The marquee offered compensation and shelter. All took the money, but few accepted the shelter, for the prospect of a siege was not attractive to any but such as were fond of fighting, of whom some would rather attack than defend. The next day they heard that Sir Trevor Williams was at us with a strong body of men. They knew Colonel Birch was besieging Gutbridge Castle. Two days passed and then Colonel Kirk appeared to the north and approached within two miles. The ladies began to look pale as often as they saw two persons talking together. There might be fresh news. His father and his wife were not the only persons in the castle who kept sighing for good Morgan. Every soul and it felt as if not to say fancy that his presence would have made it impregnable. But a strange excitement seized upon Dorothy which arose from a sense of trust and delegation outwardly unauthorized. She had not the presumption to give it form in words even to Gaspar but she felt as if they too were the special servants of the absent power. Ceaselessly therefore she kept open eyes and saw and spoke and reminded and remedied where she could so noiselessly so unobtrusively that none were offended and all took heed of the things she brought before them. Indeed what she said came at length to be listened to almost as if it had been a message from the Morgan. But her chief business was still the fire engine whose machinery she anxiously watched or if anything should happen to Gaspar and then to the engine what would become of them when driven into the tower? Discipline which of late had got very drowsy was stirred up to fresh life. Watch grew strict. The garrison was drilled more regularly and carefully and the guard and sentinels relieved to the minute. The armory was entirely overhauled and every smith set to work to get the poor remainder of his contents into good condition. One evening Lord Charles came to his father with the news said some score fresh horses had arrived. Have they brought Provinder with them, my lord? Asked the marquee. Alas, no, my lord, only teeth answered the governor. How stands the hay? At Loweb, my lord, there is plenty of oats, however. We hear today nothing of the roundheads. What say you to turning them out and letting them have lots belly full of sweet grass under the walls? I say to so good a plan, my lord, that I think we'd better extend it and let a few of the rest have a parting nibble. The marquee approved. There was a post turn in the outermost wall of the castle on the western side, so amused, commanded by the guns of the tower and opening upon a large field of grass with nothing between but a ditch. It was just wide enough to let one horse through at a time, and by this the governor resolved to turn them out, and as soon as it was nearly dark, ordered a few thick planks to be laid across the ditch, one above another, for a bridge. The field was sufficiently fenced to keep them from straying, and with the first signs of dawn they would take them in again. Dorothy, leaving the tower for the night, had reached the archway, when to her surprise she saw the figure of a huge horse move across the mouth of it, followed by another and another. Except Richard's mare on that eventful night she had never seen horse kind there before. One after another, till she had counted some five and twenty, she saw pass, then heard them cross the fountain court with heavy foot upon the tiles. At length, dark as it was, she recognized her own little dick moving the floor at the opening. She sprang forward, seized him by the halter, and drew him in beside her. On and on they came, till she had counted eighty and then the procession ceased. Presently she heard the voice of Lord Charles as he crossed the hall and came out into the court, saying, How many did stop count, Shaftow? Seventy-nine, my lord, answered the groom, coming from the direction of the gate. I counted eighty at the hall door as they went in. I am certain no more than seventy-nine went through the gate, my lord. What can have become of the idiot? He must have gone into the chapel. Or up the archway, where he may still be in the hall. Are it sure he is not gracing on the turf? Certain sure, my lord, answered Shaftow. I am the thief, my lord, said Dorothy, coming from the archway behind him, leading her little horse. Good, my lord, let me keep dick. He is as useful as another, more useful than some. How, cousin, cried Lord Charles, this dimension I was sending off thy genit to save the hay? No, no, and thou hast looked well at the other horses that wouldst have seen they are such as we want for work, such as we indeed save the hay, but after another fashion. I but mean to do thy dick a kindness and give him a bite of grass with the rest. Then you are turning them out into the fields, my lord? Yes, at the little post turn. Is it safe, my lord, with the enemy so near? It is my father's idea. I do not think there is any danger. There will be no moon tonight. May not the scouts ride the closer for that, my lord? Yes, but they will not see the better. I hope, my lord, you will not think me presumptuous, but please, let me keep my dick inside the walls. Do what thou wilt with thine own, cousin. I think thou art overfearful, but do as thou wilt, I say. Dorothy led dick back to his table, a little distressed that Lord Charles seemed to dislike her caution. But she had a strong feeling of the risk of the thing, and after she went to bed was so haunted by it that she could not sleep. After a while, however, her thoughts took another direction. Might not Richard come to the siege? What if they should meet? That his party had triumph, no one altered the rites of the matter, and she was sure it had not altered her feelings. Yet her feelings were altered. She was no longer so fiercely indignant against the Puritans as heretofore. Was she turning traitor or losing the government of herself? Or was the rite triumphing in her against her will? Was it Saint Michael for the truth conquering Saint George for the old way of England? Had the King been a tyrant indeed? And had the powers of heaven declared against him? And were they now putting on their instruments to cut down the harvest of wrong? Had not Richard been very sure of being in the rite? But when was that shaky? Not at the walls, but the foundations? What was that noise as a distant thunder? She sprang from her bed, caught up her night light, for now she never slept in the darkness heretofore, and hurried to the watchtower. From its tops she saw, by the faint light of the stars, vague forms careering over the fields. There was no cry except an occasional nay, and the thunder was from the feet of many horses on the turf. The enemy was lifting the castle horses. She flew to the chamber beneath, where, since the Earl's departure, in the stead of the crossbow, a small minion gun had been placed by Lord Charles, with this muzzle in the round where the lines of the loophole crossed. A piece of match lay beside it. She caught it up, lighted it at her candle, and fired the gun. The tower shook with its roar and recoil. She had fired the first gun of the siege. Might it be a good omen? In an instant the castle was alive, warders came running from the western gate. Dorothy had gone, and they could not tell who had fired the gun. But there were no occasion to ask why it had been fired. For where were the horses? They could hear, but no longer see them. There was mounting in hot haste and a hurried celly. Lord Charles flung himself on little Dick's bareback, and flew to Reconoiter. Fifty of the garrison were ready armed and mounted by the time he came back. Having discovered the route they were taking, and off they went at full speed in pursuit. But, encumbered as they were at first with the driven horses, the twenty men who had carried them off had such a start of their pursuers that they reached the high road where they could not stray and drove them right before them to search Trevor Williams at dusk. The fodder will last a long nurse at the marquee with a scythe and after his eighty horses. Mr. Dorothy said Lord Charles the next day. He thinks thou art as Cassandra and Troy. I shall treble after this to do ought against thy judgment. My Lord, returned Dorothy. I have to ask your pardon for my presumption, but it was born in upon me, as Tomfool says, that there was danger in the thing. It was scarcely judgment on my part, rather a womanish dread. Go, though, on to speak thy mind like Cassandra, cousin Dorothy, and let us men despise it at our peril. I am humbled before thee, said Lord Charles, with the generosity of his family. Truly, child, said Lady Glamorgan, the mantle of my husband hath fallen upon thee. The next day Sir Trevor Williams and his men sat down before the castle with a small battery, and the siege was fairly begun. Dorothy, on the top of the keep, watching them, but not understanding what they were about in particulars, heard the sudden bellow of one of their cannon. Two of the battlements beside her flew into one, and the stones of the parapet between them stormed into the cistern. Had her presence been the attraction to that thunderbolt? Often after this, whilst she watched the engine mellow in the workshop, she would hear the dull thud of an iron ball against the body of the tower, but, although it knocked the parapet into showers of stones, their artillery could not make the slightest impression upon that. The same night a sally was prepared, rolling men to Lord Charles, begging leave to go, but his thoughtship would not hear of it, telling him to get well, and he should have enough of sally before the siege was over. The enemy were surprised and lost a few men, but soon recovered themselves and drove the royalist home, following them to the very gates, whence the guns of the castles sent them back in their turn. Many such sallys and skirmishes followed. Once and again there was but time for the guard to open the gate, admit their own, and close it, ere the enemy came thundering up to be received with a volley in gallop off. At first there was great excitement within the walls when a party was out. Eager and exorcised followed them from every point of vision, but at length they got used to it after all the ordinary occurrences of siege. By and by Colonel Morgan appeared with additional forces and made his headquarters to the south at Yandany. In two days more the castle was surrounded and they began to erect the larger battery on the east of it, also to dig trenches and prepare for mining. The chief point of attack was that side of the stone court, which lay between the towers of the kitchen and the library. Here then came the hottest of the siege and very soon that range of building gave show of affording an easy passage by the time the outer works should be taken. After the first ball whose execution Dorothy had witnessed there came no more for some time. Sir Trevor waited until the second battery should be begun and Captain Hook arrived who was to be at the head of the mining operations. Hence most of the inmates of the castle began to imagine that a siege was not such an unpleasant thing after all. They lacked nothing. The apple trees bloomed, the moon shone, the white horse fed the fountain, the pigeons flew about the courts, and the peacocks dreaded on the grass. But when they began digging their approaches and mounting their guns on the east side, Sir Trevor opened his battery on the west and the guns of the tower replied. The guns also from the kitchen tower and another between it and the library tower played upon the trenches and the noise was tremendous. At first the inhabitants were nearly deafened and frequently failed to hear what was said but at length they grew hardened so much so that they were often unaware of the firing altogether and began again to the siege no great matter. But when the guns of the eastern battery opened fire and at the first discharge a round shot bringing with it a barrel full of stones came down the kitchen chimney knocking the lid through the bottom of the cook stew pan and scattering all the fire about the place. When the roof of one of the turrets went clashing over the stones of the paved court when a spent shot struck the bars of the great mogul's cage and sent him furious making them think what might happen and wishing they were sure of the politics of the wild beast when the stones and slates flew about like sudden showers of hail when every now and then a great rumble told of a falling wall and that side of the court was rapidly turning to a heap of ruins then were cries and screams many more however of terror than of injury to be heard in the castle and they began to understand that it was not starvation but something more peremptory still to which they were doomed to succumb at times there would fall a lull perhaps for a few hours perhaps but for a few moments to end in a sudden fury of firing on both sides mingled with shouts the rattling of bullets and the falling of stones when the women would rush to and fro screaming and all would imagine the storm was in the breach but the gloom of the marquees seemed to have vanished through the breaking of the storm as the outburst of the lightning takes the weight off head and heart that has for days been gathering true when his house began to fall he would look for a moment grave at each successive rumble but the next he would smile and not his head as if all was just as he had expected and would have it one day when Sertobi Mathews and Dr. Bailey happened both to be with him in his study an ancient stack of chimneys tumbled with tremendous uproar into the stone court the two clergymen started visibly and then looked at each other with pallid faces but the marquees smiled kept the silence for an instant and then in slow solemn voice said seamus annum conium siu teratris domus nomus nostra hujus habitaciones disolvatur cod edificacionum ex deohabemus domun nonmanufaptum eternum incoales the clergymen grasped to each other by the hand then turning bowed together to the marquee but the conversation was not resumed one evening in the drawing room after supper the marquee in good spirits and for him in good health was talking more merrily than usual Lady Glamorgan stood near him in the window the captain of the garrison was giving a spirited description of a sally they had made the night before upon Colonel Morgan in his quarters at Yandini and Sir Roland was vowing that come of it what might leave or no leave he would ride the next time when crash was something in the room the marquee put his hand to his head and the countess fled in terror crying oh lord, oh lord a bullet had come through the window knocked a little marvel pillar belonging to it and fragments on the floor and glancing from it struck the marquee on the side of the head the countess finding herself unhurt ran no further than the door I asked your pardon my lord for my rudeness she said with trembling voice as she came slowly back but indeed ladies she added I thought the house was coming down you gentlemen who know not what fear is I pray you to forgive me for I was mortally frightened daughter you had reason to run away when your father was knocked on the head said the marquee he put his finger on the flatten bullet where it had fallen on the table and turning it round and round was silent for a moment evidently framing a right something he wanted to say then with the pretense that the bullet had been flattened upon his head gentlemen he remarked those who had a mind to flatter me were want to tell me that I had a good head in my younger days but if I don't flatter myself I think I have a good headpiece in my old age or else it would not have been musket proof but although he took the thing thus quietly and indeed merrily it revealed to him that their usual apartments would no longer fit for the ladies and he gave orders therefore that the great rooms in the tower should be prepared for them and the children Dorothy's capacity for work was not easily satisfied but now for a time she had plenty to do in the midst of the roar from the batteries and the answering roar from towers and walls the ladies but took themselves to their stronger quarters a thousand necessaries had to be carried with them and she as a matter of course had seen had to super intent the removal with many hands to make light work she soon finished however and the family was lodged where no hostile shot could reach them although the frequent fall of portions of its battle in its summit rendered even a peat beyond its impenetrable shell hazardous Dorothy would lie awake at night where she slept in her mistresses room and listen now to the baffle bullet as it fell from the scare sent in the wall now to the roar of the artillery sounding dull and far away through the ten foot thickness and ever and again the words of the ancient psalm would return upon her memory thou has been a shelter for me and a strong tower from the enemy she tended the fire engine if possible yet more carefully than ever kept the cistern full and the water lipping the edge of the mode but let no fountain flow except that from the mouth of the white horse her great fear was less to shot should fall into the reservoir and injure its bottom but its contriver had taken care that even without the protection of its watery armor it should be indestructible the marquee would not leave his own rooms and the supervision they gave him the domestics were mostly lodged within the kitchen tower which, although in full exposure to the enemy's fire had a shaft proved able to resist it but all between that and the library tower was rapidly becoming a chaos of stones and timber Lord Glamorgan's secret chamber was shot through and through but Kaspar, as soon as the direction and force of the battery were known had carried off his books and instruments End of Chapter 49 Recording by Nancy Cochran-Gergen Gilbert, Arizona