Mr. Cromwell released his hand and said no other word.
"A good night," smiled Lord Falkland, and, raising his beaver, left Westminster Hall with Edward Hyde.
Lord Essex came up to the window, and to him Oliver Cromwell turned sharply.
"There go two who will join the King's party," he said bluntly, pointing after the two Cavaliers.
"They have long been of that mind," replied Lord Essex dryly. "Mr. Hyde goeth to seek advancement and my lord because he is tender towards the clergy."
"I would have kept my lord," remarked Mr. Cromwell, with a touch of wistfulness in his tone. "He is a goodly youth and a brave, and hath too fair a soul to join with idolators and Papists."
Meanwhile Lord Falkland, having parted from Mr. Hyde, was walking along the river-bank, where an uneven row of houses edged the gardens of Northumberland House, Whitehall, and the estates of the Buckingham family.
The intense disquiet that agitated the country did not show itself here: barges and sailing vessels went peacefully past on the brown tide, urchins played in the mud, boatmen clustered round the steps and clamoured for fares, at some house near by a concert of music was being performed, and outside on the cobbles the barefoot children danced.
One or two gallants escorting ladies masked from the weather strolled by, and over all was the peaceful glow of the summer sunset hour.
The scene was thrice familiar to Lord Falkland, but his sensitive soul and quick eye were alive to every detail of the street, the people, and the river.
He loved England, he loved London and the crooked river, built over with crooked houses, from which rose the churches with the Gothic towers or lead cupolas; but to-night this love made him feel melancholy. He had a premonition that terror and discord would descend on the beloved city, on the beloved land, and that he would be able to avail nothing against those relentless forces of which Mr. Cromwell was typical, and which seemed to be sweeping him on to tumult and strife.
He had left all the delights of his wealthy retirement—his dear family, his dear friends, and his dear literature—that he might help his country in the pass to which she had come.
And now he had himself arrived at a pass and must decide whether he would remain with the party by which he had so far stood, or remain loyal to the ancient Church andthe ancient constitution which his fathers had served and defended.
He paused in his walk when he reached Whitehall stairs, and turned to look at the splendid new palace as it rose above the gardens and the houses.
It was a very gorgeous sunset: gold and tawny, scarlet and crimson were flung out across the purple west like great banners unfolded; in each window-glass a blot of gold glittered amazingly; gold lay in every little wrinkle in the surface of the river and on the patched canvas of the ships; from the sea a wind was blowing, and in the breath of it the heat of the summer day died.
My Lord Falkland lifted his eyes from the palace to the magnificence of the heavens and his sadness increased upon him; when presently he looked to earth again he was aware of a small child crying on a doorstep over some tremendous woe.
He took some dried plums and a sixpence from his pocket (he usually had sweetmeats about him, having many children of his acquaintance) and gave them to the boy. Then he took a small brown volume of Virgil from his pocket, but perceiving it to be too dark to read, he called a pair of oars and was rowed to Chelsea Reaches to gain the sweeter air of the country and to have leisure on the bosom of the river and under the flaming sky to deal with the perplexing thoughts that vexed his noble mind.
Mr. Cromwell was in his chamber writing letters; it was a few weeks before the expected return of the King and the opening of Parliament, and the Member for Cambridge had come up to London early to confer with Mr. Pym and other leaders of the popular party on the so-called Remonstrance, otherwise the exposition of the case against Charles, and of the hopes and fears and perils of the Parliament, already divided within its own walls by the standing back or falling aside of men like Falkland and Hyde.
It was a challenge to the King and to those who supported him, and if passed would prove a shrewder blow to royalty than even the death of Strafford.
For the rest, events were, for such a time of unrest, going with surprising smoothness and quietness for the Parliament; it was now generally known that the King had failed in his endeavours to bring down a northern army to overawe Westminster, and though his plots, the intrigues of the Queen and her Romanist advisers were incessant and served to keep the Commons in a continual state of watchfulness and alarm, they had hitherto been fruitless, and Mr. Pym and Mr. Cromwell, though they might be accounted the strongest opponents of the King, yet now hoped to bring or force Charles to reason and put the kingdom in good order without recourse to more rioting or ferment.
Oliver Cromwell, thinking of these things with satisfaction, and having sealed his letter, rose to light the lamp, for the gloomy October day, foggy and brown at the brightest, was drawing to a close.
When he had trimmed and lit the lamp, he heard a familiar footstep on the stairs, and, going swiftly to the door, opened it on John Pym.
"I did not expect thee," said Mr. Cromwell, smiling.
His visitor passed him and, throwing himself into the great chair fitted with worn leather cushions near the yet unshuttered window, stared at his friend with such a visible disturbance in his usually composed and bold features that Mr. Cromwell was surprised into an exclamation—
"What news is there?"
A grim smile stirred John Pym's pale lips.
"Where hast thou been all this day that thou hast not heard?"
"Here, since midday, and never a breath of news could reach me if some friend did not bring it."
John Pym put his hand to his forehead; he looked old and ill and more utterly overmastered by emotion than his colleague had ever before seen him.
"Evil news, Mr. Pym?" and the energetic Puritan's mind flew to that centre of mischief, the King and Queen in Scotland.
"Evil news," repeated the older man sombrely, "news that hath set London in a frenzy. They are running mad in the streets now—news that will make some swift conclusion here inevitable."
A light that was perhaps as much of pleasurable anticipation and satisfaction as of regret or anger brightened Mr. Cromwell's eyes as he answered—
"Tell me—as quick as may be—tell me this grievous thing."
"The full news has not come to hand yet—only a couple of desperate messengers and this afternoon three more expresses confirming it."
He paused, for his voice was fast breaking under the strain of what he had to utter.
"The lamp is smoking," he said, to steady himself.
Mr. Cromwell slowly turned down the wick, then Mr. Pym resumed in a controlled and normal voice.
"There has been a most bloody rising in Ireland. The popish Irish have risen against the English in Ulster—one of them, O'Neil, hath declared he holdeth a commission from the King. Mr. Cromwell, the fearful stories are beyond belief—thousands have been massacred, and the whole Island is in a welter of barbarous confusion."
A groan of passionate horror and fury broke from Oliver Cromwell; all the hatred of the Englishman for the Irish, of the Puritan for the Papist, of the champion of freedom for the King and tyrant stirred in his heart.
"This is the Queen's doing!" he exclaimed as half London had exclaimed in the same rage and anguish.
"That is the popular cry," said Mr. Pym; "but we must be above the popular cries and reason out this thing ourselves. Maybe this Phelim O'Neil lieth, maybe the Queen hath no hand in this slaying of the Protestants."
"Canst thou deny," cried Mr. Cromwell, "that she and her priests of Baal have ever given pernicious advice to the King? Oh, wretched country that ever had this cursed Frenchwoman set over it!"
"Let the Queen go," said John Pym. "We are not concerned with her, we cannot strike at her; our business is with the King. Compose thyself—I am come to confer with thee."
"I cannot so easily be calm," answered Mr. Cromwell, "when I consider how God's English have been treated—are, at this moment, being tormented and slain!"
"This is the sowing," returned Mr. Pym grimly. "By and by will come the harvest."
"May I be there to help gather it!" cried the Member for Cambridge. "May God preserve me to a little aid in avenging His people."
"The time will come," said John Pym, "'for the eyes of the Lord are over the righteous, and His ears are open to their prayers; but the face of the Lord is against them that do evil.'"
Oliver Cromwell dropped his chin on his breast, as his fashion was when deeply moved; but John Pym raised his authoritative face and spoke again.
"At this moment we must consider how this event is like to bear on the issues at Westminster. We must be ready. I do not dare to hold the King responsible for this most horrible work in Ireland, though I fear he will find it hard to clear his name before the popular eye; but this much is proven—he had a plot with the Irish gentry to gain Dublin for himself, and there to raise an army to send against us."
"Aye, the sword," muttered Cromwell, "the power of the sword!"
"Even of that have I come to speak," pursued John Pym. "Thou, sagacious as thou art, canst see the next move the King will take when he returneth without the help he hoped for from Scotland?"
The other lifted his fine head quickly.
"He will demand an army for the reconquest of Ireland," he said briefly. "And as I hope for mercy," he added solemnly, "he shall not have it!"
"The only army the Parliament will raise will be one under its own control and officered by its own men," replied John Pym; "but the struggle will be sharp. We have now such men as Hyde and Falkland against us, and the King's Episcopalian party gathereth strength in the House and in the country."
He was silent a while, then he gave a great sigh of mental distress and physical weariness.
"Is it too late to hope for peace?" he murmured, as if speaking to himself. "Is it too late?"
"It is too late," blazed out Cromwell, "to trust the King. Too late, indeed! Unless we wish to wait anotherSaint Bartholomew—another Valtelline. It is not so long since this Queen's house had those damnable murders done on poor Protestants—she who designed that devilry was a Medici. Was not this woman's mother of that family? And was not the King's grandmother from that same idolatrous court, and was she not a wanton Papist? Trust none of them, Mr. Pym, nor Stewart, nor Bourbon, but listen to the Lord's bidding, even as He commandeth, and care nothing for any other."
"Thou didst not use to be so hot against the King," said John Pym.
"I did not know his subtle tricks, his shifts, his deceptions, his lies, his faithlessness, his great unreason. Hath he not given us his challenge? What did he not write this very month from Scotland? Mindst thou his words? 'I am constant to the discipline and doctrine of the Church of England established by Queen Elizabeth and my father, and I resolve, by the grace of God, to die in the maintenance of it.' And then he proceedeth to fill up the vacant bishoprics, and with those very divines against whom we were bringing a charge of treason. Then what thou hast said, even this moment, of Ireland—tell me not that it was not his sceptre which was the staff that stirred up this flame! No more dealings with Charles, Mr. Pym; the time for that is past."
The extraordinary strength and grandeur that emanated from the speaker's personality, clothing it with that magnificence that is usually only bestowed by the knowledge of high power or a mighty station, was impressed on Mr. Pym as never, perhaps, before; and it flashed into the mind of the bold parliamentary leader that here might be indeed that champion of great fearlessness, indomitable purpose, spiritual enthusiasm, and broad views who would soon be necessary to second him and even to take his place, for he, John Pym, was not young, and was worn with years of infinite labour. Times, too, had immensely changed since first he had stepped forward to defendthe English law and English liberties, and in the new, strange, perhaps terrific epoch coming it might well be that a man would be needed of qualities different from his own.
Hitherto John Pym had not looked upon Oliver Cromwell as other than an able and enthusiastic lieutenant; he had ranked him below men of the intellectual calibre and fine culture of Hampden and Falkland, and though he had never doubted his willingness in the cause of freedom, he had not given much thought to his capacity. But lately—when Cromwell had fired at the King's appointment of the obnoxious priests, when he had spoken by his side for the exclusion of the bishops from Parliament, when he had seconded the attack on the Prayer Book—Pym had noticed in him the gleam of rare and splendid qualities.
And as he looked at him now, a man of homely simplicity in appearance, yet conveying, by some magic of the spirit, a splendour and a force such as is found once among tens of thousands, his heart leapt with a deep inward joy.
"Thou art very fit to challenge the King," he said quietly.
The Calvinist was in no way moved by this.
"I may be an instrument," he said, "but the way is confused and troubled; we draw near the whirlpool, and unless God make Himself manifest, how are we to avoid being sucked into destruction?"
He began to pace the room with uneven and agitated steps.
"I would not be the first to draw the sword!" he cried; "but if the Lord make it law and putteth it into my hands, shall I not strike? Oh, Mr. Pym, war is an awful thought, and we hang on the edge of dreadful conclusions; but is this the moment to turn back or pause? 'Teach me, O Lord, the way of Thy statute, and I will keep it to the end! Give me understanding and I will keep Thy law; yea, I will keep it with my whole heart!'"
He paused by the farther wall, resting one hand against the wood panelling, and with the other wiping his brow and lips with a plain cambric handkerchief.
John Pym sat motionless in the great arm-chair, leaning forward a little and looking intently and with a kind of quiet eagerness at the younger man.
"When I heard this afternoon of the confirmation of this dismal and lamentable news from Ireland, when I foresaw that the King had now an excuse to demand an army—then I too thought—God hath spoken, and it must be the sword."
Oliver Cromwell's whole stout frame trembled, as if responding to some intense and suppressed emotion.
"England! England!" he muttered, "are we come to have to heal thy hurts with the bloody steel and the devouring flame? I had hoped differently."
"If the King armeth so must we," said John Pym. "But there is yet some hope. Hyde and Falkland are now something in the councils of the King, and he may listen to them."
"My Lord Falkland will do a true man's uttermost," replied Cromwell, with that sudden tenderness that was as natural to him as his sudden fierceness. "But will he avail? I have but a mean opinion of Mr. Hyde."
"Neither he nor my Lord Viscount have a grasp bold enough nor an outlook sure enough for these difficult times. But their advice will better that of the Queen and the priests, and in them resteth our last hopes of a peaceable settlement."
As Pym spoke he rose and, going over to Cromwell, grasped him by the shoulders and looked earnestly into his face. In age there was nearly twenty years difference between the two men, and the appearance of the lawyer who had led a studious life in cities was very different from that of the robust country gentleman; but their look of ardour, of resolution, of steadfastness was the same, and John Pym's face, marked with years and faded by ill-health,held the same brightness of a high purpose as the blunt, fresh features of the younger man, still in the height and prime of his vigorous strength.
"Thou wilt be a man much needed in the times to come," said Mr. Pym, "for I think thou hast the gift of fortitude."
Oliver Cromwell did not answer; in his mind's eye he saw that misty day outside St. Ives, the black river, the black houses, the gnarled and bent willows, the church spire pointing to an obscure heaven, the flat bog leading to Erith's Bulwark, beyond—the rude paling—all the common details of that familiar scene where he had first entered into covenant with God.
The glory of the vision had faded, and melancholies had taken the place of that unspeakable joy and wonder; but a faith that never weakened was always there and sometimes flashed up, as now, into a dazzling remembrance of that other November day and the promise of the Lord.
"Englishmen such as thee are greatly wanted now," added Mr. Pym after a little.
Mr. Cromwell suddenly flashed into a smile which had a certain steady happiness in it, as if he had gained contentment from his momentary absorption or reverie.
"There are many better than I!" he answered. "Poor reeds, Mr. Pym, but by binding us together thou mayst make a stout birch for thy purpose!"
He turned and took his hat and mantle from a peg on the wall.
"I will come out with thee," he said, "and see how things go in London."
As the two gentlemen went together down the narrow stairs, Pym, in a few words, gave his companion the outlines of the next momentous measure he intended to bring forward at this juncture, when the public frenzy at the Irish rebellion and the atrocious circumstances of it would be occupying Parliament as well as people.
"I shall ask that military appointments may be under parliamentary control, Mr. Cromwell, and that His Majesty take only such advisers as the nation can approve; also that my Lord of Essex be given the command of the train bands—under the authority of Parliament, not the King."
"Well dost thou seize the moment!" returned the other, in a tone of admiration. "Turning even these events of horror into profit for liberty, methinks thou hast the King so stript of all pretences that he will scarce be able to find any rag of Popery to cover his bareness."
"Take care," said John Pym, gently laying his hand on his friend's cuff, "that thou dost not underestimate those forces opposed to thee."
"And thou," replied Cromwell, "that thou dost not underestimate thine own strength and power."
They came out into the ill-lit street, down which the sleet was sweeping in icy spears; the close, stale odours of the city encompassed them, and the bitter damp struck through their mantles and made their flesh shiver.
"Methinks," said Cromwell, "this dark air is full of portents and heavy with forebodings. Thou knowest, Mr. Pym, that we stand in a little mean street, in the cold and darkness, in the midst of a distressed and oppressed city, yet I tell thee the Lord hath us by the hand and will lead us yet into the freedom and light of great spaces, there to work His will."
"This is Lord Falkland's advice," said the Queen, "and I do wonder you should so listen to one who was but lately in the forefront of your enemies and even now is close with them."
"It is the advice of the moderate men," returned Charles, with a sneer on the adjective, "and I must listen to them. Patience, my dear, my beloved. If I could win John Pym it were worth some sacrifice of pride."
"Things run more smoothly in your favour now," retorted Henriette Marie, "and you have no need for these concessions. Was not our welcome to London fair enough? And do not your friends in the Lords grow daily?"
"But the party of John Pym groweth daily also," said the King grimly, "and therefore have I sent for him."
"I do wonder," cried his wife, "that you should stoop to parley with one whom we both hold in hatred!"
"Do not imagine," replied Charles, with intense bitterness, "that I shall ever forgive John Pym, whom I have long resolved to punish fittingly. But if I can make an instrument of him, for his own humiliation and my gain, surely I will."
They were walking in the gardens of Whitehall. It was still winter, but of an extraordinary mildness; a pale and soft blue sky showed between the bare branches, and through the thick carpet of damp brown leaves the fresh little plants and weeds pushed up shoots of green.
Charles and his wife walked slowly along the damppaths; she was wrapped carelessly in a black hood and cloak, and her face was disfigured by a look of annoyance, anxiety, and fatigue.
Her beauty and sweetness seemed to have been lately burnt away by the angry pride and passions the recent troubles had roused in her; she was not one to retain either meekness or gaiety in adversity, and she fretted deeply under what she termed the King's inaction.
Had she been in his place she would have put her fate to the test before now by some act of violence, and instead of making concession after concession, as Charles had done, she would have given the call to arms at the first refusal of the Parliament to do her will or at the first murmur they made against her fiat.
And now, in her eyes, a humiliation deeper than any yet endured was to hand, in the shape of the King's proposed interview with John Pym—a proposal which, as she had guessed, came from Lord Falkland, who was beginning to attach himself to the Court, and who was, as always, working sincerely in the interests of concord, a peaceful settlement, and public security.
As usual, perversity and impatience, frivolity and pride made it impossible for the Queen to grasp the difficulties of her husband's position and how those difficulties had been augmented by the hideous uprisings in Ireland, which continued with all the violence of furious passions loosened after long restraint.
She said no more, however, for she was not the woman to waste words on a matter where she was not likely to prevail.
The King too was silent; his feelings against John Pym were no less bitter than his Queen's hatred of that resolute commoner, and they were tinged with a dreadful shame and an awful remorse which she did not feel, for the thought of Pym brought with it the thought of Strafford.
When they came to a little turn in one of the paths they beheld ahead of them a very pleasant vista of bare butfresh trees, flecked with sun and covered with splashes and tufts of moss, and on a bench beneath a slender beech a group of youths who were engaged in shooting arrows at a target.
Three of the little company were at the first opening of manhood, two were children. All were unusual in their handsomeness and princely poise as in the richness of their appointments, and four of them were distinguished by a darkness of colouring and vividness of expression commonly associated with the French or Italian, and not likely to be the passport to popularity in England; the fifth and youngest was a beautiful, grave child of eight, or so, with bright complexion and golden auburn hair, who, leaning against the tree, handed to the others the arrows out of a quiver of gilded leather.
His dress heightened his look of fairness, for it was light blue, and the sun fell full over him while the others were in shade and darkly though magnificently attired.
The other child was a lad a year or two older, of no particular beauty, but of a nimble and sprightly appearance, whose irregular features were lit by a pair of very handsome, eloquent, black eyes; seated at the end of the bench, he was at the moment practising his skill at archery and was tugging at a great bow that was almost too stubborn for his strength.
The three young men who were gathered round him, directing and instructing, were obviously brothers; all three of a splendid presence and all characterized by an air of recklessness, arrogance, and a certain rude pride, and one was a youth who would have been distinguished in any company for his extreme handsomeness and his animated, flamboyant personality.
It was he who, with the quickness that accompanied all his motions, turned at the first footfall he heard and discerned the King. At the sight of His Majesty the sport ended, and the young men rose, laughing; but the fair child, with a certain prim absorption, busied himself inputting the arrows away, and never looked up from his task.
"The bow is too strong for Charles," said the handsome youth with a strong foreign accent.
"Get thee a smaller one," answered the King, smiling at his eldest son, who had cast the bow down with a good-natured grimace.
"Nay, sire," replied the Prince of Wales, "it is a play that groweth old-fashioned. I will practise the sword."
At this the fair boy glanced up from the quiver he was filling.
"If you will not learn," he said, in a voice serious for his years, "why waste this time in the essay?"
His brother burst out laughing.
"To pass the hours, thou wise man!"
"I love not to pass the time in fooling," replied the little Duke of York crossly. "If I had thought you would not learn, I would not have held the arrows for you."
The young man laughed again, and so did the Queen, but the King said quietly—
"If James hath a mind to be serious—why, it is no ill thing; you, my nephews, might without harm be graver."
The three princes took this reproof in smiling silence; they made a charming picture in the winter sunlight, in their youth and gaiety and self-confidence and all the graceful airs of pride and rank which well became their thoughtless age and high position.
Two of them, the Elector Palatine and Prince Maurice, moved on through the gardens with their two English cousins and the Queen, but Rupert, the handsome, impatient youth, remained where the King stood thoughtfully by the bench, beside the fallen bow and the quiver of arrows little James had flung down in disgust.
"Will Your Majesty see this traitor Pym to-day?" asked Rupert eagerly.
"Yes, here, and soon," replied Charles.
"He should be treading the scaffold planks, not the King's garden!" cried the Prince.
Charles looked at his nephew with mingled affection and doubt. His own nature was so totally different from that of the headstrong, violent, reckless, and rudely arrogant Prince, that he could not altogether love and trust his nephew; at the same time the young man's eager loyalty, his warm if imprudent championship of the King's every action, could not but endear him to Charles, as did his history of misfortune and the fact that he was the son of the King's only sister, Elizabeth, who had met with troubles undeserved and bravely borne.
He answered with the bitterness that often now flavoured his speech.
"You will taste trouble in your time, Rupert, if you do not learn that such words must not be used of those who lead the people."
"I shall never be a king or a ruler," answered Rupert, "and so can keep a freer tongue. A third son hath no hopes, but few fears, so tantivy to these crop-eared churls, and may I one day have the hunting of them!"
He cast up his beaver as he spoke and caught it again with a laugh of sheer light-heartedness.
"A free lance at your service, sire," he cried, and stooping near the root of the beech he pulled up a root of violet which bore several pale and small flowers of an exceeding sweetness of perfume.
With quick brown fingers he fastened it into the button-hole of his dark scarlet doublet.
"Here comes the bold rebel," he said, his loud, deep voice but slightly lowered.
Charles hastily turned his head.
Lord Falkland and John Pym were approaching. The King seated himself and pulled his hat over his eyes as if to conceal the confusion in his countenance when he found himself face to face with the man whom he regarded as his minister's murderer, and Rupert, leaning againstthe tree, folded his arms on his broad chest in an attitude of contempt and defiance.
The four men made a strange opposition when they came together: the refined sweetness and gentle bearing of the English noble contrasting with the coarse beauty and bold demeanour of the foreign prince, and the severe deportment and graceful figure of the King opposed to the bent form, simple attire, and quiet carriage of the parliamentary leader.
Both men had approached this interview with reluctance and a sense of hopelessness; Pym, because he thought that it would be impossible to force the King to sincerity, and the King, because he thought it would be impossible to bend or break Pym.
Charles gave no immediate answer to Lord Falkland's presentation, and made not the least effort to appear gracious. He and Pym were not strangers to each other; there had been a time, years ago, when it had seemed as if the famous lawyer might be one of those advising and guiding the King.
"Sir," said Charles at length, "I know not why I have chosen to see you here, save that the day is fair and we can talk here under the sky as well as under a ceiling."
"Sir," replied John Pym simply, "I have been mewed up so much of late that I am very glad to be in a pleasant place of green."
"Give us leave, my lord," said Charles, "and you, Rupert, we have to confer with this our faithful subject."
The King's cold sarcasm was not lost on John Pym, whose lips curved into a faint quiet smile, nor on the two young men, one of whom heard with vexation, the other with considerable amusement.
Rupert would, indeed, have liked to have stayed and helped bait and annoy a man whom he regarded as only fit for the branding, the mutilation, the pillory, and the fine which had been the fate of William Prynne a few yearsearlier, but he bowed to the King's decision and moved away with the Viscount.
Charles looked after the two figures, alike in youth and comeliness, dissimilar in everything else, then turned his stern and weary eyes on John Pym, who stood with his plain hat in his hand, waiting for the King to speak.
"Mr. Pym," he said abruptly, "there is much disaffection in the House."
"Yes, sire."
"And parties are very sharply divided," added Charles, alluding to the continued strength of his partisans in the Commons.
John Pym understood him perfectly.
"We have," he answered, "much to contend against, but God hath given us success."
The King's pale face assumed a look even more hard and bitter than before; he knew Pym referred to the passing of the Great Remonstrance which he had carried through the Commons by a narrow majority.
"We?" he exclaimed. "For whom do you speak when you say 'we,' Mr. Pym?"
"For those whom Your Majesty wished to deal with when you sent for me," answered the commoner calmly.
"Ah!" cried the King sharply. "You think you can boast to my face of your power in the Commons!"
"I can boast to any man's face of the power of the English people," replied Pym, "and I believe it is that power that Your Majesty wisheth to reckon with."
Charles was silent, not being able to master his humiliation and pride sufficiently to speak.
"It is that power Your Majestymustreckon with," added John Pym, without bravado or insult, but with intense firmness.
The blood stained the King's pallor as if it had been called there by a blow.
"You have changed your language since last we spoke together, Mr. Pym!" he cried.
"Much hath changed, sire. There is a broad river with many currents and many whirlpools flowing now through England, and it hath swept away many old landmarks. I do not mean discourtesy, but Your Majesty must have seen for himself the swift changes of the times."
"Yes," replied the King. "I have marked a crop of sedition such as few sovereigns have been called upon to cope with."
"And the advisers of Your Majesty have ordered and permitted an upset of the laws such as few peoples have had to endure, and as it is not in the temper of the English to bear."
A haughty and bitter reply was on Charles' lips, but he remembered that it was his object to in some way gain Pym and Pym's enormous influence, and he summoned his slender stock of tact and patience.
"Mr. Pym," he said, with dignity, "we are not here to discuss old grievances, but rather to prepare balm for present sores and to consider how to avoid opening of future wounds."
John Pym smiled sadly.
"It is all," he said, "in Your Majesty's hands."
"I think," answered the King, "that very little is left in my hands. Civil and religious authority is both assailed, and now you would arrest from me the power of the sword."
"The Parliament should have authority to choose Your Majesty's advisers and to control the army and the militia," said Pym.
"You try to force me into a corner," replied Charles, in a still voice. "But you say it is in my hands," he added, with an effort. "Tell me if there is any means you—and I—may pursue together."
John Pym knew as clearly as if Charles had put it into words that he was appealing for his help; he stood silent, waiting for the King to further reveal himself.
"You have had a long and laborious life, Mr. Pym,"continued Charles, fingering the deep lace on his cuffs. "I could give you that ease and honour that bring repose."
"I am sorry Your Majesty said that," returned the commoner. "You must know that I am not a second Strafford to leave my party for royal bribes."
"You dare use that name to me!" blazed Charles, all his wrath and hatred, shame and pain, suddenly laid bare.
"Why not?" returned Pym steadily. "The death of Thomas Wentworth lieth not at my door. I opposed his impeachment. I wished his punishment, not his blood."
"Thou and thou only brought him to the block!" cried Charles.
"Nor I, nor any could have done it if his master had chosen to save him," said John Pym.
"This is too much!" cried Charles, his lips quivering, his eyes reddened and flashing. "By my soul, it is too much! Against my will was this meeting!"
"I also thought it was too late," replied Pym; "but I stand here, ready to serve Your Majesty if Your Majesty will deal sincerely with your people."
Charles' natural duplicity came to his aid and supplied the place of patience; he mastered the wrath and horror caused in him ever by the mention of Strafford, and answered with sudden and unnatural quietness—
"Mr. Pym," he said, looking not at him but at his own square-toed shoes and the white silk roses on them, "I do desire concord and plain dealing, nor do I wish to provoke further strife."
"Your Majesty," replied Pym, "then, should stop this great gathering of ruffling Cavaliers who rally to the palace, and this armed guard who insult the passing crowd."
"What of the Roundhead rabble?" said Charles fiercely, "who tear my bishops' robes from their backs when they endeavour to make their way across Palace Yard—who insult my Queen because she is Romanist?"
"Your Majesty provoked it," answered Pym calmly. "And had the bishops shown more of the meekness proper to their calling they would not now be in the Tower for their foolish proclamation."
He still held himself erect, though he was in feeble health and weary from standing. The King marked his fatigue, natural in one of his age, but his innate courtesy was stifled by his hatred of this man, and neither policy nor kindness moved him to bid John Pym be seated.
"We must discuss these things," he said. "I am willing to be reasonable, and you have the reputation of a moderate. But you have some fanatic fellows of your party, Mr. Pym—Holles, Haselrig, Hampden, and a certain Oliver Cromwell."
"These gentlemen you name," replied John Pym, "are no more nor less fanatic than a hundred others, sire."
"They have stood forth of late as notable in voicing certain daring opinions," said the King, who, though he had himself carefully in hand, was not able to be more than barely civil. "You must not think, Mr. Pym, that I have overlooked them."
"What is the meaning of Your Majesty's reference to these gentlemen?"
"Only this," replied Charles steadily, "that you and I could work together only if you refused your company and counsels to these I have mentioned—and some others, as my Lord Kimbolton, Mr. Strode, and the Earl of Essex."
"They are all," said Mr. Pym, "as well able to advise Your Majesty as myself. And, sire, if you sincerely wish to please your people, you will entertain no prejudice against these men, for they are highly esteemed and trusted by all."
"Enough, enough!" cried the King, in great agitation, hastily rising. "I might consider terms with you, Mr. Pym, but not with every heretic whose voice is loud enough to catch the ear of the vulgar—but do not misunderstand me—you will hear from me again. To-day—to-day the sun sets and it groweth chilly." He looked round the garden, now filled with sunset light, with an abstracted air. "Think of me kindly, Mr. Pym, and tell the Commons their honour and safety is my chiefest care—as I hope theirs will be the welfare of the nation."
"Our talk, then, hath no conclusion?" asked Mr. Pym, who argued little good from this abrupt dismissal.
"Not here," said the King with a smile; "at some further time, sir, you shall know the impression your speech to-day hath made on me. Now I must think a little on what you have said. A good night, Mr. Pym."
The commoner bowed, and the King, blowing a little silver whistle which he carried, brought up an attendant whom he told to conduct Mr. Pym to the gates of the palace.
And so the interview from which Lord Falkland and the moderate royalists had hoped so much ended.
Charles, trembling with emotion, spurned with the light cane he carried the spot of earth on which John Pym had stood.
"Thou damnable Puritan!" he muttered, "must I not only swallow thee but all thy brood of heretics! Too much, by Christ, too much!"
Half an hour later the Queen and Rupert found the King standing by the sundial; the sun had faded from the heavens, leaving them faintly purple, the trees were intertwining shapes, grey avenues of darkness, the scent of the violets by the dial was rich and strong, the air blew chilly, and in the palace windows the yellow lights were springing up, one by one.
The Queen in her dark careless garments and Rupert in his brilliant bravery alike gloomed up out of the twilight as indistinct shapes.
The King peered at them a little before he knew them.
"John Pym and I will never speak together more," he said abruptly and in a hoarse tone. "When I returned to London it was not with the purpose of winning these men but of punishing them, and to that purpose I adhere."
"Lord Falkland," answered Rupert, "said Your Majesty had promised him to take no violent measures, and to consult him and your new advisers in all your actions."
"Of late I have had to make many promises that are impossible for me to keep," returned Charles gloomily. "If men press on a king they must expect he will use all weapons against them. I shall act without my Lord Falkland's advice. How can he," added the King with a grand air, "or any man, know what I feel towards these men who threaten my sacred crown and God His Holy Church? Who imprison my bishops and take fromme—my friends?" his voice broke into sadness. "Truly, as I stood by this dial, I thought it was like an emblem of my life, all the sunny hours numbered and the finger now moving into darkness."
"But to-morrow will see the sun again," cried Rupert, "and so Your Majesty, coming from an eclipse, shall behold a brighter day."
"Alas," answered Charles, "the moon is misty and clouds and rain threaten for to-morrow. But though I am encompassed with many dangers I will not hesitate to bring these traitors to judgment."
"This is what I from the first advised," said the Queen. "When we came from Scotland, and the people were shouting and the city feasting us—then was the moment to strike."
"It is not too late," replied Charles.
"Take care it be not," urged Henriette Marie. "Last autumn half a day's delay ruined my Lord Strafford, so quick was this accursed Pym."
"He shall be avenged," cried the King in great agitation. "This time I will strike first—keep it from my council. The King acts for the King, now. Come in, my dear love, our short winter day is over—I feel it cold."
"A keen wind blows up the river," said the Queen, with a little shudder. "I saw the gulls to-day at Whitehall; that means a stormy winter."
"But so far it hath been sweet as spring," said Rupert, "and there are so many flowerets out, that you might think it Eastertide."
They returned to the palace, and the King had sent for Lord Falkland and was proceeding to his cabinet, when he was met by Lord Winchester, one of the most influential and ardent of his courtiers, a magnificent and wealthy Cavalier, a Romanist, and one greatly beloved by King and Queen.
"Sire," said this gentleman in a low, hurried voice. "I have just come from Westminster where there aresome most horrid rumours abroad. I must acquaint you with——"
Charles looked at him in a startled and bewildered fashion.
"More ill news?" he murmured.
"Nay," said the Marquess, "it is but one of many rumours such as now for ever beat the air—but I have sounded several on the likely truth of this report, and do believe it to be more than an idle alarm."
The King took his friend's arm and drew him into his cabinet where the wax-lights had already been lit and the fire sparkled between the gleaming brass andirons.
"Dear lord, be concise and brief," he said affectionately. "I have summoned Lord Falkland, and he," added Charles with his usual imprudence, "is not in my confidence. I have taken him because I must. Now, thy news."
The Marquess, who was as magnificent in appearance as he was in temperament, being in all things the great noble, the patron of the arts, the refined proud gentleman, the type of all that Charles most admired, began to pace the room as if in some perturbation of mind.
"I do not know how to frame the thing in words," he began; "'tis about John Pym."
"Ah, John Pym!" exclaimed Charles. He went to the fire and broke one of the flaming logs with the toe of his boot.
"It is soberly said and credibly received," continued the Marquess, "that this knavish fellow who hath such a marvellous hold on the minds of his party is preparing an impeachment of——"
My lord paused, and the King turned sharply from the fire.
"What friend of mine doth he strike at now?" he asked, in a tone of bitter anger and shame.
"It is said——"
"Thyself?"
"Nay, sire—should I for that have troubled you? Itis said he meditates impeaching Her Most Sacred Majesty."
"Oh, just God!" cried Charles, "shall I endure this another hour, another minute?" He struck his breast with his open hand, and the rush of blood to his face showed even through the glow of the fire. "Am I the King and cannot I protect my wife?"
"Among Pym's party the thing is denied," said the Marquess, with an instinctive desire to be fair even to people so hateful to him as were the Puritans, "but remembering how suddenly he struck before, and seeing how persistent the rumour was and how many held it credible, I thought it well to bring it before Your Majesty——"
"It needed but that!" exclaimed the King. "Yet it needed not a further outrage. I had already decided on my course."
He crossed suddenly to the Marquess and grasped him by the embroidered sleeves.
"Ever since Strafford died," he said, struggling with violent emotion, "I have vowed in my heart, by my crown and before God, that Pym and the Parliament should pay! And they shall—to the last drop of blood in their bodies! Let no one ask me for mercy for John Pym, for I would sooner lose my all than lose my vengeance on these rebellious heretics!"
"It were better to strike at once," replied the Marquess, who well knew the King's habit of hesitation, and whose sympathies were with the more reckless counsels of the Queen. "Nor wait until they have gathered strength and courage, or till fear giveth them daring. For I believe they have their suspicions that Your Majesty meaneth to punish them."
"My lord," replied Charles, "you speak with wisdom. You shall not have long to wait. Let me but beguile my Lord Falkland, who is for a compromise with these fellows."
He returned to the fireplace and stood there, shivering,and warming his hands, though not that he was cold; his features had a red, swollen look as if he had lately wept, and his eyes were heavy-lidded and bloodshot.
"My lord," he said, "come to me when Lord Falkland hath gone, and I shall have my project ready."
Before the Marquess could answer, the King's page ushered in Lord Falkland.
The King stood silent, biting his forefinger as the young noble saluted him.
Not without misgiving did Lord Falkland see the Marquess in this closeness with the King. He knew him to be a man of honour and loyalty, but he knew him also to be one of those whose perverse and reckless advice the King most leant on—advice fatal to the peace of the kingdom, my lord thought, despairing of bringing Charles into an alliance with the Puritans when the great Romanist noble thus held his ear. The Marquess on his side regarded Lord Falkland as little better than a mild fanatic, and in his heart likened him, half bitterly, half humorously, to one who, at a bear baiting, should strive to separate the furious animals by Christian reasoning when the stoutest stick made would be scarce sufficient.
So to the Marquess, who, though no statesman and no idealist, yet was shrewd enough in a worldly way, did Lord Falkland's attempt to make peace among the factions appear.
He took a half-laughing leave of the Viscount, and, kissing the King's hand, retired.
Charles picked up a small black leather portfolio from his bureau and began turning over the sketches it contained; they were Italian drawings recently brought by the Earl of Arundel from Rome, and the King glanced at them with real pleasure and relief. They were to his distracted mind what wine and gaiety would be to other men.
Lucius Carey, my Lord Falkland, with a look of anxiety on his beautiful face, waited for him to speak.
"Mr. Pym," said Charles at length, gazing at a little drawing in bistre of a rocky landscape with trees, "did make some discourse with me on the government of England."
"Was his speech such as to please Your Majesty?" asked the Viscount eagerly.
"Please me?" repeated the King, keeping his voice steady, but the paper in his hand fluttering from the nervous shaking of his wrist. "He wished to discuss matters with me as if we were two stewards set over an estate—not as if we were King and subject. Yet I do not doubt that he is a man of influence and one full of expedients and devices."
"He is honest," said my lord, "and of great power, and it is most necessary that Your Majesty should consider him and his party."
"Have I not," asked the King with subdued violence, "considered them?"
He put the drawing back in the portfolio and turned his sad, angry gaze on Lord Falkland.
"It is most necessary," returned the Viscount, "that Your Majesty should put aside all prejudice, and entertain the advices of these men with sincerity and openness. It is said at Westminster——"
"Yea, it is said at Westminster!" interrupted Charles, thinking of what the Marquess of Winchester had told him. "What is not said at Westminster?"
Lord Falkland was entirely ignorant of what the King referred to, and knew nothing of the designs imputed to Mr. Pym.
"I referred to those floating whispers and alarming rumours which declare Your Majesty intendeth, and hath intended, ever since your coming from Scotland, some sudden and violent measures against the popular leaders."
The King turned to his portfolio again and drew out a delicate pencil sketch of the Madonna and Child; thefew strokes of lead glowed with all the sweetness and grace of the Umbrian School.
"There is a lovely Raffaello, my lord," he said. "Who would not rather spend his time with these than with dusty politics?"
"A King hath no choice, sire," answered the Viscount, who had himself left a wealthy cultured retirement at the call of patriotism.
"No," said Charles, "there are many matters in which I have no choice. As to these reports you have heard, did I not lately promise the Commons that their safety was as much my care as that of my own children? And have I not promised you, my lord, and my other councillors, to take no step without your advice? What more can you ask of your King?"
"Nothing more," replied Lord Falkland. "If Your Majesty remain of that mind I believe there will be but little difficulty to bring all things to a happy conclusion. Only I know that there are certain rash perverse courtiers who would tempt Your Majesty to step outside the law."
"You have caught a republican tone from this Puritan party," said Charles haughtily. "How shall I keep within the law who am alone the law?"
Lord Falkland reddened at the rebuke, but answered the King manfully and earnestly.
"Sire, if I am not honest with you, I lack in loyalty. The constitution of England is a mighty thing, and even the King must respect it—even as you have promised. And if you go against it, and against the party and principles of Mr. Pym, there will be great store of unhappiness ahead of us all."
Charles closed the portfolio and flung it down.
"I will do all things in reason," he said, facing the Viscount, "but I stand as fast by my faith as they by their heresies. I will not forsake the Church of England."
Lord Falkland was silent.
"And they ask for the militia," added Charles. "Theydesire that the army for Ireland be in their hands, officered by their creatures."
"Your Majesty," suggested Falkland, "might allow them the militia for a time."
"No, by Christ!" cried Charles, "not for an hour! You ask what was never asked of King before. Neither Church nor sword will I surrender."
"Then the conference of Your Majesty with Mr. Pym hath been unavailing?" asked my lord mournfully.
"I do not say so much," replied Charles. "I have said I will not be unreasonable, nor regardless in any way, of the good of the people. I will see Mr. Pym again."
"Forgive me, sire," said the Viscount, "but a temperate carriage is advisable now in all things, to keep our friends, to gain others, and to render impossible the horrid chance of bloodshed."
The King's eyes narrowed.
"They would fight, would they?" he answered. "Well, so would I—I am not fearful of that. I should know how to meet rebellion."
"Rebellion?" repeated Lord Falkland. "I do not dare to use or think that word!"
"There are some who do," said Charles dryly, "but with God's grace we will avoid that danger. Are you satisfied, my lord?"
The Viscount bowed.
"I have Your Majesty's word for those measures we believe most necessary now. I am content to leave the rest in the hands of Your Majesty."
In his heart, the Viscount, who had met much disillusion and disappointment since he had joined the Court party, was far from satisfied. He found the King, as ever, vague, shifting, and reserved, and he was bound to conclude that the interview with John Pym had proved absolutely fruitless. Yet he drew some comfort from the fact that Charles had promised to commit no violence on any of the Members of the Commons nor to take any stepswithout the advice of his new counsellors—those moderate, loyal men of whom Falkland and Hyde were the chief, and whose mild and patriotic measures were entirely devoted to the task of making a settlement in the kingdom and mediating between Charles and the Parliament.
Charles seemed to notice the shade of sadness, perhaps of mistrust, on my lord's fair face, and he touched him lightly and kindly on the shoulder.
"Believe I shall act as becometh a King," he said, smiling.
Lord Falkland kissed his sovereign's hand and withdrew, reassuring himself as best he might, and comforting himself with those fair visions of truth and concord that never failed to fill his idealistic mind.
Charles returned to the portfolio and continued to handle the drawings with a loving, delicate touch, and to gaze at them with the sensitive eyes of appreciation and knowledge.
He was so employed when my Lord Winchester returned. When the splendid Marquess entered, he put the sketches by.
"There is little satisfaction to be had from my Lord Falkland," he remarked. "He is little better than an ambassador of the Puritans."
"What will Your Majesty do?" asked the Marquess eagerly.
"To-morrow," replied Charles, "there will be a few of these enemies of mine lodged in the Tower. To-morrow I impeach Pym and four of his creatures of high treason, at the Bar of the House of Lords."
The commotion at Westminster was intense; never, even at the arrest of Sir John Eliot or at the impeachment of the Earl of Strafford, or at the passing of the Great Remonstrance, had excitement run so high.
For the King, without acquainting his new advisers, in direct violation of his recent promises, to the astonishment and dismay of his friends, the rage and horror of his enemies, had made a move which put his legal position in the wrong and showed at once and for ever that alliance between him and the popular party was impossible. He had sent the Attorney-General to the Bar of the House of Lords to impeach Lord Kimbolton and five members of the Lower Chamber—Pym, Strode, Holles, Haselrig, and Hampden.
Immediately afterwards a guard was sent from Whitehall to arrest the five members. The Commons refused to deliver them, and sent a message to the King to say that the gentlemen charged were ready to answer any legal accusation. They also ordered the arrest of the officers who had been sent to search the rooms of the five members and seize and seal up their papers.
This was the answer of the House to the challenge cast down by the King, and all England thrilled to it; all England waited too, in a kind of passionate suspense, the answer that would come from Whitehall. Was the King, who had so suddenly declared himself an enemy of thenation, baffled, checked or only further enraged? What would he do next?
Few slept that night of the 3rd of January; and from thousands of Puritan households prayers and lamentations ascended.
It was now clear that not by gentle means could the people of England hope to regain their cherished liberty, and that neither consideration nor fair dealing was to be hoped from a King who had so contemptuously disregarded faith and the law.
Falkland, Culpeper, Hyde, and their following were utterly confounded and dismayed, ashamed and humiliated, but in the stern hearts of Pym, Hampden, Holles, Haselrig, Strode, and Cromwell was a certain exultation.
Their enemy (for so by now these men had come to regard the King) had put himself in the wrong, and alienated that vast mass of the nation which in all great crises long remains neutral, and which had, hitherto, declared for neither King nor Parliament.
But the recent action of the King, after his open promise before Parliament, caused the least reflective and humble of men to entertain a jealousy of their liberties, and a strong murmur of indignation arose over the whole country, which was a good help and encouragement to these men at Westminster.
Added to this satisfaction, the popular leaders, who had already dared so much and ventured so far, felt a deep, if stern, gratification, which was not, perhaps, shared by their followers, that affairs were coming at length to a conclusion. Charles had now raised the issue, and it was their task to answer his challenge as decisively as he had given it. Three at least of the Commoners—Pym, Hampden, and Cromwell—did not shrink from the immense responsibilities which this involved on them, nor from the high stakes on which they had to play.
Pym and Hampden already stood as near to death as had Pym the year before, when Strafford had come glooming to Westminster to impeach him, for there could be little doubt of the King's intention to appease that proud blood of his forsaken minister by the blood of those who had sent him to his death.
Cromwell, one of a younger generation and of no such importance in the eyes of either King, his own party, or the nation, ran no such risk as his leaders and incurred no such responsibility. He was, however, their able and indefatigable lieutenant, and Pym at least thought highly of him as a driving force of courage and fortitude, enthusiasm and resolution.
On the morning of the 4th of January, the House met in an incredible state of tension and excitement, but during the morning hours nothing untoward occurred, and the Commons adjourned at midday without there having been any sign or message from Whitehall.
It was a dun day, the river ran slate-coloured between grey houses, the sky was murk and low, an east wind blew gusts of icy rain along the streets, and at midday the light was obscure and dismal; the mild, hopeful winter had changed after Christmas, and now had the full Northern bitterness.
Mr. Cromwell returned to the House early, as did most, and when Mr. Pym was in his place the benches were again crowded. Denzil Holles, Strode, Hampden, and Haselrig were near the entrance, talking earnestly with Lord Kimbolton, the Member of the House of Lords who had been impeached with them.
Mr. Cromwell looked at them with some admiration and even envy; they had a splendid chance to exercise all those qualities which he felt strongly burning in himself.
He rose up and made his way to Mr. Pym, who was sitting silent, and looked ill and fatigued. But his calm, resolute expression, the light of energy, command, and courage in his glance showed him to be, as always, the intrepid, prompt leader of men—the leader of wit and resource and vigour.
"Any news yet to hand?" asked Mr. Cromwell eagerly. "You have gathered nothing either in the lobbies or the streets?"
Mr Pym smiled.
"What is to be gathered but wild, bottomless rumours such as are to be looked for in these divided times? I have some of our own people posted near Whitehall that we may know as soon as possible the action of His Majesty."
"Maybe," said Mr. Cromwell, "he will do no more, finding his threats have failed."
"You do not know the King as well as I," returned John Pym. "He is the very haughtiest and most revengeful of men, and is not like to suffer in silence such an affront (for so he will call it) as hath been put on him."
"What, then, will he do?" asked the Member for Cambridge. "What can he do?"
"I have tried for many years," replied John Pym, "to work with His Majesty to form a ministry of loyal men proven by the Parliament—but it could never be, as you know—and all my dealings with the King, down to this last interview when I saw him face to face, have taught me his variableness, his unstability, his pride, and his insincerity. Therefore I cannot judge nor guess what he will do."
The four members talking at the entrance had now returned to their places, and Oliver Cromwell hastened to meet his friend, Lord Kimbolton, who was about to leave for the Upper House. The Member for Cambridge accompanied him into the antechamber, and while they were there, talking on the one absorbing topic of the moment, a fellow with his face pinched by the wind and a little breathless, came up asking for Mr. Pym, and, showing his credentials, was admitted into the Chamber.
Mr. Cromwell, taking a hasty leave of Lord Kimbolton, hurried back to his place in the House.
He found the Members already in a state of deep emotionand excitement, for the most momentous of news was flashing from mouth to mouth.
Mr. Pym's messenger had brought word that the King himself, accompanied by some hundreds of armed men, was riding down to Westminster. There was no time to lose; the royal party had been issuing from Whitehall gates when the man had seen them, and, though some little delay might be caused by the dense crowd thronging the street, it could not be long.
Deep cries of "The city! safety in the city! To the river!" echoed through Westminster Hall, and the five members were pushed from their places by friendly hands and hurried from the Hall to the lobbies, from the lobbies to the Thames, and there into the first boat available with directions to hasten to the sanctuary of the city.
The thing was done with desperate swiftness, but if it had lacked this haste it would have been too late, for the House was scarcely returned to wonted order when the King with his cavalcade of ruffling Cavaliers arrived at Westminster.
A deep hush fell on the Chamber, as if every man held his breath. Mr. Cromwell leant forward in his seat, every line in his powerful face tense, like a great mastiff on the watch, entirely absorbed by the movements of his foe.
The King's men now filled Westminster Hall, and on the threshold of the inviolable Chamber itself the King appeared.
When he first saw these rows of hostile faces, darkened, silent countenances of men who had defied him and whom he hated and scorned, he paused for a moment full in the doorway and calmly and deliberately gazed round him.
There was something awful in the moment; the two opponents, King and Parliament, so suddenly and violently brought together, seemed like actors pausing before they enter on a tragedy.
The King, in rose-coloured cloth and a crimson cloak, great boots with gilt spurs, his hat in his left hand, andhis right pressed to his heart, the bleak light of the wintry day falling over his fair head and melancholy face, looked a frail figure to be opposed to these gathered ranks of gentlemen who had the whole strength and feelings of a great nation behind them, while he was only armed with the intangible weapons of traditional authority and such virtue as he might find in the royal blood of his unfortunate race.
Beside him was his nephew, the young Elector Palatine, whose dark, haughty features expressed mingled curiosity and doubt. He had known exile and wandering, misfortunes and defeat, and it might be that he thought his uncle was daring those disasters which had broken his father's heart. His own presence there was an additional outrage on the Commons, but neither he nor Charles thought of this, so completely had they in common the family recklessness.
The two Princes, Charles slightly before his nephew, advanced down the floor of the House. Mr. Cromwell, turning in his seat, watched him; there was a deep silence.
The King mounted the step of the chair and faced the Speaker; his voice, very pleasant and slow as always, rose clearly through the crowded, still Chamber.