CHAPTER IIISomerset HouseSomerset House, the English home in which Agnes now found herself, was very different from the magnificent but sombre Louvre she had left.It stood almost in the centre of a great bend of the Thames, so that from its fine terrace could be seen, on one side the city of London, with its countless spires and its old bridge, on the other the king's palace and gardens of Whitehall and the great Abbey of Westminster.Built by the Protector Somerset, it had been greatly improved for Queen Henrietta Maria, who had furnished it with consummate taste.On its charming south front, looking out over the river, in full sunshine, were the queen's principal apartments: her presence-chamber, private sitting-room, and her bed-chamber, all protected by the guard-room. Her windows looked down on wide, trim lawns, in the centre of which was a basin and fountain, while beyond was a broad terraced walk, the walls of which were at each high tide washed by the Thames.A handsome flight of steps led down to the river, where the queen's barge was moored. The Thames was a high-road full of life and movement, for every nobleman kept a splendid barge, rowed by many men in fine liveries.Beyond the queen's apartment were the smaller rooms occupied by the Princess Henrietta and Agnes Beaumont, who, though she was but twelve years old, was raised to the dignity of maid of honour to the princess, thus establishing her right to be always beside her in private and in public. Agnes was tall for her age and slim; the golden curls of her childhood had darkened to a rich auburn; her features were delicate but very marked; her complexion fair, with a soft pink colouring which suited well with the brown eyes and dark, long lashes. She had been a beautiful babe, and now she was a fair girl, little more than a child still, but giving great promise of a beautiful womanhood.Young as she was, there was a stateliness in her carriage which betokened high birth. More than once the queen laughed with Patience:"We cannot hide her dignity if we would," she said; "she carries her head too high for common folk."Patience smiled. "Well, well," she said, "her father did the same. The proverb says, 'Pride will have a fall'. Thank God she cannot fall much lower than she has!""Nay," answered the queen, "we will make of her a duchess. My son the king noticed her the other day and remarked upon her beauty, and he is no mean judge," she added with a light laugh.But Patience flushed crimson. "I would sooner his majesty did not cast his eyes on her," she said in a low voice."Pshaw!" answered the queen, "she is but a child.""A child who will be a woman before we know it," said Patience. "His majesty's court is too gay for such young fledgelings.""Well spoken, Patience!" said a man's voice behind the queen. "Why, methinks my lord Cromwell's spirit still dwells amongst us in our own house. You will be a Puritan yet, Patience."Patience made no answer, but bowed and went out.Then the speaker, Lord Jermyn, took the queen's hand, kissed it, led her to a chair, and at a sign from her sat down beside her."Patience is right," he said. "I would keep those children away from Whitehall as much as possible. The king has had but a dull time of it in exile; he is making up for it now."Henrietta shrugged her shoulders. "My nephew's court in Paris is no better," she said, "and there Henrietta, when she is Duchess of Orleans, will have to live, and probably Agnes will go with her.""Time enough for that," answered Lord Jermyn. "Do not brush the bloom off the flowers sooner than need be. They are the prettiest couple at court, those two, in their young freshness. Have you spoken to the king concerning Agnes?""No, there's time enough," answered the queen. "It were difficult for the king to act at present. The estates have passed out of his hands, and he would raise a hornet's nest if he attempted to take them from their present owner.""I think you are wrong," said Lord Jermyn; "the sooner such things are done the better. If his majesty cannot restore to her her rightful heritage, then he must create a new one for her.""That is probably what he will do," said the queen. "These are early days, and his hands are full. His first duty is to do what he is doing, punish the murderers of his father.""Ah, well! he is doing that without mercy," said Lord Jermyn, and there was a certain bitterness in his tone."Do you regret it?" asked Henrietta, looking up at him."I suppose it has to be," he answered. "But such men as Harrison and Carew are being raised to the dignity of martyrs; they die like men for the cause they believe in. There, we will not speak of it. I wish it were all over.""I agree with you, my lord," said the young Duke of Gloucester, who had just come in. "I wish it were all over, this judging and this killing. I cannot pass in the streets but I see the scaffolds, and men dying thereon with such firmness and show of piety, with a semblance of joy in their sufferings." And the young Duke covered his face with his hands. "Mother, cannot you stop it?" he asked."Stop the avenging of your father's death! Nay, Henry, that I cannot do.""Then, Mother, pray the king not to have the scaffold so near us as Charing Cross, or else I will go hence and never visit you. My Lord Jermyn, plead for me." And the prince hastily left the room, and, going along the gallery, knocked at the door of his sister's apartment.It was Agnes who opened to him. She was startled at the pallor of his face."Is your royal highness ill?" she asked."No, Agnes, but I am sick at heart and I am sorely puzzled.""Come in," said she, "and tell us what ails you."The young duke entered, threw himself into an arm-chair by the hearth, covering his face with his hands. The Princess Henrietta came and knelt beside him."Tell me what ails you, Henry?" she asked."I would go hence, Henrietta, to that kingdom where my father wears an immortal crown; these earthly baubles are not worth the lives they cost. It is all so puzzling. What is truth? My Father died for it because he believed in his cause. These regicides who voted his death are as sure as he was that they are in the right. I was in the crowd to-day when a man was being dragged upon a hurdle to his shameful death. His face was placid and even cheerful. A low wretch called out to him, 'Where is your good old cause now?' and he answered with a smile, clapping his hand upon his heart, 'Here it is, and I am going to seal it with my blood.' And as he went on his way I heard him call out, 'I go to suffer for the most glorious cause that ever was in the world.'" As if maddened by the sight he had seen, the young duke rose, saying, "It is all wrong! It is all wrong! There is no right; I wish I were out of it!"They soothed and calmed him, and he remained all the afternoon in the princess's apartment; but Patience did not like the look of him."He is sickening for something," she said.Later, when he tried to stand he could not, his head was dizzy; so they carried him to his chamber and they sent for the leech. Perceiving he had high fever, they bled him, and said, "He will be well on the morrow."Upon the morrow he was not well; indeed, the fever had gained upon him and his mind wandered. His sister Henrietta would have gone to him, but the leech would not permit it."We cannot tell what he is sickening for," he said.A few days later the whole court was scared, for it was known that the Duke of Gloucester had been attacked by that terrible disease small-pox, which made as much havoc in high places as in low slums. That he had been up to the very last with the young girls, caused both the queen and Patience great anxiety. They were removed at once from Somerset House and taken to Hampton Court, that they might breathe fresh country air, and so rid themselves of infection. Matters went badly with the prince. The disease assumed its most virulent form, and within a fortnight his wish was granted; he had passed from earth to heaven.And so the court for a time was thrown into mourning, and Henrietta and Agnes were not permitted to return until there should be no fear of any further infection. When the first shock was over they enjoyed beyond measure their country life; those beautiful gardens laid out by Cardinal Wolsey afforded them never-ending pleasure. True, it was winter time; but the ponds and lakes were frozen over, and after much pleading and the taking of many precautions they were suffered to go upon the ice under the care of some of the gentlemen of the court. Neither of them knew how to skate. Henrietta was timid and would not even try to go alone, holding on to her cavalier's hand, and sometimes hardly moving; but Agnes grew impatient."Look at that young man and the girl out yonder!" she said, pointing to a couple who were skimming over the lake like birds. "It seems so easy."As she uttered the words the couple approached and heard her. The young man was handsome, with fair hair and blue eyes, and with a certain nobility of face. The girl was like him; there was no mistaking they were brother and sister."You are right. It is quite easy," said the girl, as she caught Agnes's last words. "Will you let us help you?""Oh, I shall be so glad, so very glad!" answered Agnes. "It is cold and stupid standing here and creeping about." And before Patience could intervene, she had given one hand to the girl, the other to the young man, and was off between them, slipping and sliding and laughing. But they steadied her and told her how to use her feet, guiding her gently, making it so easy for her that soon she began to feel at home, and with her natural boldness ventured to say:"Now let me go, let me go alone!""You can't," said the young man; "better not try to-day.""Oh, I must!" said Agnes, and so they let her go.One step, two steps, then she staggered; but they caught her before she had time to fall."You will soon learn; children always do," said the young man."Child!" she cried; "I am not a child. I am over twelve years old, and maid of honour to Princess Henrietta Maria. Who are you?" And she threw up her head and looked him in the face.His blue eyes laughed quizzically: "I am Reginald Newbolt," he said, "and this is my sister Ann. We are not grand people like you.""I am not grand at all; I am nobody," Agnes answered, colouring. "I must go; Patience is signing to me, and Princess Henrietta is shivering on the side of the lake. Will you come again to-morrow and help me? I should like to be friends with you.""We shall be only too glad," answered Ann. "We will come every day as long as the frost lasts. Now we will take you back to your people."They took her hands and made her skate in time with them."To think I can go so well with you and not alone!" she said. "It is annoying.""You need not fear," said Reginald. "In a few days you will go alone; you have the knack of it."They reached the edge of the lake where the princess and Patience were standing."Oh, it is so cold!" exclaimed the princess, shivering; "and it is very imprudent of you to go off like that, Agnes.""I am sorry to have vexed you," the girl answered; "but it was just lovely. Will you not try, Princess? This is Mr. Reginald Newbolt and his sister Ann."Doffing his cap, Reginald bowed to the princess and Ann curtsied. Henrietta having recovered from her ill-temper, as she always did quickly, had seen that to all outward appearance they were gentlefolk. She gave them a stately bow, then repeated:"Now we must go home, Agnes; I am frozen.""I must take off my skates first," answered Agnes, and she sat down at the edge of the lake while Patience undid the straps. Then she rose.The princess took Patience's arm and turned towards home. Agnes followed with Mr. Delarry, who said:"You make friends easily, Mistress Agnes. Do you know who that young man is?""Did you not hear me tell the princess that he is Mr. Reginald Newbolt, and that it is his sister who is with him?" she asked."Well, they make a handsome couple," said Mr. Delarry. "Newbolt! Did you say this man's name was Newbolt?""Yes," said Agnes; "do you know them?""I know him after a fashion," answered Mr. Delarry. "His father is, I believe, Colonel Newbolt. He is, like many another, an old Parliamentarian who, to feather his nest, turned king's man and welcomed the king back. The young man is seeking a commission in the king's guards and will probably get it, to the detriment of other and better men."Agnes's face clouded over. "I am sorry his father was on the wrong side," she said."You need not trouble, or you will have to be sorry for many," said Mr. Delarry; "but this young fellow is a new recruit, and never drew his sword in the late war. They say he refused a commission in Cromwell's army.""I am glad of that," said Agnes, her face brightening. "There will be no harm in my skating with them to-morrow, will there, Mr. Delarry?""None whatever, if Mistress Patience sees none. He is a handsome fellow, Mistress Agnes, and will make a fine cavalier.""I like handsome men," she answered, with childish glee; "and his sister too is pleasant, but she is prim.""I hear her mother is a strict Puritan," said Mr. Delarry, "and that the colonel had much trouble in getting her to come up to London with his son and daughter. She will not show herself at court, much to his displeasure. Have a care, Mistress Agnes, or you will be turning Puritan too!""Oh, no!" Agnes answered, laughing. "I do not like them at all, at least the few of them I have seen in the streets. Patience has pointed them out to me; they are mostly dressed in black, with white ruffles and high hats; they look very stern. The women have black cloaks and white coifs. I like our own pretty clothes best, and our gay cavaliers with their broad hats and sweeping plumes."Delarry smiled at her. "You are such a child, Miss Agnes, still. I thought you were to be a grown woman when you came to England.""Oh, it is coming, coming very fast!" she said. "Good-bye, Mr. Delarry!" And she left him, and ran forward to join the princess."You talk to everybody," said Henrietta to her reproachfully. "I never knew such a child. What have you been talking to Mr. Delarry about now?""Only about my new friends," answered Agnes. "Oh, you will be nice, Henrietta, and skate with them to-morrow, won't you? They just fly over the ice. It is the most delicious sensation I ever knew. They say in two or three days I shall go alone, and then," she added mischievously, "let who can catch me."CHAPTER IVNew FriendsOn the following day Henrietta was nothing loath to have good sport with Agnes, and Patience was forced to yield to their desires. Down to the lake they went, found the Newbolts there, and after a little persuasion Henrietta ventured on the ice. They brought a chair for her, and she was content at first to let Mr. Delarry push her; but Agnes gave her hands to Ann and Reginald and went off. Presently she came back alone, so sure of foot was she; her figure was so light and easy."Do try," she said to Henrietta; "it is just lovely!" And the princess let herself be persuaded.Other gentlemen and ladies joined them, and there was much laughter and many tumbles, but no one was hurt. The time passed quickly, until the winter day was drawing to a close, and still they were not tired."I should never be tired," said Agnes, her face rosy with the keenness of the air, and her eyes very bright.This went on for well-nigh a week. The court party they were called; they were so happy. All the commoners made way for them as they went hither and thither, gliding over the ice. Indeed, people came from afar and stood on the edge of the lake looking at them.The princess, Agnes, Ann, and Reginald, were the principal actors in that scene. The two girls, muffled in their soft furs, with their petticoats above their ankles, showing their pretty feet, were a sight to rejoice the heart, as the sight of all young things must be. The winter sunshine glinted in Agnes's bright hair, and lit up her dark eyes with the happiest, softest merriment."I never saw such a pretty creature!" said Reginald to Ann, when she had left them after the day's sport."Take care. You will be losing your heart to her!" said Ann, laughing."I have done that long ago," he answered. "The first time she looked at me she took my heart away with her. If I had not been a king's man before, she would have made me one.""She is but twelve years old," said Ann, laughing; "you will have to wait long for her, Reginald.""And the time will seem but short," he answered, "if I may but see her once and again. Do you know her name, Ann?""Agnes, I have heard; nothing more," she answered. "But that young man, Delarry, said casually that she had been the darling of the queen-mother and the princess ever since she was a baby. Nobody knows aught about her save the queen and Mistress Patience, who carried her over to France when she was almost in swaddling clothes.""I was sure of it," said Reginald. "She is a child of one of the great old families; she looks it, my little sweetheart!" And from that time forth Reginald hovered round Agnes, and people laughed at her and called him her knight, and she was mighty pleased and made no little boast of her handsome cavalier.It was all so open, so fresh, this budding love; without depth or passion, it had sprung up like the flowers, and like them was pure and serene. There was no past, no future for those young creatures; they lived just for the hour, as with flying feet they skimmed the ice, the fresh, sharp air cutting their faces. The joy of life was with them and upon them as it never would be again. They did not recognize how with each fleeting moment a joy-note sounded and died away. In after-years they would listen for the echo with that intense longing of hearts which have known unalloyed happiness; would they hear it again, or would it go from them for ever, with the flitting moments? Blessed are those who like them have heard it, whose lips have uttered the words, "I am so happy, so happy!"They came like a song of joy to Agnes's lips as she went hither and thither with Reginald beside her. He, bending towards her, said with a note of triumph in his voice:"I would this might last for ever, my little sweetheart----""For ever!" she repeated. "For ever! Why not?"He had not the heart to cast a shadow on that joy. Why tell her nothing lasts for ever? And so he only answered, "Why not?"On the morrow the order came: "Back to Somerset House; the air is purified; Christmas is coming; you must come back."Before leaving, the princess sent for Reginald Newbolt and his sister, and they bade each other farewell. "It will not be for long," said the princess. "I will ask my mother, the queen, to make you one of her maids of honour, Mistress Ann; so you may live with us, for I have taken a great liking to you.""I am afraid the queen will not favour me," was the quiet answer. "I have not been brought up after your foreign fashion. I do not know your ways or manners. I am a plain English girl.""Oh, that does not matter at all! We have many English ladies in our suite, and the queen loves them well.""But my mother would not let me dwell in the queen's household; she says it is godless," said Ann, colouring deeply; "it would, I think, break her heart.""Ah well," said Henrietta carelessly, "you must please yourself if you are so over-strict.""Say rather, I must obey my mother," answered Ann; "but nevertheless I am grateful to you and thank you." And she stooped and kissed the princess's hand. So they parted.As she was going out Patrick Delarry met her. He was an Irishman who had been with the queen in France, and of earthly possessions had few; but he was a true Irishman, full of jokes and fun, taking things lightly even as the Stuarts did, and, because of this very carelessness, the noble sweetness of Ann had attracted him.They met in the corridor leading to the grand staircase. He paused, bowed before her, saying, "This is no farewell, Mistress Ann; we shall meet in London.""Maybe we shall; maybe we shall not," returned Ann. "The princess is very good and desires to give me a place at court, but my mother would not hear of such a thing; she is strict in her conduct, and has brought her children up as strictly.""I am sorry," said Delarry, "but I daresay she is right. Still, that will not prevent our meeting, Mistress Ann. Your father is serving the king; your brother will have a commission in the Guards; surely you will mix in good society?""I greatly fear not," answered Ann. "My mother says that young maidens should remain at home, and that the court is full of snares."Delarry laughed. "It is pretty bad," he said, "but you will remember that if you owe your duty to your mother, you owe it also to the king, your master. If he bids you attend upon his sister, surely you will not refuse. Somerset House is not Whitehall."He spoke with significance, and Ann coloured slightly, for she knew well that the king's palace was far too gay and frivolous a place for young maidens who respected themselves."If I am summoned to Somerset House," she said, "and my father desires I should go there, I hope my mother will let me, for the princess is very sweet to me and my heart inclines towards her. As for little Agnes," and she laughed lightly, "I do not think we shall lose sight of her. My brother has lost his heart to her.""That is very evident," said Mr. Delarry; "she is a pretty child.""I must bid you adieu," said Ann. She curtsied and went quickly on her way down the corridor. Delarry stood a second and watched her till she disappeared."A pretty Puritan maiden; I didn't know they were so smart," he thought. "It will not be my fault if we do not meet again before long, Mistress Ann." And so he too went his way.That same afternoon the princess and Agnes, with Patience, entered the royal coach, and were driven back to Somerset House. They were neither of them very cheerful, and the way seemed long and cold, for the air was heavy with snow ready to fall. London looked dark and sombre when they entered it, with only the great torches flaring as the torch-bearers held them on high in front of the coach to guide the driver through the narrow streets of the city. The courtyard of Somerset House was also lit up; but it was a sad home-coming, nevertheless, and the queen-mother welcomed them with tears."I do not know how it is," she said to her daughter. "I loved this country once and I was happy; now I am miserable here. I would go back to France; this death of your brother is an evil omen.""Nay, Mother, do not go just yet," said Henrietta. "We have come home at a bad season of the year. You tell me that the spring is lovely in England; let us wait and see;" then, sitting before the fire, she and Agnes told her what good sport they had at Hampton Court, and they spoke of Reginald and Ann.The queen frowned. "Patience is over-indulgent to you," she said. "You have no right to make the acquaintance of strangers, especially of these upstarts. You say the father is Colonel Newbolt; he was one of Cromwell's men. Now, because it suits himself and his purse, he is a king's man. To-morrow, if it suits him, he will be the people's man again. I am sick of it all.""Do you not think it well, Mother, to encourage these people to become faithful lieges to the king?" said Henrietta."Faithful!" said the queen, with a mocking laugh. "I have ceased to look for faithfulness anywhere. As soon as you are married, Henrietta--and that will, I trust, be before long--we will go back to France. Your brother's court does not suit me, and his friends do not suit me. Your brother, the Duke of York, is enamoured of Clarendon's daughter, Ann Hyde, and there has been much scandal--a secret marriage. It has set the people talking. I tell you I am sick of it all. There is a vulgarity which savours not of kings in the whole tone of England now."Her daughter did not answer her; she could not--she did not understand what was amiss. She was but a girl still. When she was a woman she understood better.Fortunately it was nearly Christmas time, and so that season brought a certain amount of gaiety and brightness. They were not accustomed to make as much of it in France as in England, where, then as now, everyone rejoiced, everyone made merry. It had gone out of fashion to a great extent during the Commonwealth, but people were glad to go back to their old ways and drag the Yule-log into the great hall. It was a good season for the poor, when before great fires bullocks and sheep were roasted whole in the streets. There were mummers, and morris-dances, and all manner of sports.To Agnes's great disgust a week or two before Christmas she received a letter from Ann, telling her that they were going away down to their country place, because their mother could not abide in London. She was willing to feast the poor in the country and those who needed help, but the frivolities of London did not suit her, and she would not stay there. Indeed, she was afraid her mother would not let her come back, which grieved her sorely, for she loved her friends, and would have gladly served the Princess Henrietta.When she received this letter Agnes wept bitterly."Is there no means by which she could be brought to court?" she said to Patience."I know of none except by the king's command," said Patience, "and unfortunately the queen-mother is not well inclined towards the Newbolts.""Where is their country place?" asked Agnes."How should I know?" answered Patience. "They are new people who have old lands which by rights belong to others."She spoke bitterly, and Agnes noticed it."Well," she said, "I like the Newbolts; I met the colonel last week when he was presented to the king. He is a fine man, but the queen received him coldly; and when I asked the princess why her mother did so, she said, 'Because she misdoubts all old Parliamentarians. There is not one of them but had a hand in my father's death'.""'Well, at least Reginald hadn't,'" I said. "He was very young at the time, and both he and Ann have told me that when they heard of the king's death they wept and stamped their feet at their father, saying it was a shame, for which their mother flogged them both and sent them to bed with bread and water. 'But it only made us more loyal,' Ann said. By the bye, Patience, do you know I saw Reginald ride past the other day on his way to Whitehall in the full uniform of the King's Guard? He looked so handsome.""Where did you see him from?" asked Patience."Oh, from the stained mullion window in the corridor behind my room. I often go and stand there because I see into the Strand. I think I like the town better than the river.""Happily, it is a stained window, so people do not see you," said Patience. "It is not seemly for a maiden to be staring on to the public road.""But people do see me," said Agnes. "Reginald saw me, and he saluted. You know he is my knight, Patience.""I know I will not suffer you to behave thus," said Patience. "A cavalier saluting a maiden at her window, above all things a maiden in Somerset House! It must not be, Agnes; you are old enough to know better.""I do not know what I am," answered the girl impetuously. "Sometimes I am a child, sometimes a girl, sometimes I am almost a grown woman, as suits your fancy, Patience." And the big tears gathered in her eyes and rolled down her face."My pretty, my pretty, do not weep," said Patience, and she put her arm round the girl's waist and drew her upon her lap. "You must mind what I am going to say to you, Agnes," she continued. "You are not like other girls, and you must be circumspect. You have no one to defend you from evil tongues, no one to lift you up if you were to fall; you are alone. The queen loved your mother; your father died for her husband, and so she harbours you; but she may not always do so. The day may come when she will go back to France, and that will be no place for you when the princess is married.""Why not--why not?" said Agnes. "I shall go with her.""Not if I can help it," answered Patience. "I love you too well, my dove, to let you scorch your wings in the court of the Palais Royal and Versailles. We must remain in England, Agnes, and the king must pension you; it is your due.""But have I no kith or kin, no one belonging to me?" asked the girl."No one," answered Patience, "at least that I know of.""And did my father and mother leave me no wealth and no lands?" said Agnes."What gold they had," said Patience, "I took to France with me, and all these years it has served us. There is not much left, and as for lands they are forfeited. Cromwell did what he chose with them and gave them to whom he would. So you see, my child, you must be prudent. One thing you have which you must hold--your good name.""Agnes Beaumont," said the girl."That is not all, you have another name," said Patience, looking at her, "but I have sworn not to reveal it to you until your wedding day or till you are of age.""Why not?" she asked. "Why should not I know my own name?""Because it might be a danger to you," answered Patience. "There are those who might wish you ill and do you wrong. When you have a husband you will have someone to defend you; when you are of age you must judge for yourself.""Does no one except you know who I am?" asked Agnes."Yes, the queen-dowager knows, and the king," said Patience. "When he gives you back what is yours, then he will tell you himself what your station is."Tears gathered in Agnes's eyes."I do not like it," she said. "Have I anything to be ashamed of?" she asked, her voice trembling."Ashamed!" exclaimed Patience. "No, indeed! far from that. I tell you it is for your own personal good, to shield you from those who have taken your lands from you and who might resent their being restored to you. You are the last of your race; your very birth has been hidden, but it will all come right one day if only you will be patient.""Very well," said Agnes, "I will ask no questions; I will wait. It does not really matter, only I heard someone say the other day, 'Agnes Beaumont! What Beaumont is that?' and no one seemed to know.""It was your mother's name," said Patience; "you have a right to bear it, for you were christened Agnes Beaumont. Your father's name alone is wanting, and that you will surely claim one day, either you or your husband for you.""Oh, that husband!" said Agnes, laughing; "I wonder who he will be!""A noble gentleman, I trust," said Patience, "who will give you back all that you have lost."Agnes pouted."I do not care to go to any man as a beggar girl," she answered proudly."That you surely will not," answered Patience. "Have no fear. And now let me dress you. The princess is going to Whitehall with the queen to-night, and you are to accompany her. It is a mistake, a great mistake," continued Patience; "you are too young.""Ah! but I like it," said Agnes; "I like going to the king's court, and, if the Princess Henrietta goes, surely it cannot hurt me."Patience shook her head."I am not so sure of that," she said."Oh, well, never mind!" said Agnes; "you dear old thing, you are always frightened lest something should befall me. Let me wear my satin gown embroidered with rosebuds to-night; it becomes me well.""You cannot," said Patience; "the court is in mourning still, have you forgotten?""Ah! yes, I forgot," said Agnes. "The poor duke. Well, give me my lilac gown with the black knots." And thus soberly attired she went to court.CHAPTER VMay-DayTime flies for the young; the days, the weeks, the months seem to have wings; they heed it not, they are glad, because each day is a new joy, a new surprise.So it was with the Princess Henrietta and Agnes. They had no cares, at least Agnes had none. She loved the winter, the biting cold, the snow, the frost; she would go out with Patience in all weathers, and ofttimes with the princess to St. James's Park, where they would skate and otherwise disport themselves. Gradually, however, Agnes fell into the background; she was too young to be at all the court parties, and Patience observed this to the queen-dowager."She is but a child, and the late hours are injuring her," she said; "let her abide at home with me." And the queen acquiesced; indeed, she knew full well that the king's court was no place for the young.Arrangements were being made for Henrietta's marriage to the Duke of Orleans, and many noblemen and courtiers came over from France to greet her. Her time was much taken up with all this, so that Agnes naturally drifted into a quieter world, and was seen less and less in public, excepting when there were grand receptions at Somerset House. Some of these she was permitted to attend, for girls were older for their years in those days than they are now; still, she was not as much at home in the court circle as she had been when she was only a spoilt child. She did not care for, or rather she did not understand, the compliments which were sometimes addressed to her--for she was very pretty, nay, she was beautiful, and attracted not a little attention from women as well as men. She was a general favourite, and if Patience would have allowed it she would have had many invitations and have been made much of. But Patience was a very dragon of propriety."You shall not go," she said. "You are too young.""I do not care to go," Agnes answered. "I cannot abide it."More than once Patience found her asleep, her pillow wet with tears. She did not question her, she guessed what it was. The first sorrow in her life would soon come. In June the Princess Henrietta was to be married, and then they would be parted and she would be alone."That will not be good for the child," Patience reasoned. "What shall I do with her, where shall I take her?"A curious thing happened. Ann Newbolt had returned to London and little by little had wound herself into Patience's good graces. More than once they had met in the park when Agnes was taking her morning airing. Ann was given to coming thither at the same hour with two dogs which she brought with her to give them a free run."I could not be without them," she would say, "and so I begged Father to let me bring them up from the manor for company's sake. Our big London house is so dreary."Now Agnes had never had any animals of her own, and her delight was great when, after a few outings, Cæsar and Juno--for so they were called--learned to know her, and would bound across the park when they saw her coming, and well-nigh knock her down with joy. She would run with them, she would play with them. At first this was much to Patience's displeasure; but Ann had her old nurse with her, and she said to Patience:"Let the child be, let her run and play; she is too much cooped up in your palace. Do you not see she is growing pale?"Ann chimed in, "She is like a hot-house plant; you are forcing her, Mistress Patience.""Not I," returned Patience, "but those who surround her, those who do not understand that she is a child.""Why do you not take her into the country and let her run wild for a year or two?" asked Ann's nurse. "Then you would bring her back as fresh and fair as a rose. Court life is not good for children.""I would I could do it," said Patience; "but I am not mistress.""Shall you go back to France with the queen?" asked Ann."No, I will not do that," said Patience; "I would rather carry her away and hide her. King Charles's court is bad enough; what the Duke of Orleans will be I dare not even think. No, I will keep my sweet lamb unspotted if I can. She knows no evil, therefore she sees none, though she be hedged in with wrong-doers. But that will not always be. I promised her dear mother I would protect her, and so, help me God, I will.""You will do well," said Ann. "She is a sweet flower, and worthy of all care; I would she were my sister.""I pray I may live to see her an honest man's wife," said Patience.Such conversations as these were frequent between the two, Patience not having the remotest idea that it was the Newbolts who possessed the lands which should have been Agnes's heritage.The Newbolts were equally ignorant that Agnes was a De Lisle. To them she was, and had ever been, plain "Agnes Beaumont", the queen's favourite and the Princess Henrietta's devoted companion.But enlightenment was soon to come to Patience. The winter passed, and the spring began to show itself. The trees in the park were budding green; April showers succeeded March winds, and there was much gaiety in London. Gilded coaches went and came in the streets, barges floated up the Thames, and no one troubled, though many knew, that the royal exchequer was well-nigh empty. The people adored their king as they had never adored his saintly father. Wherever he passed there were shouts of, "Long live the king!" and his smiles and bows were received with enthusiasm.Never had a king been so popular. There was laughter and merriment everywhere, dancing and songs even in the streets. The only place where any decorum was observed was at Somerset House. There the queen-dowager dwelt, and the people did not love her. She never had been a favourite. Many people were ready to lay the blame of her dead husband's errors upon her shoulders, so they frowned upon the queen-dowager and her sombre court, while they laughed at the merry court at Whitehall, and would not listen to the evil reports of the goings-on within its precincts.The pendulum had swung back; the order of the day had changed; they treated Charles, his follies, his sins, as they might have treated the peccadilloes of a spoilt child. When he rode forth in his gilded coach or went on horseback through the city with his favourites and his brother, the Duke of York, in his rich attire of gold and satin, his long, curled wig, great hat with plumes which swept almost on to his shoulders, the people were wild with delight, and would press round him in their eagerness; and he would speak to them, calling them his good people, bidding them make way for him, with that wonderful charm of manner, that smile, which was the inherent gift of the Stuart race, and won every heart. They cared not what he did nor what he said; he was their king, their chosen one, their beloved. If he squandered money they laughed, and hardly grumbled at supplying his extravagances. Had he not suffered dire poverty in those evil days when Cromwell sat in his seat and the Puritan preachers thundered their maledictions against him from St. Paul's Cross? Every old English custom which could be raked up was brought to the fore, to the extreme delight of all men. He touched for the king's evil, and the sick believed they were cured. In the people's imaginings he could not do wrong, though wrong stared them in the face.In olden days there had stood in the Strand a big May-pole, which was decorated on the first of May with flowers and ribbons, and round which sports, and dances, and great merriment were wont to take place; but when the Puritans were masters they exclaimed against this device, as they did against everything that savoured of pleasure, which they considered unholy. So the ancient May-pole, which stood a hundred feet high in the Strand, had been hewn to the ground; there were no more sports on May-Day. Indeed, there were few sports in England at all during that season of strict observance of the Sabbath.Young men and maidens well-nigh forgot how to dance. They went softly, they laughed but little, because at any sign of outward rejoicing their elders frowned upon them. The faces of the men seemed to grow longer, the pretty curls on the maidens' heads were smoothed away beneath tight-fitting caps. It was not a genial time, and so now, when the sun shone, and the flowers burst forth, there arose a gentle murmur throughout the land: "Let us have our May-poles again."London was, as usual, the first place whence this cry proceeded, and thousands responded to it--the king and the Duke of York among the foremost. Yes, they would have a May-pole, larger and finer than any previous one.The citizens of London determined to make a display of their loyalty. We read in an old tract of the times, called "The City's Loyalty Displayed", how this tree was a most choice and remarkable piece. "'Twas made below bridge" (that is, below London Bridge), and brought in two parts up to Scotland Yard, near the king's palace of Whitehall, and thence it was conveyed, on April 14, 1661, to the Strand, to be erected there. It was brought with streamers flourishing before it, drums beating all the way, and other sorts of music. It was so long that landsmen could not possibly raise it; therefore the Duke of York, Lord High Admiral of England, commanded twelve seamen to come and officiate in this business.They came, and brought their cables, pulleys, and other tackle, along with six great anchors. After these were brought three crowns, borne by three men, bareheaded, and a streamer displayed all the way before them, drums playing, and other music; people thronging the streets with great shouts and acclamations all day long. The May-pole then being joined together and looped about with bands of iron, the crown and cane ("the sceptre"), with the king's arms richly gilded, was placed on the head of it. A large hoop like a balcony was about the middle of it. Then, amidst sounds of trumpets and drums, and loud cheering, and the shouts of the people, the May-pole, far more glorious, bigger, and higher than any that had preceded it, was raised upright, "which", we are told, "highly pleased the merry monarch and the illustrious prince, the Duke of York, and the little children did much rejoice, ancient people did clap their hands, saying, 'the golden days had begun to appear'. A party of morris-dancers came forward, finely decked with purple scarves and their half shirts, with tabor and pipe--the ancient music--and danced round about the May-pole."This went on for some time, and there never was seen again such a May-day as in this year of Our Lord, 1661.From the windows of Somerset House Princess Henrietta and Agnes watched the ceremonies. The putting up and the decking of this token that "the summer had come ", aroused a more tenacious loyalty than ever.Day by day, as they watched, Agnes's excitement increased; it was no use for Patience to tell her she should not be seen at the open window."I must, I must!" she cried; and, indeed, it would have been cruel to hinder her.All over England that May-Day was remembered long afterwards. The king had come into his rights again, the people had come into theirs, and they would not be gainsaid.As for Agnes, she tried to put care on one side, though she knew that Henrietta's marriage loomed not far distant; sometimes she wondered what was to become of her when it was accomplished. Once or twice she approached Patience on the subject, but she frowned and answered her:"Do not trouble, child. Think ye that you are of less account than the sparrows on the house-tops or the lilies in the field?" And she would hurry away, leaving Agnes with her own thoughts and her own fears.No wonder if on the child's face there came a serious expression, a certain sadness, which is often to be seen on the faces of children who are motherless and fatherless, a sort of yearning for something, they know not what, that has been denied to them.And yet Agnes was not unhappy. Mistress Newbolt had refused at first to come up to London, but the colonel had insisted she should do so."It is injuring Ann's prospects," he said, "and I cannot entertain guests in a house where there is no mistress." Therefore she had been obliged to yield, but she did so only in so far that she ruled the servants and saw that there was no wilful waste. For herself she remained in her own apartments, and would not join in the entertainments which her husband delighted in, neither would she permit Ann to do so.Thus it came to pass that Agnes and Ann drew closer and closer one to the other. Not a day passed but they saw one another. Agnes delighted to go to their house, and, strange to tell, Mistress Newbolt took a vast liking to her. She would let her follow her into her store closet; she would let her watch her make the dainty comfits for which she was renowned; and she would send her away with all manner of good things piled in a little basket which she kept for that purpose. But if she did her these kindnesses, she insisted that every time she came to see her she should go with her to her closet, and there she would read to her some portion of the Bible and would pray with her. Agnes conformed meekly to her desires. She looked upon her as a saint, and though she was stern and cold, and never caressed her, there was a certain motherliness about her which appealed to the child's heart.So the month of June came, and the Princess Henrietta was carried over to France to meet the saddest fate that can befall any woman, namely to marry a bad man. Agnes thought her heart would break when she bade her and the queen adieu. Indeed, she fell quite sick with sorrow, lay on her bed, turned her face to the wall, and would not be comforted.
CHAPTER III
Somerset House
Somerset House, the English home in which Agnes now found herself, was very different from the magnificent but sombre Louvre she had left.
It stood almost in the centre of a great bend of the Thames, so that from its fine terrace could be seen, on one side the city of London, with its countless spires and its old bridge, on the other the king's palace and gardens of Whitehall and the great Abbey of Westminster.
Built by the Protector Somerset, it had been greatly improved for Queen Henrietta Maria, who had furnished it with consummate taste.
On its charming south front, looking out over the river, in full sunshine, were the queen's principal apartments: her presence-chamber, private sitting-room, and her bed-chamber, all protected by the guard-room. Her windows looked down on wide, trim lawns, in the centre of which was a basin and fountain, while beyond was a broad terraced walk, the walls of which were at each high tide washed by the Thames.
A handsome flight of steps led down to the river, where the queen's barge was moored. The Thames was a high-road full of life and movement, for every nobleman kept a splendid barge, rowed by many men in fine liveries.
Beyond the queen's apartment were the smaller rooms occupied by the Princess Henrietta and Agnes Beaumont, who, though she was but twelve years old, was raised to the dignity of maid of honour to the princess, thus establishing her right to be always beside her in private and in public. Agnes was tall for her age and slim; the golden curls of her childhood had darkened to a rich auburn; her features were delicate but very marked; her complexion fair, with a soft pink colouring which suited well with the brown eyes and dark, long lashes. She had been a beautiful babe, and now she was a fair girl, little more than a child still, but giving great promise of a beautiful womanhood.
Young as she was, there was a stateliness in her carriage which betokened high birth. More than once the queen laughed with Patience:
"We cannot hide her dignity if we would," she said; "she carries her head too high for common folk."
Patience smiled. "Well, well," she said, "her father did the same. The proverb says, 'Pride will have a fall'. Thank God she cannot fall much lower than she has!"
"Nay," answered the queen, "we will make of her a duchess. My son the king noticed her the other day and remarked upon her beauty, and he is no mean judge," she added with a light laugh.
But Patience flushed crimson. "I would sooner his majesty did not cast his eyes on her," she said in a low voice.
"Pshaw!" answered the queen, "she is but a child."
"A child who will be a woman before we know it," said Patience. "His majesty's court is too gay for such young fledgelings."
"Well spoken, Patience!" said a man's voice behind the queen. "Why, methinks my lord Cromwell's spirit still dwells amongst us in our own house. You will be a Puritan yet, Patience."
Patience made no answer, but bowed and went out.
Then the speaker, Lord Jermyn, took the queen's hand, kissed it, led her to a chair, and at a sign from her sat down beside her.
"Patience is right," he said. "I would keep those children away from Whitehall as much as possible. The king has had but a dull time of it in exile; he is making up for it now."
Henrietta shrugged her shoulders. "My nephew's court in Paris is no better," she said, "and there Henrietta, when she is Duchess of Orleans, will have to live, and probably Agnes will go with her."
"Time enough for that," answered Lord Jermyn. "Do not brush the bloom off the flowers sooner than need be. They are the prettiest couple at court, those two, in their young freshness. Have you spoken to the king concerning Agnes?"
"No, there's time enough," answered the queen. "It were difficult for the king to act at present. The estates have passed out of his hands, and he would raise a hornet's nest if he attempted to take them from their present owner."
"I think you are wrong," said Lord Jermyn; "the sooner such things are done the better. If his majesty cannot restore to her her rightful heritage, then he must create a new one for her."
"That is probably what he will do," said the queen. "These are early days, and his hands are full. His first duty is to do what he is doing, punish the murderers of his father."
"Ah, well! he is doing that without mercy," said Lord Jermyn, and there was a certain bitterness in his tone.
"Do you regret it?" asked Henrietta, looking up at him.
"I suppose it has to be," he answered. "But such men as Harrison and Carew are being raised to the dignity of martyrs; they die like men for the cause they believe in. There, we will not speak of it. I wish it were all over."
"I agree with you, my lord," said the young Duke of Gloucester, who had just come in. "I wish it were all over, this judging and this killing. I cannot pass in the streets but I see the scaffolds, and men dying thereon with such firmness and show of piety, with a semblance of joy in their sufferings." And the young Duke covered his face with his hands. "Mother, cannot you stop it?" he asked.
"Stop the avenging of your father's death! Nay, Henry, that I cannot do."
"Then, Mother, pray the king not to have the scaffold so near us as Charing Cross, or else I will go hence and never visit you. My Lord Jermyn, plead for me." And the prince hastily left the room, and, going along the gallery, knocked at the door of his sister's apartment.
It was Agnes who opened to him. She was startled at the pallor of his face.
"Is your royal highness ill?" she asked.
"No, Agnes, but I am sick at heart and I am sorely puzzled."
"Come in," said she, "and tell us what ails you."
The young duke entered, threw himself into an arm-chair by the hearth, covering his face with his hands. The Princess Henrietta came and knelt beside him.
"Tell me what ails you, Henry?" she asked.
"I would go hence, Henrietta, to that kingdom where my father wears an immortal crown; these earthly baubles are not worth the lives they cost. It is all so puzzling. What is truth? My Father died for it because he believed in his cause. These regicides who voted his death are as sure as he was that they are in the right. I was in the crowd to-day when a man was being dragged upon a hurdle to his shameful death. His face was placid and even cheerful. A low wretch called out to him, 'Where is your good old cause now?' and he answered with a smile, clapping his hand upon his heart, 'Here it is, and I am going to seal it with my blood.' And as he went on his way I heard him call out, 'I go to suffer for the most glorious cause that ever was in the world.'" As if maddened by the sight he had seen, the young duke rose, saying, "It is all wrong! It is all wrong! There is no right; I wish I were out of it!"
They soothed and calmed him, and he remained all the afternoon in the princess's apartment; but Patience did not like the look of him.
"He is sickening for something," she said.
Later, when he tried to stand he could not, his head was dizzy; so they carried him to his chamber and they sent for the leech. Perceiving he had high fever, they bled him, and said, "He will be well on the morrow."
Upon the morrow he was not well; indeed, the fever had gained upon him and his mind wandered. His sister Henrietta would have gone to him, but the leech would not permit it.
"We cannot tell what he is sickening for," he said.
A few days later the whole court was scared, for it was known that the Duke of Gloucester had been attacked by that terrible disease small-pox, which made as much havoc in high places as in low slums. That he had been up to the very last with the young girls, caused both the queen and Patience great anxiety. They were removed at once from Somerset House and taken to Hampton Court, that they might breathe fresh country air, and so rid themselves of infection. Matters went badly with the prince. The disease assumed its most virulent form, and within a fortnight his wish was granted; he had passed from earth to heaven.
And so the court for a time was thrown into mourning, and Henrietta and Agnes were not permitted to return until there should be no fear of any further infection. When the first shock was over they enjoyed beyond measure their country life; those beautiful gardens laid out by Cardinal Wolsey afforded them never-ending pleasure. True, it was winter time; but the ponds and lakes were frozen over, and after much pleading and the taking of many precautions they were suffered to go upon the ice under the care of some of the gentlemen of the court. Neither of them knew how to skate. Henrietta was timid and would not even try to go alone, holding on to her cavalier's hand, and sometimes hardly moving; but Agnes grew impatient.
"Look at that young man and the girl out yonder!" she said, pointing to a couple who were skimming over the lake like birds. "It seems so easy."
As she uttered the words the couple approached and heard her. The young man was handsome, with fair hair and blue eyes, and with a certain nobility of face. The girl was like him; there was no mistaking they were brother and sister.
"You are right. It is quite easy," said the girl, as she caught Agnes's last words. "Will you let us help you?"
"Oh, I shall be so glad, so very glad!" answered Agnes. "It is cold and stupid standing here and creeping about." And before Patience could intervene, she had given one hand to the girl, the other to the young man, and was off between them, slipping and sliding and laughing. But they steadied her and told her how to use her feet, guiding her gently, making it so easy for her that soon she began to feel at home, and with her natural boldness ventured to say:
"Now let me go, let me go alone!"
"You can't," said the young man; "better not try to-day."
"Oh, I must!" said Agnes, and so they let her go.
One step, two steps, then she staggered; but they caught her before she had time to fall.
"You will soon learn; children always do," said the young man.
"Child!" she cried; "I am not a child. I am over twelve years old, and maid of honour to Princess Henrietta Maria. Who are you?" And she threw up her head and looked him in the face.
His blue eyes laughed quizzically: "I am Reginald Newbolt," he said, "and this is my sister Ann. We are not grand people like you."
"I am not grand at all; I am nobody," Agnes answered, colouring. "I must go; Patience is signing to me, and Princess Henrietta is shivering on the side of the lake. Will you come again to-morrow and help me? I should like to be friends with you."
"We shall be only too glad," answered Ann. "We will come every day as long as the frost lasts. Now we will take you back to your people."
They took her hands and made her skate in time with them.
"To think I can go so well with you and not alone!" she said. "It is annoying."
"You need not fear," said Reginald. "In a few days you will go alone; you have the knack of it."
They reached the edge of the lake where the princess and Patience were standing.
"Oh, it is so cold!" exclaimed the princess, shivering; "and it is very imprudent of you to go off like that, Agnes."
"I am sorry to have vexed you," the girl answered; "but it was just lovely. Will you not try, Princess? This is Mr. Reginald Newbolt and his sister Ann."
Doffing his cap, Reginald bowed to the princess and Ann curtsied. Henrietta having recovered from her ill-temper, as she always did quickly, had seen that to all outward appearance they were gentlefolk. She gave them a stately bow, then repeated:
"Now we must go home, Agnes; I am frozen."
"I must take off my skates first," answered Agnes, and she sat down at the edge of the lake while Patience undid the straps. Then she rose.
The princess took Patience's arm and turned towards home. Agnes followed with Mr. Delarry, who said:
"You make friends easily, Mistress Agnes. Do you know who that young man is?"
"Did you not hear me tell the princess that he is Mr. Reginald Newbolt, and that it is his sister who is with him?" she asked.
"Well, they make a handsome couple," said Mr. Delarry. "Newbolt! Did you say this man's name was Newbolt?"
"Yes," said Agnes; "do you know them?"
"I know him after a fashion," answered Mr. Delarry. "His father is, I believe, Colonel Newbolt. He is, like many another, an old Parliamentarian who, to feather his nest, turned king's man and welcomed the king back. The young man is seeking a commission in the king's guards and will probably get it, to the detriment of other and better men."
Agnes's face clouded over. "I am sorry his father was on the wrong side," she said.
"You need not trouble, or you will have to be sorry for many," said Mr. Delarry; "but this young fellow is a new recruit, and never drew his sword in the late war. They say he refused a commission in Cromwell's army."
"I am glad of that," said Agnes, her face brightening. "There will be no harm in my skating with them to-morrow, will there, Mr. Delarry?"
"None whatever, if Mistress Patience sees none. He is a handsome fellow, Mistress Agnes, and will make a fine cavalier."
"I like handsome men," she answered, with childish glee; "and his sister too is pleasant, but she is prim."
"I hear her mother is a strict Puritan," said Mr. Delarry, "and that the colonel had much trouble in getting her to come up to London with his son and daughter. She will not show herself at court, much to his displeasure. Have a care, Mistress Agnes, or you will be turning Puritan too!"
"Oh, no!" Agnes answered, laughing. "I do not like them at all, at least the few of them I have seen in the streets. Patience has pointed them out to me; they are mostly dressed in black, with white ruffles and high hats; they look very stern. The women have black cloaks and white coifs. I like our own pretty clothes best, and our gay cavaliers with their broad hats and sweeping plumes."
Delarry smiled at her. "You are such a child, Miss Agnes, still. I thought you were to be a grown woman when you came to England."
"Oh, it is coming, coming very fast!" she said. "Good-bye, Mr. Delarry!" And she left him, and ran forward to join the princess.
"You talk to everybody," said Henrietta to her reproachfully. "I never knew such a child. What have you been talking to Mr. Delarry about now?"
"Only about my new friends," answered Agnes. "Oh, you will be nice, Henrietta, and skate with them to-morrow, won't you? They just fly over the ice. It is the most delicious sensation I ever knew. They say in two or three days I shall go alone, and then," she added mischievously, "let who can catch me."
CHAPTER IV
New Friends
On the following day Henrietta was nothing loath to have good sport with Agnes, and Patience was forced to yield to their desires. Down to the lake they went, found the Newbolts there, and after a little persuasion Henrietta ventured on the ice. They brought a chair for her, and she was content at first to let Mr. Delarry push her; but Agnes gave her hands to Ann and Reginald and went off. Presently she came back alone, so sure of foot was she; her figure was so light and easy.
"Do try," she said to Henrietta; "it is just lovely!" And the princess let herself be persuaded.
Other gentlemen and ladies joined them, and there was much laughter and many tumbles, but no one was hurt. The time passed quickly, until the winter day was drawing to a close, and still they were not tired.
"I should never be tired," said Agnes, her face rosy with the keenness of the air, and her eyes very bright.
This went on for well-nigh a week. The court party they were called; they were so happy. All the commoners made way for them as they went hither and thither, gliding over the ice. Indeed, people came from afar and stood on the edge of the lake looking at them.
The princess, Agnes, Ann, and Reginald, were the principal actors in that scene. The two girls, muffled in their soft furs, with their petticoats above their ankles, showing their pretty feet, were a sight to rejoice the heart, as the sight of all young things must be. The winter sunshine glinted in Agnes's bright hair, and lit up her dark eyes with the happiest, softest merriment.
"I never saw such a pretty creature!" said Reginald to Ann, when she had left them after the day's sport.
"Take care. You will be losing your heart to her!" said Ann, laughing.
"I have done that long ago," he answered. "The first time she looked at me she took my heart away with her. If I had not been a king's man before, she would have made me one."
"She is but twelve years old," said Ann, laughing; "you will have to wait long for her, Reginald."
"And the time will seem but short," he answered, "if I may but see her once and again. Do you know her name, Ann?"
"Agnes, I have heard; nothing more," she answered. "But that young man, Delarry, said casually that she had been the darling of the queen-mother and the princess ever since she was a baby. Nobody knows aught about her save the queen and Mistress Patience, who carried her over to France when she was almost in swaddling clothes."
"I was sure of it," said Reginald. "She is a child of one of the great old families; she looks it, my little sweetheart!" And from that time forth Reginald hovered round Agnes, and people laughed at her and called him her knight, and she was mighty pleased and made no little boast of her handsome cavalier.
It was all so open, so fresh, this budding love; without depth or passion, it had sprung up like the flowers, and like them was pure and serene. There was no past, no future for those young creatures; they lived just for the hour, as with flying feet they skimmed the ice, the fresh, sharp air cutting their faces. The joy of life was with them and upon them as it never would be again. They did not recognize how with each fleeting moment a joy-note sounded and died away. In after-years they would listen for the echo with that intense longing of hearts which have known unalloyed happiness; would they hear it again, or would it go from them for ever, with the flitting moments? Blessed are those who like them have heard it, whose lips have uttered the words, "I am so happy, so happy!"
They came like a song of joy to Agnes's lips as she went hither and thither with Reginald beside her. He, bending towards her, said with a note of triumph in his voice:
"I would this might last for ever, my little sweetheart----"
"For ever!" she repeated. "For ever! Why not?"
He had not the heart to cast a shadow on that joy. Why tell her nothing lasts for ever? And so he only answered, "Why not?"
On the morrow the order came: "Back to Somerset House; the air is purified; Christmas is coming; you must come back."
Before leaving, the princess sent for Reginald Newbolt and his sister, and they bade each other farewell. "It will not be for long," said the princess. "I will ask my mother, the queen, to make you one of her maids of honour, Mistress Ann; so you may live with us, for I have taken a great liking to you."
"I am afraid the queen will not favour me," was the quiet answer. "I have not been brought up after your foreign fashion. I do not know your ways or manners. I am a plain English girl."
"Oh, that does not matter at all! We have many English ladies in our suite, and the queen loves them well."
"But my mother would not let me dwell in the queen's household; she says it is godless," said Ann, colouring deeply; "it would, I think, break her heart."
"Ah well," said Henrietta carelessly, "you must please yourself if you are so over-strict."
"Say rather, I must obey my mother," answered Ann; "but nevertheless I am grateful to you and thank you." And she stooped and kissed the princess's hand. So they parted.
As she was going out Patrick Delarry met her. He was an Irishman who had been with the queen in France, and of earthly possessions had few; but he was a true Irishman, full of jokes and fun, taking things lightly even as the Stuarts did, and, because of this very carelessness, the noble sweetness of Ann had attracted him.
They met in the corridor leading to the grand staircase. He paused, bowed before her, saying, "This is no farewell, Mistress Ann; we shall meet in London."
"Maybe we shall; maybe we shall not," returned Ann. "The princess is very good and desires to give me a place at court, but my mother would not hear of such a thing; she is strict in her conduct, and has brought her children up as strictly."
"I am sorry," said Delarry, "but I daresay she is right. Still, that will not prevent our meeting, Mistress Ann. Your father is serving the king; your brother will have a commission in the Guards; surely you will mix in good society?"
"I greatly fear not," answered Ann. "My mother says that young maidens should remain at home, and that the court is full of snares."
Delarry laughed. "It is pretty bad," he said, "but you will remember that if you owe your duty to your mother, you owe it also to the king, your master. If he bids you attend upon his sister, surely you will not refuse. Somerset House is not Whitehall."
He spoke with significance, and Ann coloured slightly, for she knew well that the king's palace was far too gay and frivolous a place for young maidens who respected themselves.
"If I am summoned to Somerset House," she said, "and my father desires I should go there, I hope my mother will let me, for the princess is very sweet to me and my heart inclines towards her. As for little Agnes," and she laughed lightly, "I do not think we shall lose sight of her. My brother has lost his heart to her."
"That is very evident," said Mr. Delarry; "she is a pretty child."
"I must bid you adieu," said Ann. She curtsied and went quickly on her way down the corridor. Delarry stood a second and watched her till she disappeared.
"A pretty Puritan maiden; I didn't know they were so smart," he thought. "It will not be my fault if we do not meet again before long, Mistress Ann." And so he too went his way.
That same afternoon the princess and Agnes, with Patience, entered the royal coach, and were driven back to Somerset House. They were neither of them very cheerful, and the way seemed long and cold, for the air was heavy with snow ready to fall. London looked dark and sombre when they entered it, with only the great torches flaring as the torch-bearers held them on high in front of the coach to guide the driver through the narrow streets of the city. The courtyard of Somerset House was also lit up; but it was a sad home-coming, nevertheless, and the queen-mother welcomed them with tears.
"I do not know how it is," she said to her daughter. "I loved this country once and I was happy; now I am miserable here. I would go back to France; this death of your brother is an evil omen."
"Nay, Mother, do not go just yet," said Henrietta. "We have come home at a bad season of the year. You tell me that the spring is lovely in England; let us wait and see;" then, sitting before the fire, she and Agnes told her what good sport they had at Hampton Court, and they spoke of Reginald and Ann.
The queen frowned. "Patience is over-indulgent to you," she said. "You have no right to make the acquaintance of strangers, especially of these upstarts. You say the father is Colonel Newbolt; he was one of Cromwell's men. Now, because it suits himself and his purse, he is a king's man. To-morrow, if it suits him, he will be the people's man again. I am sick of it all."
"Do you not think it well, Mother, to encourage these people to become faithful lieges to the king?" said Henrietta.
"Faithful!" said the queen, with a mocking laugh. "I have ceased to look for faithfulness anywhere. As soon as you are married, Henrietta--and that will, I trust, be before long--we will go back to France. Your brother's court does not suit me, and his friends do not suit me. Your brother, the Duke of York, is enamoured of Clarendon's daughter, Ann Hyde, and there has been much scandal--a secret marriage. It has set the people talking. I tell you I am sick of it all. There is a vulgarity which savours not of kings in the whole tone of England now."
Her daughter did not answer her; she could not--she did not understand what was amiss. She was but a girl still. When she was a woman she understood better.
Fortunately it was nearly Christmas time, and so that season brought a certain amount of gaiety and brightness. They were not accustomed to make as much of it in France as in England, where, then as now, everyone rejoiced, everyone made merry. It had gone out of fashion to a great extent during the Commonwealth, but people were glad to go back to their old ways and drag the Yule-log into the great hall. It was a good season for the poor, when before great fires bullocks and sheep were roasted whole in the streets. There were mummers, and morris-dances, and all manner of sports.
To Agnes's great disgust a week or two before Christmas she received a letter from Ann, telling her that they were going away down to their country place, because their mother could not abide in London. She was willing to feast the poor in the country and those who needed help, but the frivolities of London did not suit her, and she would not stay there. Indeed, she was afraid her mother would not let her come back, which grieved her sorely, for she loved her friends, and would have gladly served the Princess Henrietta.
When she received this letter Agnes wept bitterly.
"Is there no means by which she could be brought to court?" she said to Patience.
"I know of none except by the king's command," said Patience, "and unfortunately the queen-mother is not well inclined towards the Newbolts."
"Where is their country place?" asked Agnes.
"How should I know?" answered Patience. "They are new people who have old lands which by rights belong to others."
She spoke bitterly, and Agnes noticed it.
"Well," she said, "I like the Newbolts; I met the colonel last week when he was presented to the king. He is a fine man, but the queen received him coldly; and when I asked the princess why her mother did so, she said, 'Because she misdoubts all old Parliamentarians. There is not one of them but had a hand in my father's death'."
"'Well, at least Reginald hadn't,'" I said. "He was very young at the time, and both he and Ann have told me that when they heard of the king's death they wept and stamped their feet at their father, saying it was a shame, for which their mother flogged them both and sent them to bed with bread and water. 'But it only made us more loyal,' Ann said. By the bye, Patience, do you know I saw Reginald ride past the other day on his way to Whitehall in the full uniform of the King's Guard? He looked so handsome."
"Where did you see him from?" asked Patience.
"Oh, from the stained mullion window in the corridor behind my room. I often go and stand there because I see into the Strand. I think I like the town better than the river."
"Happily, it is a stained window, so people do not see you," said Patience. "It is not seemly for a maiden to be staring on to the public road."
"But people do see me," said Agnes. "Reginald saw me, and he saluted. You know he is my knight, Patience."
"I know I will not suffer you to behave thus," said Patience. "A cavalier saluting a maiden at her window, above all things a maiden in Somerset House! It must not be, Agnes; you are old enough to know better."
"I do not know what I am," answered the girl impetuously. "Sometimes I am a child, sometimes a girl, sometimes I am almost a grown woman, as suits your fancy, Patience." And the big tears gathered in her eyes and rolled down her face.
"My pretty, my pretty, do not weep," said Patience, and she put her arm round the girl's waist and drew her upon her lap. "You must mind what I am going to say to you, Agnes," she continued. "You are not like other girls, and you must be circumspect. You have no one to defend you from evil tongues, no one to lift you up if you were to fall; you are alone. The queen loved your mother; your father died for her husband, and so she harbours you; but she may not always do so. The day may come when she will go back to France, and that will be no place for you when the princess is married."
"Why not--why not?" said Agnes. "I shall go with her."
"Not if I can help it," answered Patience. "I love you too well, my dove, to let you scorch your wings in the court of the Palais Royal and Versailles. We must remain in England, Agnes, and the king must pension you; it is your due."
"But have I no kith or kin, no one belonging to me?" asked the girl.
"No one," answered Patience, "at least that I know of."
"And did my father and mother leave me no wealth and no lands?" said Agnes.
"What gold they had," said Patience, "I took to France with me, and all these years it has served us. There is not much left, and as for lands they are forfeited. Cromwell did what he chose with them and gave them to whom he would. So you see, my child, you must be prudent. One thing you have which you must hold--your good name."
"Agnes Beaumont," said the girl.
"That is not all, you have another name," said Patience, looking at her, "but I have sworn not to reveal it to you until your wedding day or till you are of age."
"Why not?" she asked. "Why should not I know my own name?"
"Because it might be a danger to you," answered Patience. "There are those who might wish you ill and do you wrong. When you have a husband you will have someone to defend you; when you are of age you must judge for yourself."
"Does no one except you know who I am?" asked Agnes.
"Yes, the queen-dowager knows, and the king," said Patience. "When he gives you back what is yours, then he will tell you himself what your station is."
Tears gathered in Agnes's eyes.
"I do not like it," she said. "Have I anything to be ashamed of?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"Ashamed!" exclaimed Patience. "No, indeed! far from that. I tell you it is for your own personal good, to shield you from those who have taken your lands from you and who might resent their being restored to you. You are the last of your race; your very birth has been hidden, but it will all come right one day if only you will be patient."
"Very well," said Agnes, "I will ask no questions; I will wait. It does not really matter, only I heard someone say the other day, 'Agnes Beaumont! What Beaumont is that?' and no one seemed to know."
"It was your mother's name," said Patience; "you have a right to bear it, for you were christened Agnes Beaumont. Your father's name alone is wanting, and that you will surely claim one day, either you or your husband for you."
"Oh, that husband!" said Agnes, laughing; "I wonder who he will be!"
"A noble gentleman, I trust," said Patience, "who will give you back all that you have lost."
Agnes pouted.
"I do not care to go to any man as a beggar girl," she answered proudly.
"That you surely will not," answered Patience. "Have no fear. And now let me dress you. The princess is going to Whitehall with the queen to-night, and you are to accompany her. It is a mistake, a great mistake," continued Patience; "you are too young."
"Ah! but I like it," said Agnes; "I like going to the king's court, and, if the Princess Henrietta goes, surely it cannot hurt me."
Patience shook her head.
"I am not so sure of that," she said.
"Oh, well, never mind!" said Agnes; "you dear old thing, you are always frightened lest something should befall me. Let me wear my satin gown embroidered with rosebuds to-night; it becomes me well."
"You cannot," said Patience; "the court is in mourning still, have you forgotten?"
"Ah! yes, I forgot," said Agnes. "The poor duke. Well, give me my lilac gown with the black knots." And thus soberly attired she went to court.
CHAPTER V
May-Day
Time flies for the young; the days, the weeks, the months seem to have wings; they heed it not, they are glad, because each day is a new joy, a new surprise.
So it was with the Princess Henrietta and Agnes. They had no cares, at least Agnes had none. She loved the winter, the biting cold, the snow, the frost; she would go out with Patience in all weathers, and ofttimes with the princess to St. James's Park, where they would skate and otherwise disport themselves. Gradually, however, Agnes fell into the background; she was too young to be at all the court parties, and Patience observed this to the queen-dowager.
"She is but a child, and the late hours are injuring her," she said; "let her abide at home with me." And the queen acquiesced; indeed, she knew full well that the king's court was no place for the young.
Arrangements were being made for Henrietta's marriage to the Duke of Orleans, and many noblemen and courtiers came over from France to greet her. Her time was much taken up with all this, so that Agnes naturally drifted into a quieter world, and was seen less and less in public, excepting when there were grand receptions at Somerset House. Some of these she was permitted to attend, for girls were older for their years in those days than they are now; still, she was not as much at home in the court circle as she had been when she was only a spoilt child. She did not care for, or rather she did not understand, the compliments which were sometimes addressed to her--for she was very pretty, nay, she was beautiful, and attracted not a little attention from women as well as men. She was a general favourite, and if Patience would have allowed it she would have had many invitations and have been made much of. But Patience was a very dragon of propriety.
"You shall not go," she said. "You are too young."
"I do not care to go," Agnes answered. "I cannot abide it."
More than once Patience found her asleep, her pillow wet with tears. She did not question her, she guessed what it was. The first sorrow in her life would soon come. In June the Princess Henrietta was to be married, and then they would be parted and she would be alone.
"That will not be good for the child," Patience reasoned. "What shall I do with her, where shall I take her?"
A curious thing happened. Ann Newbolt had returned to London and little by little had wound herself into Patience's good graces. More than once they had met in the park when Agnes was taking her morning airing. Ann was given to coming thither at the same hour with two dogs which she brought with her to give them a free run.
"I could not be without them," she would say, "and so I begged Father to let me bring them up from the manor for company's sake. Our big London house is so dreary."
Now Agnes had never had any animals of her own, and her delight was great when, after a few outings, Cæsar and Juno--for so they were called--learned to know her, and would bound across the park when they saw her coming, and well-nigh knock her down with joy. She would run with them, she would play with them. At first this was much to Patience's displeasure; but Ann had her old nurse with her, and she said to Patience:
"Let the child be, let her run and play; she is too much cooped up in your palace. Do you not see she is growing pale?"
Ann chimed in, "She is like a hot-house plant; you are forcing her, Mistress Patience."
"Not I," returned Patience, "but those who surround her, those who do not understand that she is a child."
"Why do you not take her into the country and let her run wild for a year or two?" asked Ann's nurse. "Then you would bring her back as fresh and fair as a rose. Court life is not good for children."
"I would I could do it," said Patience; "but I am not mistress."
"Shall you go back to France with the queen?" asked Ann.
"No, I will not do that," said Patience; "I would rather carry her away and hide her. King Charles's court is bad enough; what the Duke of Orleans will be I dare not even think. No, I will keep my sweet lamb unspotted if I can. She knows no evil, therefore she sees none, though she be hedged in with wrong-doers. But that will not always be. I promised her dear mother I would protect her, and so, help me God, I will."
"You will do well," said Ann. "She is a sweet flower, and worthy of all care; I would she were my sister."
"I pray I may live to see her an honest man's wife," said Patience.
Such conversations as these were frequent between the two, Patience not having the remotest idea that it was the Newbolts who possessed the lands which should have been Agnes's heritage.
The Newbolts were equally ignorant that Agnes was a De Lisle. To them she was, and had ever been, plain "Agnes Beaumont", the queen's favourite and the Princess Henrietta's devoted companion.
But enlightenment was soon to come to Patience. The winter passed, and the spring began to show itself. The trees in the park were budding green; April showers succeeded March winds, and there was much gaiety in London. Gilded coaches went and came in the streets, barges floated up the Thames, and no one troubled, though many knew, that the royal exchequer was well-nigh empty. The people adored their king as they had never adored his saintly father. Wherever he passed there were shouts of, "Long live the king!" and his smiles and bows were received with enthusiasm.
Never had a king been so popular. There was laughter and merriment everywhere, dancing and songs even in the streets. The only place where any decorum was observed was at Somerset House. There the queen-dowager dwelt, and the people did not love her. She never had been a favourite. Many people were ready to lay the blame of her dead husband's errors upon her shoulders, so they frowned upon the queen-dowager and her sombre court, while they laughed at the merry court at Whitehall, and would not listen to the evil reports of the goings-on within its precincts.
The pendulum had swung back; the order of the day had changed; they treated Charles, his follies, his sins, as they might have treated the peccadilloes of a spoilt child. When he rode forth in his gilded coach or went on horseback through the city with his favourites and his brother, the Duke of York, in his rich attire of gold and satin, his long, curled wig, great hat with plumes which swept almost on to his shoulders, the people were wild with delight, and would press round him in their eagerness; and he would speak to them, calling them his good people, bidding them make way for him, with that wonderful charm of manner, that smile, which was the inherent gift of the Stuart race, and won every heart. They cared not what he did nor what he said; he was their king, their chosen one, their beloved. If he squandered money they laughed, and hardly grumbled at supplying his extravagances. Had he not suffered dire poverty in those evil days when Cromwell sat in his seat and the Puritan preachers thundered their maledictions against him from St. Paul's Cross? Every old English custom which could be raked up was brought to the fore, to the extreme delight of all men. He touched for the king's evil, and the sick believed they were cured. In the people's imaginings he could not do wrong, though wrong stared them in the face.
In olden days there had stood in the Strand a big May-pole, which was decorated on the first of May with flowers and ribbons, and round which sports, and dances, and great merriment were wont to take place; but when the Puritans were masters they exclaimed against this device, as they did against everything that savoured of pleasure, which they considered unholy. So the ancient May-pole, which stood a hundred feet high in the Strand, had been hewn to the ground; there were no more sports on May-Day. Indeed, there were few sports in England at all during that season of strict observance of the Sabbath.
Young men and maidens well-nigh forgot how to dance. They went softly, they laughed but little, because at any sign of outward rejoicing their elders frowned upon them. The faces of the men seemed to grow longer, the pretty curls on the maidens' heads were smoothed away beneath tight-fitting caps. It was not a genial time, and so now, when the sun shone, and the flowers burst forth, there arose a gentle murmur throughout the land: "Let us have our May-poles again."
London was, as usual, the first place whence this cry proceeded, and thousands responded to it--the king and the Duke of York among the foremost. Yes, they would have a May-pole, larger and finer than any previous one.
The citizens of London determined to make a display of their loyalty. We read in an old tract of the times, called "The City's Loyalty Displayed", how this tree was a most choice and remarkable piece. "'Twas made below bridge" (that is, below London Bridge), and brought in two parts up to Scotland Yard, near the king's palace of Whitehall, and thence it was conveyed, on April 14, 1661, to the Strand, to be erected there. It was brought with streamers flourishing before it, drums beating all the way, and other sorts of music. It was so long that landsmen could not possibly raise it; therefore the Duke of York, Lord High Admiral of England, commanded twelve seamen to come and officiate in this business.
They came, and brought their cables, pulleys, and other tackle, along with six great anchors. After these were brought three crowns, borne by three men, bareheaded, and a streamer displayed all the way before them, drums playing, and other music; people thronging the streets with great shouts and acclamations all day long. The May-pole then being joined together and looped about with bands of iron, the crown and cane ("the sceptre"), with the king's arms richly gilded, was placed on the head of it. A large hoop like a balcony was about the middle of it. Then, amidst sounds of trumpets and drums, and loud cheering, and the shouts of the people, the May-pole, far more glorious, bigger, and higher than any that had preceded it, was raised upright, "which", we are told, "highly pleased the merry monarch and the illustrious prince, the Duke of York, and the little children did much rejoice, ancient people did clap their hands, saying, 'the golden days had begun to appear'. A party of morris-dancers came forward, finely decked with purple scarves and their half shirts, with tabor and pipe--the ancient music--and danced round about the May-pole."
This went on for some time, and there never was seen again such a May-day as in this year of Our Lord, 1661.
From the windows of Somerset House Princess Henrietta and Agnes watched the ceremonies. The putting up and the decking of this token that "the summer had come ", aroused a more tenacious loyalty than ever.
Day by day, as they watched, Agnes's excitement increased; it was no use for Patience to tell her she should not be seen at the open window.
"I must, I must!" she cried; and, indeed, it would have been cruel to hinder her.
All over England that May-Day was remembered long afterwards. The king had come into his rights again, the people had come into theirs, and they would not be gainsaid.
As for Agnes, she tried to put care on one side, though she knew that Henrietta's marriage loomed not far distant; sometimes she wondered what was to become of her when it was accomplished. Once or twice she approached Patience on the subject, but she frowned and answered her:
"Do not trouble, child. Think ye that you are of less account than the sparrows on the house-tops or the lilies in the field?" And she would hurry away, leaving Agnes with her own thoughts and her own fears.
No wonder if on the child's face there came a serious expression, a certain sadness, which is often to be seen on the faces of children who are motherless and fatherless, a sort of yearning for something, they know not what, that has been denied to them.
And yet Agnes was not unhappy. Mistress Newbolt had refused at first to come up to London, but the colonel had insisted she should do so.
"It is injuring Ann's prospects," he said, "and I cannot entertain guests in a house where there is no mistress." Therefore she had been obliged to yield, but she did so only in so far that she ruled the servants and saw that there was no wilful waste. For herself she remained in her own apartments, and would not join in the entertainments which her husband delighted in, neither would she permit Ann to do so.
Thus it came to pass that Agnes and Ann drew closer and closer one to the other. Not a day passed but they saw one another. Agnes delighted to go to their house, and, strange to tell, Mistress Newbolt took a vast liking to her. She would let her follow her into her store closet; she would let her watch her make the dainty comfits for which she was renowned; and she would send her away with all manner of good things piled in a little basket which she kept for that purpose. But if she did her these kindnesses, she insisted that every time she came to see her she should go with her to her closet, and there she would read to her some portion of the Bible and would pray with her. Agnes conformed meekly to her desires. She looked upon her as a saint, and though she was stern and cold, and never caressed her, there was a certain motherliness about her which appealed to the child's heart.
So the month of June came, and the Princess Henrietta was carried over to France to meet the saddest fate that can befall any woman, namely to marry a bad man. Agnes thought her heart would break when she bade her and the queen adieu. Indeed, she fell quite sick with sorrow, lay on her bed, turned her face to the wall, and would not be comforted.