St. George and St. Michael

  CHAPTER XLVI.

  GIFTS OF HEALING.

  Soon after the king's departure, the marquis received from him a lettercontaining another addressed 'To our Attorney or Solicitor-General forthe time being,' in which he commanded the preparation of a bill for hismajesty's signature, creating the marquis of Worcester duke of Somerset.The enclosing letter required, however, that it should--'be keptprivate, until I shall esteem the time convenient.' In the next year wehave causes enough for the fact that the king's pleasure never reachedany attorney or solicitor-general for the time being.

  About a month after the battle of Naseby, and while yet the king wasgoing and coming as regards Raglan, the wounded Rowland, long before hewas fit to be moved from the farm-house where his servant had found himshelter, was brought home to the castle. Shafto, faithful ashare-brained, had come upon him almost accidentally, after long search,and just in time to save his life. Mistress Watson received him withtears, and had him carried to the same turret-chamber whence Richard hadescaped, in order that she might be nigh him. The poor fellow was but ashadow of his former self, and looked more likely to vanish than to diein the ordinary way. Hence he required constant attention--which was sofar from lacking that the danger, both physical and spiritual, seemedrather to lie in over-service. Hitherto, of the family, it had been themarquis chiefly that spoiled him; but now that he was so sorely woundedfor the king, and lay at death's door, all the ladies of the castle wereadmiring, pitiful, tender, ministrant, paying him such attentions asnobody could be trusted to bear uninjured except a doll or a baby. Onemight have been tempted to say that they sought his physical welfare atthe risk of his moral ruin. But there is that in sickness which leadsmen back to a kind of babyhood, and while it lasts there iscomparatively little danger. It is with returning health that the perilcomes. Then self and self-fancied worth awake, and find themselvesagain, and the risk is then great indeed that all the ministrations oflove be taken for homage at the altar of importance. How often has not amistress found that after nursing a servant through an illness, perhapsan old servant even, she has had to part with her for unendurablearrogance and insubordination? But present sickness is a wonderfulantidote to vanity, and nourisher of the gentle primeval simplicities ofhuman nature. So long as a man feels himself a poor creature, not onlyphysically unable, but without the spirit to desire to act, kindnesswill move gratitude, and not vanity. In Rowland's case happily it lasteduntil something better was able to get up its head a little. But no onecan predict what the first result of suffering will be, not knowing whatseeds lie nearest the surface. Rowland's self-satisfaction had been ahard pan beneath which lay thousands of germinal possibilitiesinvaluable; and now the result of its tearing up remained to be seen. Ifin such case Truth's never-ceasing pull at the heart begins to be felt,allowed, considered; if conscience begin, like a thing weary with verysleep, to rouse itself in motions of pain from the stiffness of itsrepose, then is there hope of the best.

  He had lost much blood, having lain a long time, as I say, in thefallow-field before Shafto found him. Oft-recurring fever, extremedepression, and intermittent and doubtful progress life-wards followed.Through all the commotion of the king's visits, the coming and going,the clang of hoofs and clanking of armour, the heaving of hearts andclamour of tongues, he lay lapped in ignorance and ministration, hiddenfrom the world and deaf to the gnarring of its wheels, prisoned in atwilight dungeon, to which Richard's sword had been the key. The worldwent grinding on and on, much the same, without him whom it hadforgotten; but the over-world remembered him, and now and then looked inat a window: all dungeons have one window which no gaoler and no tyrantcan build up.

  The marquis went often to see him, full of pity for the gay youth thusbrought low; but he would lie pale and listless, now and then turninghis eyes, worn large with the wasting of his face, upon him, but lookingas if he only half heard him. His master grew sad about him. The nexttime his majesty came, he asked him if he remembered the youth, tellinghim how he had lain wounded ever since the battle at Naseby. The kingremembered him well enough, but had never missed him. The marquis thentold him how anxious he was about him, for that nothing woke him fromthe weary heartlessness into which he had fallen.

  'I will pay him a visit,' said the king.

  'Sir, it is what I would have requested, had I not feared to pain yourmajesty,' returned the marquis.

  'I will go at once,' said the king.

  When Rowland saw him his face flushed, the tears rose in his eyes, hekissed the hand the king held out to him, and said feebly:--

  'Pardon, sire: if I had rode better, the battle might have been yours. Ireached not the prince.'

  'It is the will of God,' said the king, remembering for the first timethat he had sent him to Rupert. 'Thou didst thy best, and man can do nomore.'

  'Nay, sire, but an' I had ridden honestly,' returned Rowland; '--I meanhad my mare been honestly come by, then had I done your majesty'smessage.'

  'How is that?' asked the king.

  'Ha!' said the marquis; 'then it was Heywood met thee, and would havehis own again? Told I not thee so? Ah, that mare, Rowland! that mare!'

  But Rowland had to summon all his strength to keep from fainting, forthe blood had fled again to his heart, and could not reply.

  'Thou didst thy duty like a brave knight and true, I doubt not,' saidthe king, kindly wishful to comfort him; 'and that my word may be a trueone,' he added, drawing his sword and laying it across the youth'schest, 'although I cannot tell thee to rise and walk, I tell thee, whenthou dost arise, to rise up sir Rowland Scudamore.'

  The blood rushed to sir Rowland's face, but fled again as fast.

  'I deserve no such honour, sire,' he murmured.

  But the marquis struck his hands together with pleasure, and cried,

  'There, my boy! There is a king to serve! Sir Rowland Scudamore! Thereis for thee! And thy wife will be MY LADY! Think on that!'

  Rowland did think on it, but bitterly. He summoned strength to thank hismajesty, but failed to find anything courtier-like to add to the barethanks. When his visitors left him, he sighed sorely and said tohimself,

  'Honour without desert! But for the roundhead's taunts, I might have runto Rupert and saved the day.'

  The next morning the marquis went again to see him.

  'How fares sir Rowland?' he said.

  'My lord,' returned Scudamore, in beseeching tone, 'break not my heartwith honour unmerited.'

  'How! Darest thou, boy, set thy judgment against the king's?' cried themarquis. 'Sir Rowland thou art, and SIR ROWLAND will the archangel crywhen he calls thee from thy last sleep.'

  'To my endless disgrace,' added Scudamore.

  'What! hast not done thy duty?'

  'I tried, but I failed, my lord.'

  'The best as often fail as the worst,' rejoined his lordship.

  'I mean not merely that I failed of the end. That, alas! I did. But Imean that it was by my own fault that I failed,' said Rowland.

  Then he told the marquis all the story of his encounter with Richard,ending with the words,

  'And now, my lord, I care no more for life.'

  'Stuff and nonsense!' exclaimed the marquis. 'Thinkest though theroundhead would have let thee run to Rupert? It was not to that end hespared thy life. Thy only chance was to fight him.'

  'Does your lordship think so indeed?' asked Rowland, with a glimmer ofeagerness.

  'On my soul I do. Thou art weak-headed from thy sickness and weariness.'

  'You comfort me, my lord--a little. But the stolen mare, my lord?--'

  'Ah! there indeed I can say nothing. That was not well done, and evilcame thereof. But comfort thyself that the evil is come and gone; andthink not that such chances are left to determine great events. Nasebyfight had been lost, spite of a hundred messages to Rupert. Not care forlife, boy! Leave that to old men like me. Thou must care for it, forthou hast many years before thee.'

  'But nothing to fill them with, my lord.'

  'What
meanest thou there, Rowland? The king's cause will yet prosper,and--'

  'Pardon me, my lord; I spoke not of the king's majesty or his affairs.Hardly do I care even for them. It is a nameless weight, or ratheremptiness, that oppresseth me. Wherefore is there such a world? I ask,and why are men born thereinto? Why should I live on and labour ontherein? Is it not all vanity and vexation of spirit? I would theroundhead had but struck a little deeper, and reached my heart.'

  'I admire at thee, Rowland. Truly my gout causeth me so great grief thatI have much ado to keep my unruly member within bounds, but I never yetwas aweary of my life, and scarce know what I should say to thee.'

  A pause followed. The marquis did not think what a huge difference thereis between having too much blood in the feet and too little in thebrain.

  'I pray, sir, can you tell me if mistress Dorothy knoweth it was beforeHeywood I fell?' said Rowland at length.

  'I know not; but methinks had she known, I should sooner have heard thething myself. Who indeed should tell her, for Shafto knew it not? Andwhy should she conceal it?'

  'I cannot tell, my lord: she is not like other ladies.'

  'She is like all good ladies in this, that she speaketh the truth: whythen not ask her?'

  'I have had no opportunity, my lord. I have not seen her since I left tojoin the army.'

  'Tut, tut!' said his lordship, and frowned a little. 'I thought not thedamsel had been over nice. She might well have favoured a wounded knightwith a visit.'

  'She is not to blame. It is my own fault,' sighed Rowland.

  The marquis looked at him for a moment pitifully, but made no answer,and presently took his leave.

  He went straight to Dorothy, and expostulated with her. She answered himno farther or otherwise than was simply duteous, but went at once to seeScudamore.

  Mistress Watson was in the room when she entered, but left itimmediately: she had never been in spirit reconciled to Dorothy: theirrelation had in it too much of latent rebuke for her. So Dorothy foundherself alone with her cousin.

  He was but the ghost of the gay, self-satisfied, good-natured, jollyRowland. Pale and thin, with drawn face and great eyes, he held out awasted hand to Dorothy, and looked at her, not pitifully, butdespairingly. He was one of those from whom take health and animalspirits, and they feel to themselves as if they had nothing. Nor havethey in themselves anything. With those he could have borne what arecalled hardships fairly well; those gone, his soul sat aghast in anempty house.

  'My poor cousin!' said Dorothy, touched with profound compassion atsight of his lost look. But he only gazed at her, and said nothing. Shetook the hand he did not offer, and held it kindly in hers. He burstinto tears, and she gently laid it again on the coverlid.

  'I know you despise me, Dorothy,' he sobbed, 'and you are right: Idespise myself.'

  'You have been a good soldier to the king, Rowland,' said Dorothy, 'andhe has acknowledged it fitly.'

  'I care nothing for king or kingdom, Dorothy. Nothing is worth caringfor. Do not mistake me. I am not going to talk presumptuously. I lovenot thee now, Dorothy. I never did love thee, and thou dost right todespise me, for I am unworthy. I would I were dead. Even the king'smajesty hath been no whit the better for me, but rather the worse; foranother man,--one, I mean, who was not mounted on a stolen mare--wouldhave performed his hest unhindered of foregone fault.'

  'Thou didst not think thou wast doing wrong when thou stolest the mare,'said Dorothy, seeking to comfort him.

  'How know'st thou that, Dorothy? There was a spot in my heart that feltashamed all the time.'

  'He that is sorry is already pardoned, I think, cousin. Then what thouhast done evil is gone and forgotten.'

  'Nay, Dorothy. But if it were forgotten, yet would it BE. If I forgot itmyself, yet would I not cease to be the man who had done it. And thouknowest, Dorothy, in how many things I have been false, so false that Icounted myself honourable all the time. Tell me wherefore should I notkill myself, and rid the world of me; what withholdeth?'

  'That thou art of consequence to him that made thee.'

  'How can that be, when I know myself worthless? Will he be mistaken inme?'

  'No, truly. But he may have regard to that thou shalt yet be. For surelyhe sent thee here to do some fitting work for him.'

  More talk followed, but Dorothy did not seem to herself to find theright thing to say, and retired to the top of the Tower with a sense offailure, and oppressed with helpless compassion for the poor youth.

  The doctors of divinity and of medicine differed concerning the cause ofhis sad condition. The doctor of medicine said it arose entirely from acheck in the circulation of the animal spirits; the doctor of divinitythought, but did not say, only hinted, that it came of a troubledconscience, and that he would have been well long ago but for certainsins, known only to himself, that bore heavy upon his life. This gavethe marquis a good ground of argument for confession, the weight ofwhich argument was by the divine felt and acknowledged. But both doctorswere right, and both were wrong. Could his health have been at oncerestored, a great reaction would have ensued, his interest in life wouldhave reawaked, and most probably he would have become indifferent tothat which now oppressed him; but on the slightest weariness ordisappointment, the same overpowering sense of desolation would havereturned, and indeed at times amidst the warmest glow of health andkeenest consciousness of pleasure. On the other hand, if by any argumentaddressed to his moral or religious nature his mind could have been alittle eased, his physical nature would most likely have at onceresponded in improvement; but he had no individual actions of such heavyguilt as the divine presumed to repent of, nor could any amount ordegree of sorrow for the past have sufficed to restore him to peace andhealth. It was a poet of the time who wrote,

  'The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed, Lets in new light, through chinks that time has made:'

  sickness had done the same thing as time with Rowland, and he saw themisery of his hovel. The cure was a deeper and harder matter than Dr.Bayly yet understood, or than probably Rowland himself would for yearsattain to, while yet the least glimmer of its approach would be enoughto initiate physical recovery.