The Broken Font: A Story of the Civil War, Vol. 2 (of 2)

by Moyle Sherer

  CHAP. XV.

  But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. MARVELL.

  Although Bristol was at this time garrisoned by the Parliamentarytroops, Martin Noble and old Peter, by whom he was accompanied, foundno difficulty at the barriers, for the city was not besieged,--andbeing on foot, they entered without suspicion.

  The doublet and cloak of Martin being cut in the Italian fashion, heeasily passed in that large and busy port as one newly arrived fromLeghorn and Genoa, and as one engaged in some commercial venture. Hisfirst care was to secure the little property which he had brought fromItaly, and which, save one bag of a hundred pieces in ready money,consisted entirely in paintings, drawings, and engravings, with a fewantiques. The value of this small collection might have amounted totwelve hundred pieces. It was now necessary to part with these forwhatever they might produce. His object being to send the whole priceof them, beyond the sum necessary for his own equipment as a volunteersoldier of horse, to his parents. The captain and crew of the vesselin which he had returned home were all so cheerfully devoted to hisinterests, that he procured his baggage to be privately landed; andhaving unpacked and carefully arranged them in his apartment at alarge inn near the quay, he went forth in search of a purchaser. Hehad not far to seek: the contents of an open shop kept by a Venetianin that same quarter at once pointed out whither many a collection ofthose curious toys of human invention, whether in the fine arts or inplate or furniture, round which the strange children of manhood willfasten fondness, already lay in dull divorce from the pleasantchambers they had once adorned. The broker consented to go to the innand look at his pictures with a cold and wily slowness. There was onlyone small original which had been given Martin; the rest wereexquisite copies, executed by his brother artists or himself. Theengravings and the articles of _virtu_ (many of them presents) wereselected with the finest taste; and a magical feeling was associatedin the breast of Martin with every trifle or scrap in his portfolios.Though his mind was healthy and strong, and the necessity of thesacrifice was obvious, yet he could bear no work of bargaining, nowords of depreciation. He bade the dealer look them over silently, andtake them at his own price. Nor was he at all disappointed when thesum of three hundred and fifty pieces were paid down for little hearttreasures, from which, in happier circumstances, he would at no pricehave consented to be separated. Of this sum he despatched two hundredand fifty, by the safe hands of old Peter, to his parents, and theremainder, with what he had already by him, was amply sufficient topurchase a horse, a handsome buff coat, and good arms.

  During his residence in Italy, to relieve the sedentary labours of the_studio_, he had always used horse exercise, fencing, and the play ofthe broad sword, and having a vigorous and comely person and a quickeye, had great skill in all these exercises. He little thought inthose days that he must exchange the wonderful art to which his geniuswas wedded for that of war; the peaceful _studio_ and the openlandscape for the noisy camp and the cloudy battle-field.

  He effected his departure from Bristol, and his journey to theheadquarters of the Marquis of Hertford and Prince Maurice, who werethen coming westward, with considerable address. By a few pieces wellbestowed he obtained passports as a foreign artist for London; and,lading a sumpter-horse with two packages in which his great saddle andhis arms were well concealed, he rode his trained horse in suchfurniture and clothing, and with such a bridle, as disguised itsquality. Moreover, by avoiding the large towns, and travellingcircuitous ways, through many of those lovely coombes or valleys withwhich the western counties abound, he exposed himself to as littleobservation as was possible. He slept in lonely places under a tree,and he snatched his refreshment through the day at farm-houses orlittle rustic inns. There was a consciousness in his bosom, that ofthis brief and precious season of his life the most was to be made.The weaning was at hand: the trials and the solemn chances of warfarelay before him in all their stern reality. The glorious arts were leftbehind as childish things; and he was passing through those scenes ofnature in which the love of heaven is plainly mirrored. He loved thebeautiful; in all things loved it: but, alone in the far windings of asheltered vale, where trees and grass and waters blend their beauties;where cattle lie down, and the white lamb gambols,--with tears ofthanksgiving he worshipped. Nor less in the still secluded forest,where rivulets make gentle music, he worshipped. Such spots aresacred: they are not solitudes; they are peopled, most thicklypeopled, with innocent spirits, whom we cannot see; but we feel theirpresence, and tread softly in their quiet paradise. It was the lastleisure of Martin's life, and the sweet scenes coloured his mind forever; and afterwards, in coarse companies, and in the tumultuous camp,his memory would steal away back to those vales of peace, as to somehallowed visions, and lie awhile entranced, till laughter loud, orcannon's voice, did wake him. It was on this journey that he for thelast time exercised the art he loved.

  In a deep still valley, with wooded hills on either side, and a smallclear river that flowed between them, he stopped at noon before asolitary farm. The goodwife made him welcome. In her little hall shespread his clean repast, and there, in the window, sat her daughterwith a child in her arms. It were easy to see she was its mother. Ifever face was sweet and comely,--if ever eyes were calm, and brow wasopen,--if ever human forehead looked meet for the seal of Heaven, hersdid, as it shone fair and pure beneath her dark and parted hair. Thechild, too, was of curly and surpassing beauty, and stretched itslittle arms with smiles. The obeisance of this young mother wasmodest,--but her blush was faint, and innocence itself. A samplerframed in oak hung upon the wall. Martin asked if it was her work, andshe said "Yes--the prize sampler worked in her ninth year,"--and tookit down; and, in fine needle-work, he read the following lines:--

  "Even as a nurse, whose child's imperfect pace Can hardly lead his foot from place to place, Leaves her fond kissing, sets him down to go, Nor does uphold him for a step or two; But, when she finds that he begins to fall, She holds him up and kisses him withal. So God from man sometimes withdraws his hand Awhile, to teach his infant faith to stand; But when he sees his feeble strength begin To fail, he gently takes him up again." QUARLES.

  He put it down, subdued to a sudden tenderness, and then asked thename of her child; she said it was christened "Charles," and thencaressed it more closely, and sighed; adding, "It's a good name, butit has brought me my first sorrow, for it's with King Charles myhusband is; and they that go to the wars may never come back again."

  She resumed her seat in the window; and, putting down the child, whocould run stoutly about after his grandmother, she began to ply herneedle in silence. Here, as her head was naturally bent downwards,Martin sketched a happy resemblance of her on his tablets, while she,unconscious, sat thinking of her fond husband far away, and dailyexposed to wounds or death. Martin rode away from this dwelling; and,and at some distance, looking back, through a summer shower he saw itarched over by a glorious rainbow, and asked a blessing on that fairyoung mother from the God of hope.

  Thus and here he took leave of peaceful life for ever. That sameevening his horses' hoofs were clattering over the pavement of a smalltown in Dorsetshire, filled with royal troopers; and, finding thatRobert Dormer, the Earl of Caernarvon, was there in person, hisjourney was at an end. He had brought a particular letter ofintroduction to this youthful nobleman from one of his near relatives,then residing at Rome, in a declining state of health, and had beenalso intrusted to deliver to him a curious antique ring as a token ofthe abiding love and friendship of a dying man. The letter spoke veryfavourably of Martin; but was not written with any expectation that itwould be presented under circumstances and with an object like thosewhich now induced Martin to deliver it. He had engaged at Bristol asprightly young horse-boy, who had whistled his long marchescheerfully by the side of the sumpter-horse, and who was not a littledeligh
ted at being now permitted to unpack saddle and equipments, andto see Martin put on a buff coat and a royal scarf. As soon as ourvolunteer was dressed, he proceeded to the quarters of LordCaernarvon, sent up his letter and name, was instantly admitted, andmet with a kind reception.

  The evening was cheerless and rainy, and the Earl was engaged at thegame of tables, now better known by the name of backgammon, with agentleman of a very fine person, about his own age, while a brighteyed youth of seventeen sat eagerly watching the game.

  The Earl gave Martin a friendly look, and bade him take a seat tillthe game was done; for he had already satisfied himself, by a glance,that it was a letter on private affairs, though he had not opened it.

  "You are from Bristol, young man. What news among our friends in thatneighbourhood, or rather among our enemies within?"

  "I was so situated, my Lord, that I am not so well acquainted with thecondition of the garrison, or the state of the place, as yourLordship. My sole business there was to get my baggage out of thevessel in which I came from Italy, to equip myself for camp, and tojoin the royal army."

  "From Italy!" said Lord Caernarvon; "indeed! From what part?"

  "I sailed from the port of Leghorn; but came from Rome only a few daysbefore."

  "Here, Arthur," said the Earl, "take my place, and finish thegame.--Sir Charles, you will excuse me."

  He now took his letter to the window, and immediately read it withattention. Then approaching Martin, he took him cordially by thehand.

  "I am afraid to ask how you left Edward Herbert; for in this letter heseems to consider his recovery as impossible."

  "I am sorry to say, my Lord, that he is a dying man; but he suffersvery little pain, and is as calm and resigned as any person under suchcircumstances can be. I am the bearer of his last token of affectionfor the Lady Caernarvon."

  Here he drew forth a small case, containing a signet ring, of greatantiquity. Upon the stone, which was a clear beryl, the engravedsymbol was a genius, with an inverted torch.

  As Lord Caernarvon was silently and thoughtfully examining this gem,the door of the apartment was opened by a grave, mournful lookinggentlemen in a neglected dress, who said,--

  "Well, Caernarvon, I shall start at eleven, on my return to the King'squarters, and will direct the escort to march back to you after theyhave halted eight hours. I shall only take them thirty miles; and asthere is a moon, we shall have a pleasant ride. What have you got inyour hand?" he added, observing the ring.

  "It is is a farewell token from Edward Herbert to his cousin Sophia:if you remember, Falkland, the youth was a great favourite of yours."

  Lord Falkland took the ring, and looked upon it in silence for morethan two minutes, then gave it back to Caernarvon with a sigh, andgoing close to the window, from which Caernarvon had advanced, Martindistinctly heard him ingeminate the word "Peace, peace," while heraised his eyes towards the rainy sky. Yet was the tone of voice solow, and it came so deeply from within, that nobody else coulddistinguish what he uttered; and no one seemed to notice theinarticulate sound, as if it was a habit of grief and abstractioncommon to the man.

  Caernarvon himself was not in spirits the whole evening,--though, as aparty of more than twelve were assembled at his supper table, he wasnecessarily engaged in much conversation on the state and prospects ofthe war.

  However, before this hour he introduced Martin in a particular mannerto Sir Charles Lambert and Arthur Heywood, when they had finishedtheir game; and he presented him to the Lord Falkland, who was verygracious,--but told him with a mournful smile that he must for awhileforget the fair creations of Raphael, and prepare himself for thestudy of severer subjects.

  His relationship to Cuthbert Noble was soon discovered by youngArthur; and it would have been impossible for him to have receivedmore cordial and friendly attentions than both Sir Charles and the boyreadily offered. They expressed their sorrow in a delicate yetbecoming manner that Cuthbert should be in the ranks of theParliamentary army, and congratulated Martin, as well as themselves,on the probability that they should be spared the pain of acting, forthe present, against that division of the enemy's force with which hewas known to be serving, as their own march lay westward, to join theCornish army.

  Martin rode with the regiment of horse commanded by Lord Caernarvon,as a volunteer, and soon became a favourite with that nobleman, whoseexcellent example in the office and duty of a soldier it was his prideto imitate. Moreover, this nobleman took delight in the society of theyouth, because he himself had, before the war, been a great traveller,and an exact observer of the manners of many nations; not onlyvisiting the south of Europe, but also Turkey and other countries ofthe East. Therefore, in as far as any alleviating happiness couldconsist with a campaign life, in a warfare carried on in the heart ofone's own country, Martin was fortunate.

  Nor is it to be denied that genius has so many sources of enjoymentthat in no condition can they be all dried up. To love the beautifulin all things is a high privilege; and feelings of rapture, as of awe,may be extracted from objects which only impress ordinary minds withpain or terror. If the calm lake, the green valley, and the paleprimrose soothe us with sweet pictures of peace, the stormy ocean, therifted rock, and the blasted tree, can and do stir us with a deepdelight. Thus war has its glories and its solemnities for the eye andfor the ear of man; and his heart may throb with emotions the mostsublime upon a battle-field, and at the wailing trumpets of avanquished and a flying foe.