CHAPTER X.
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“To that father's heart
Return, forgiving all thy wrongs, return!
Speak to me, Raimond, thou wert ever kind,
And brave, and gentle! Say that all the past
Shall be forgiven! That word from none but thee
My lips e'er ask'd. Speak to me once, my boy,
My pride, my hope!”
Hemans—Vespers of Palermo.
The action, having raged incessantly from ten
o'clock till one, sank into sudden silence after the
charge of Fairfax, which, like a hurricane, swept
all before it; and, ere another hour from that time
elapsed, the field was utterly deserted, except by
those who, having fallen in the full tide of violence
and fury, now slept as soundly and as well upon
the gory turf as though they had departed from
their peaceful beds amid the weeping ministry of
friends; or those less fortunate, who lay hopelessly
writhing in their mortal agonies, “scorched with
the death thirst,” and torturing the tainted air with
their unheeded lamentations. The hot sun poured
his steadiest and brightest rays over that scene of
carnage, glancing as if in mockery upon the gorgeous
dresses, the rich armour, and the noble
steeds—lately so full of fiery life and beauty—
which shed but now a halo of false glory over the
horrors and the misery of warfare. The round-heads
had withdrawn to their encampment on the
hills, and were recruiting themselves, after the heat
and labours of the day, in that deathlike and absolute
repose which is the sweetest balm to soul and
body, equally exhausted by the tension of unnatural
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excitement. No plunderers—those human vultores
that haunt the battle-field to render horror
yet more horrible—crept stealthily among the dying
and the dead; for, such was the severe and ruthless
discipline of Cromwell, that the few sordid
spirits who necessarily mingled with the high enthusiasts
of freedom and religion dared not even
by night, much less in broad daylight, for their
lives, to exercise their odious calling. But the ravens
had already flocked in hundreds to the plain,
lured by the scent of carnage from the wide woodlands
of Northamptonshire and Huntingdon, and
now sat perched upon the neighbouring trees, waiting
the evening darkness to commence their loathsome
meal, while several large kites and buzzards
sailed slowly round and round in lofty circles, as
fearing to alight while any breath or motion remained
to their intended victims. Such was the
aspect of the ground across which Edgar led his
men, returning from the first pursuit of Langdale's
cavalry, which he had urged—his military ardour
tempered by Christian mercy—no farther than was
needful to prevent their rallying that day; and it
had given him more pleasure than he had felt for
many a month to see with what a generous and
British sentiment his men, though hot in blood, the
most part wounded more or less severely, and all
exasperated by the fall of many a gallant comrade,
refused—even when urged by the fierce exhortations
of their more fanatical commanders—to strike
an unresisting foeman. While they fought front
to front, their hearts were hardened and their hands
unmerciful; but when the rush and fury of the
conflict had passed over, they felt that those poor
fugitives were countrymen and brothers. How
trumpet-tongued does this fact cry aloud in the behalf
of those much slandered independents, whom
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it has pleased the writers of grave, sober history—
all either Prelatists or Presbyterians—to represent
as stern, morose, bloodthirsty, and remorseless.
In the protracted fight and in the hotly-urged pursuit
eight hundred only of the royalists were slain,
and of these more than three fourths occupied the
ground whereon they fought—cut down, flagrante
prœlio, with weapons in their hands; while Rupert's
onset, and the massacre which followed it,
needlessly savage and unsparing, alone cost Ireton's
brigade more lives than the whole royal loss!
The prisoners, not the slain—the prisoners and the
results were the true tests and trophies of the victory
at Naseby. But these were not the thoughts
which crowded on the mind of Edgar as he rode
sorrowfully back across the red arena of his party's
triumph; he looked upon the dead, as they lay
stiff and cold, outstretched in serried ranks, even
where they fought and fell, like swathes before the
mower's scythe—their feet toward their foemen,
their grim and gory faces turned up reproachfully
toward the placid heaven, their backs upon their
native earth, and every wound in front; and, as he
looked, in very bitterness of heart he beat his bosom
with his hands till his steel corslet clattered.
Not one of these but died, in his own creed, self-justified—
not one but deemed himself a patriot and
a martyr—the churchman as the puritan—the fiery
loyalist as the severe republican—each battling for
his country's right—each honestly believing his
opponent the rebel or the tyrant! Alas for human
reason! Alas for human error! Alas for
vanity and ignorance, for blindness and presumption!
Alas for right and wrong—for virtue and
for vice! Where—where on earth shall we discover
the distinction—how test them here below,
save by the arbitry of the false harlot fortune—
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save by the sophist touchstone of success? At
every step his charger's hoof plashed with a sickening
sound in the dark curdled gore that flowed
commingling from the wounds of that fine aristocracy—
that old high stock of English gentlemen,
polished in courts, athletic and well-skilled in every
manly feat or rural exercise, second to none as
scholars in the forum or as soldiers in the field,
lowly in bearing to the low, open and frank among
their peers, haughty and proud to their superiors!—
and of that independent yeomanry, fearless, and
generous, and free, remote alike from insolence
and cringing, dauntless and stanch in war, blunt
and sincere in peace, the children, tillers, owners
of the soil! both races equally “England's peculiar
and appropriate sons, known to no other land.'
And wherefore lay they here, never to gladden
hall or cottage more—their energies, their virtues,
their devoted love lost to their native land for ever?
Was it—was it, indeed, for England's good—was
it, in truth, for the pure cause of liberty that they
had fallen there, self-immolated victims—or was it
but for man's insatiate ambition? Was it, indeed,
a trial between the principles of tyranny and freedom,
or a vain struggle between this and that oppressor—
a conflict between principles of legalized
authority and arbitrary sway, or a mere strife between
the interests of Cromwell and Charles Stuart?
Such were the gloomy thoughts that sat so
heavy at the heart of the young conqueror; such
the unanswered doubts that led him almost to distrust
himself, almost to curse the hour when he
joined the standard of the parliament; but it was
not long ere more immediate cares, sorrows more
near and kindred, diverted, if they could not overpower,
the half prophetic achings of his patriotic
soul. The course which Langdale's fugitives had
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taken, far to the right hand of the field, prevented
him on his return from meeting the main tide of
the king's army, which, scattered irretrievably, covered
the plain toward Harborough. He therefore,
rode directly to the post of Cromwell. It was near
three of the afternoon when he arrived, and found
the leader of the ironsides mounted again and at
the head of his brigade, refreshed by their brief
halt, about to set forth instantly in the pursuit.
Before he started on his march, however, he handed
several letters to an orderly dragoon, who stood,
booted and spurred, with a broad leathern belt and
a despatch bag buckled round his waist, waiting
his orders. “This,” he said, “this to the honourable
William Lenthal, the speaker of the commons
house of parliament—with your own hand, remember,
your own hand!—this to the worshipful Lord
Say—this to good Master Milton—and now get
you gone; let not the grass grow under your
horse's hoofs—be swift and trusty. Ha! Colonel
Ardenne,” he continued, his brow overclouded as
he saw him, “a word with you apart;” then, as he
drew him to one side, “truly the Lord,” he said,
“hath blessed the general cause with mighty triumph—
I may say with a great and crowning
mercy—and, therefore, it behooves us not, with
weak and fainting hearts, to sorrow over-deeply
for our own private griefs. Surely whom the Lord
loveth most he chasteneth—is not this righteous
truth?”
“Undoubtedly,” Edgar replied, not unsurprised
by the peculiar manner of his leader; “undoubtedly
it is; but wherefore say you this to me?”
“Yea, and he tempereth the wind to the shorn
lamb. So may he temper it to thee, humbly and
fervently I trust, honest and valiant friend, in thy
time of affliction. Much have I prayed and wrestled
with the Lord since I did hear—”
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“What—what? I pray you speak, lieutenant-general,
if you know aught concerning me or mine.
There needeth not this tampering with the subject;
I can endure to hear aught of affliction human
tongue can tell me.”
“Be you so strong?” said Cromwell; “man,
then, your heart; for, of a truth, your father is a
prisoner in the camp, sore wounded — ay, unto
death, I fear me.”
“Where lies he?” Edgar inquired, with a voice
so preternaturally calm that Oliver himself gazed
at him wondering. “Hath he had any help?”
“I caused him to be borne,” Oliver answered,
“down to the village yonder, even unto the house
of the Episcopalian priest; two of his own domestics
be about him, and General Fairfax hath sent
his own chirurgeon—best hasten, though, if thou
wouldst see him living. I march forthwith; but
tarry thou behind until the fourth day hence—so
long may I dispense with thee. Then join me at
the half-way house 'twixt Harborough and Leicester,
at the first hour after noon. Farewell, and
may the Lord look down on thee!” The trumpets
sounded, and the ironsides filed off at a sharp trot,
and Edgar, mounting hastily on a fresh horse, and
calling several of his body-servants to attend him,
rode furiously away along the broken lanes toward
Naseby.
The vicarage was a low rustic tenement, distinguished
from the neighbouring cottages by nothing
but its superior neatness, and its close vicinity
to the square ivy-mantled tower, and the yew-shadowed
yard, with its low mossy graves, of the small
village church. A noble lime-tree, myriads of bees
humming and revelling amid its scented blossoms,
overhung the grassplot in the front, and a thick
growth of honeysuckle crept over the whole
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building, curtaining porch and roof with its close-matted
verdure, and peeping with its honeyed trumpets
through the latticed casements. Each hut and cottage
through the hamlet had been converted into a
temporary hospital for the reception of the wounded
from the near battle-field; but, by the group of
horses, guarded by a stout knot of troopers, and
the two sturdy sentinels who kept the door, the son
knew instantly the sojourn of his father. Curbing
his horse so violently up that he had wellnigh fallen
on his haunches, he sprang down, and rushed under
the low doorway. Just as his foot was on the
threshold, a person whom he judged to be the surgeon
was passing outward.
“How fares he?” Edgar gasped, the words half
choking in his throat; “how fares your patient?
Have you any hope?”
The man of healing shook his head. “None—
not the slightest,” he replied; “the ball hath severed
all the main intestines. The hemorrhage
has ceased externally, and he is easier now; mortification
must ensue; he cannot live six hours!
I have done all I may in quieting his agonies—
man can no more.”
Bending his head to veil the bitter anguish that
racked his manly features, Ardenne passed onward;
directed by a gesture of the silent sentinel, he entered
the small parlour; and there, upon a temporary
couch, the window-curtains drawn aside, the
lattices thrown open to admit the slightest draught
of air that might be stirring—the old steward of his
household wiping the death-sweat from the massive
brow and long gray locks of his loved master, while
the big teardrops fell like rain down his own withered
cheeks—and the white-bearded vicar kneeling
in silent prayer beside the deathbed of the cavalier—
there lay his father, with his high features pale
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and sharpened by the near approach of death, and
the froth gathering round his bloodless lips, and the
dark drops of icy perspiration bursting from every
pore of his broad temples. No groan or murmur
passed the mouth of the calm sufferer, but one
sad, querulous, and oft-repeated cry, “Comes he
not yet?—not yet?” but when the foot of Edgar,
lightly although he set it on the floor, clinked with
its jingling spurs upon his ear, he started half erect,
and drew his hand across his eyes as if to clear
away the gathering mists. “'Tis he,” he cried, in
tones distinct and clear from the excitement of the
moment, a faint flush lighting up his ashy cheeks,
but instantly departing, “'tis he at length—thank
God—my son! my son!” and into that son's arms
he sank, and lay there as contentedly as though no
cloud of anger or mistrust had ever come between
them, smiling up with a faint but most kind smile
into his face, and clasping his convulsed and trembling
hand with all the little strength his mortal
wound had left him. For many moments Edgar
could find no voice—his whole frame shook with
agony—he sobbed as though his very heart would
burst, gazing upon the countenance of that loved
parent with dry and burning eyes, and a throat
choked by the convulsive spasms of a tearless
sorrow.
“My boy—my own boy—Edgar,” the old man
faltered forth, at length, “take not on thus—oh! take
not on thus bitterly. 'Tis but the course of nature—
the old must die before the young; and I—why
I have fallen full of years and full of honour, although
myself I say it—and I am glad to die thus—
thus, with your arms about me, Edgar. But I
have much to say to you, and I can feel my time
grows very short to say it. Our reverend friend,
to whom I owe so much, good Master Winterfield,
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will pardon us a little while—and Anthony, old,
faithful Anthony, will leave us. We have not met
in many days, and we would fain be private ere
we part,” and his voice failed a little, and a tear
stood in his clear gray eye; “part, as we must,
for ever. We will recall you,” he continued, “presently,
for I would fain pray with this holy man
ere I go hence to stand before my Maker.” There
was a pause—a long, sad pause, as all obeyed his
words, broken by nothing but the hard breathing
of the wounded man and the strong sobbing of
the mourner.
“Edgar,” the old man said, at length, “are we
alone? Have they all left us?” and then, his question
being answered, “This is a sorrowful yet a
most happy meeting; for I feel—I feel here,” and
he laid his hand upon his breast, “that that kind
heart of yours has pardoned all the wrongs, the cruel
and unmanly wrongs, which I have heaped upon
you. Is it not so—my boy—my kind and noble
boy?”
“Oh! speak not thus,” he answered, when he
could force a word, “oh! speak not thus, my father;
you have been ever good—too generous! too good!
'Tis I—'tis I alone, may Heaven forgive me, that
have been to blame. Say only that you pardon
me, and bless me, oh my father.”
“No! no!” exclaimed Sir Henry, with more of
energy than he had spoken yet. “I will not—I
do not—for I have naught to pardon. Never—
never, from your most early years—have I had
cause of aught save joy and pride in you. And
you were—yas! you were the joy, the pride, the
only anchor, the last stay of my lone widowed
heart, till England became mad, and this accursed
and unnatural war rushed over us, tearing
asunder every gentle link and blightiong every
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warm affection. But I have naught, even here, to
pardon—for I have been, even here, alone to blame!
But I—I too was mad!”
“Oh! no,” cried the repentant son; “it was my
duty to obey you—to bear with you—to do, in
every thing, your bidding—”
“Not so!” Sir Henry once more interrupted
him. “'Tis no man's duty to obey in things
against his conscience; and I was but a fool—an
obstinate and merciless old fool, that would not
even hear you. Nay, more! nay, more!” he cried,
wringing his hands with mental torture, “rash,
miserable sinner that I am, I would have slain you
but for that angel girl—slain you, that would have
never been within my power but for your self-devoting
efforts to preserve me. And I have slain
your quietude—your peace of mind for ever!
blasted your hopes of fireside happiness—banished
you from the dwelling of your fathers—robbed
you—ay, robbed you of your heritage—divorced
you from your bride—cut short your hopes of leaving
your high name to sons as glorious as yourself.
All this—all this, and much more have I
done—much more!” and, as he spoke, he sank
back quite exhausted by his own vehemence; but,
in a moment, disregarding the entreaties of his
son that he would not wear out his faculties with
this most needless passion, “I will—I will,” he
answered; “I will go through with my confession.
Reach me that cup, and hear me;” he
drained the draught of some mild opiate mingled
with wine and water, and proceeded. “Much
more of deadly sin than this! I am the murderer
of Sibyl.” For an instant Edgar fancied that his
intellect had failed him, and gazed hopelessly upon
his face; but there was no glare of insanity, no
idiot vacancy in those high pallid features. “Yes!”
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he continued, “I have murdered her. Have I not
seen her growing paler day by day, and thinner,
and more deheate and frail? Have I not seen her
pining hourly away—withering beneath the blight
of her affections, like flowers beneath the carliest
frost-winds—and yet, at every hour, more patient,
and more angel-like, and more unearthly in her
pure holy loveliness? and I have done this also—
this foul and gradual murder! and she will waste
away before her time, and sink by inches into the
cold dark grave, blessing her slayer as she dies!
And thou, too, thou, my son, wilt live a sorrowing
and solitary thing—for thy strong noble soul will not
succumb to any violence or spite of fortune—alone
upon the earth, like the last oak of a Druidic
grove, when all its brother trees have fallen by the
woodman's axe—magnificent, and flourishing, and
stately, yet sad in all its dignity—friendless, companionless,
alone! and with the worm, the never-dying
worm, busily gnawing at its heart—yet happier
than thee in this, that 'twas not by a father's
hand its green companions fell; not by a father's
hand the foul destroying worm was thrust into its
bosom! No, no! it cannot be—you can not pardon
me!”
“All this,” said Edgar, calmly, yet much moved,
though smothering his emotion; “all this is but
the work of Heaven. The Lord hath willed it so,
and we are but the instruments, the wretched instruments,
within the hollow of his hand. If you
have erred, as I say not you have, you erred in
honour, and believing yourself justified; but if it
be a comfort to you, hear me now, on my knees,
beside your dying bed, declare, that never—never,
for one short moment—have I felt any wrath or
bitterness—never known any feeling toward you,
dearest and most honoured father, save the most
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deep heart-springing reverence and love. Sorrowed
I have, and deeply, that you misjudged my
soul, and disapproved the course my conscience
bound me to pursue; but never have I thought of
you as wronging me—never presumed, nor even
wished to blame you. But yet, if there be aught
for which you need forgiveness from a child—oh,
term most misapplied—with all my heart—with all
my soul—in sight of men and angels, I bless you
and forgive you, oh my father.”
“And bless you,” cried the old man, “my noble-hearted
boy. Heaven bless you—and it will—
it must bless such as you, and prosper you with
all its choicest stores, and make you tenfold compensation
for your past and present sorrows;” and
he drew down the lips of Edgar to his own, and
clasped his arms about his neck, and their tears
mingled long and silently, and their prayers went
up together to the throne of mercy; and with those
tears and that embrace, the bitterness passed by,
the iron was drawn out from the old warrior's soul.
The clergyman returned, the simple but affecting
service of the church was feelingly performed,
the last most holy rite partaken, both by the son
and sire, the servants were called in—the faithful
followers of their lord through weal and wo—and
a faint smile, a sad farewell, a kindly pressure of
the honoured hand, dismissed each, weeping, not
as for a master, but rather as for a friend and
father, from the low chamber; and once again the
father and the son were left in solitude. There
they remained for hours; the old man, while his
painful breathing shock the couch beneath him,
calm, patient, and serene—the stately son bowed
down, and bent, as if by age, clasping the languid
hand that grew at every instant sensibly colder and
more pulscless, and sorrowing as one who would
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not be consoled, although he choked his anguish,
lest it should but increase his father's sufferings.
The bright warm sun had long since sunk into
the west, and his last flush had faded from the sky;
yet so mild was the evening air that every lattice
was still thrown wide open, and the rich odour of
the woodbine and sweetbrier rose more profusely
on the senses when the plants were steeped in the
pure dews of summer. And now the dark blue
skies grew gradually lighter, as the moon, near her
full, soared slowly and serenely over the distant
trees. There was a whispering of the breeze in
the top branches of the lime, and from the odorous
shrubs in a far corner of the garden a solitary
nightingale, awakened by the glorious lustre of the
planet, started at once into its wild and melancholy
flood of song.
The dying man, who had sunk into a long and
tranquil slumber, moved now uneasily; he made an
effort to turn over, and the pain caused by the motion
roused him, “Sibyl,” he muttered, hardly
yet awake, “Sibyl, your song is wondrous sweet
to-night, but why so sad? it should be gay as
summer after this blessed union. Ah!” he continued,
“ah!” as consciousness returned, “I dreamed—
I have slept pleasantly, and dreamed a most delicious
dream. Is it late, Edgar?”
“The clock hath just chimed ten,” Edgar replied,
“I would have called for lights, but feared
to waken you—shall I now do so?”
“No,” he said, faintly, “no, it matters not now.
How calm it is, and sweet—the blessed moonlight
streams in through the casement like Heaven's
own mild forgiveness into a sinner's bosom: Edgar,
when I am gone, say to my poor, poor Sibyl,
that, on my happy deathbed, my sole regret was
that I could not join her hand with yours for ever.
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She will be yours now—now that this miserable
war is ended—for it is ended, Edgar, and I regret
its termination less that I have lately seen much
in Charles Stuart—in the king—that I had disbelieved
or shut my eyes upon before. He hath,
I must confess it, dealt insincerely with his nearest
counsellors. He hath kept up a secret intercourse
with the wild Irish rebels, through that ill-minded
Antrim; and, I much fear me, he was
privy to, and instigated their first bloody rising
under the bigoted and barbarous O'Neill. Weak,
obstinate, and prejudiced he is, beyond all doubt,
proud and uxorious. I know that he stands pledged
in private to his queen never to give peace to his
people unless by her consent—and all this done
against the counsels and without the knowledge
of those men who have a right to counsel him, ay!
and know his measures—since for him they have
risked their all!—done in deep malice to his enemies—
in deeper guile to whom he calls his friends! Out!
out! I say, upon such kingcraft! A good man he
may be, but—it will out—a bad king! But enough
of this. She will be yours, and you will both be
happy yet—as I am now—most happy! How
soothing is that sad bird's note—I could almost
believe it is prophetic—how beautiful—how beautiful!”
He was again for some time silent, as
though absorbed in listening or in thought; and
Edgar, who well knew his end was very near at
hand, was motionless, and almost breathless; his
heart was far too full for words. At length the
old man spoke once more, but now his voice was
very faint and low, and all its accents were so altered
that his nearest friend could not have recognised
a tone—and his words came at intervals,
quivering, and slow, and interrupted. “How exquisite,”
he said, “how exquisite this tranquil bliss.
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Never—no, never—felt I such complete peace before—
such perfect happiness. Edgar—my time—
is drawing—near. My feet grow numb and cold.
Kiss me—boy—kiss me. The bird hath ceased
his song;” even while he spoke, its notes were filling
every corner of the chamber with its most thrilling
melody. “The moon hath set,” yet she was
streaming full on his uncurtained couch; “all—
all is dark—and silent. Time—it is time—to die!
My boy—my own boy. Bless you — Sibyl!—
Sibyl!”
It was all over—the spirit had departed to its
God.
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Herbert, Henry William, 1807-1858 [1838], Cromwell: an historical novel, volume 2 (Harper & Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf137v2].
