gone over their heads. Those few days had made a real change. The turf on the slopes of the Chiltern Hills was greener. The children said they had never seen anything so green. Where the clefts of the hills were darkest with a growth of juniper and scattered firs, the light green sprays of the beech began to show in brilliant contrast. The rounded chalk ridges were dotted over with box, and there were clumps of box in the hollows; but there was there also an intermixture of the bright verdure of spring; and where the hanging woods followed the undulations of the hills, the winter barrenness was almost gone. As the cloud shadows and sungleams sped over the uplands, the verdure seemed to go and come. There were deer on the slope above Hampden House, and large flocks of sheep were on the down. In the meadows below the kine were grazing, or ruminating, or pacing down to the water. The church stood up in the sun out of its beech-grove, on a spur of the hill. As the party approached the mansion, several horses in the paddock came rushing to the fence to see the arrival of their brethren in the cavalcade. Margaret remarked on this. There were several strange horses, and she thought there must be guests, though there had been no expectation of any.
There were guests. When the master came out to greet sister and children, he was followed, not only by Dr. Giles, but by Cousin Oliver. John Eliot’s first information to Edmund was that there were other guests within,—Lord Brook and Mr. Petherick, and Mr. Pym, Sir Samuel Luke and Mr. Urrey, their near neighbour. There must be serious business in hand to cause such a gathering; and very serious indeed the business was.
Before John Eliot had arrived with his news of the pirate attack in Cornwall, these friends of Mr. Hampden’s had arranged to meet at his house, in the absence of his family, to consider the course to be pursued if the prosecution of Mr. Hampden should be rigorously proceeded with. The proved defencelessness of the Cornish coast was a strong and appropriate grievance, and John Eliot had been summoned to the library to relate the story and answer inquiries upon it. His guardian had not recommended his longer stay, not having confidence in his judgment or discretion. It was otherwise with Richard Knightley. While the travellers were refreshing themselves with an early supper, one after another of the councillors dropped in to hear about the adventures of the way.
As one story of oppression after another was told, Cousin Oliver’s face grew gloomy. He started up, and paced the room at the further end, bringing up text after text of condemnation of those who spoil widows’ houses, and neglect dumb beasts, and care more for the King’s house than the fulfilling of promises to the poor. Neighbour Urrey stormed, and spoke treason, so that Henrietta looked up in her father’s face, in a way which showed him that she could not bear it. Mr. Hampden and Lord Brook gently urged moderation in the presence of women and children who were as yet untrained to the troubles of the time.
“I may add,” said the fond father, “that these children of mine have been reared in duty, as well as shielded from troubles of public concern. Here is one,” he continued, drawing Henrietta towards him, and seating her by his side, “who would be an attendant spirit, if it were possible, to gratify every wish and every fancy of the Queen her namesake—to say nothing of the King. This child of mine is our young romancist, our muse of loyalty, who meditates on the sacredness of kings, and searches her mother-tongue for golden words which may express the claims of monarchs and the duty of subjects. Is it not so, my child?”
Cousin Oliver had drawn near, and was now behind her chair. He echoed the words, saying:
“Is it so, child?”
At the same moment, he laid his strong hand on her head, and turned her face up till their eyes met.
“Is it so, child?”
“It is true,” said she, “that there is nothing I would not do or suffer to heal this quarrel,—to persuade angry people that nothing that is cruel can come from the King. He must have money, I suppose: the people will not give him any—”
“Tush!” cried Cousin Oliver. “The child is puffed up with vanity.”
Her father held up a warning finger; and Henrietta, blushing, said she had gone further than became her in such a presence; but she only intended to say that merciful kings sometimes had cruel servants; and then they were blamed for severities of which they knew nothing. Cousin Oliver intimated that this was not a discovery left for young damsels to make; and neighbour Urrey laughed insultingly. On this Dr. Giles remarked that it was, in his eyes, more seemly to see an over-tenderness towards the royal family than an over-readiness to judge them. If he knew the young members of this family, they were on the side of grace and devotion, rather than rude censure of those in high places.
“How is it with you, my child?” Mr. Hampden asked, when Henrietta was presently lost in thought.
“I was considering,” she answered, in a confidential whisper, “how all might be healed if I could be, as you said, an attendant spirit. If I had the fairy gift of a purse of treasure, always full, how soon I might appease all this trouble, and give the King all he wants, so that the people might take no heed to parliaments.”
“That would be no sacrifice,” her father objected. “I thought your desire was for self-sacrifice. Am I right? Well, then, there is something better in your grasp than fairy gifts. Could you give up the fortune you have been promised? Could you dress and work like a woman of a lower station? Could you leave this house and park, and pass your days in a street of a town? I ask you this seriously, Henrietta.”
“I would try,” she answered. “But this saving would be but little to present to the King.”
“There is another way of serving him, besides giving him presents,” her father whispered. He was himself about to ascertain the law and right
