Part 11

The King returned to Oxford in December, and the Court was established at Christ Church College. There has perhaps never existed so curious a spectacle as Oxford presented during the residence of the King at the time of the civil war. A city unique in itself became the resort of a Court under unique circumstances, and of an innumerable throng of people of every rank, disposition, and taste, under circumstances the most extraordinary and romantic. The ancient colleges and halls were thronged with ladies and courtiers; noblemen lodged in small attics over baker's shops in the streets; soldiers were quartered in the college gates and in the kitchens; yet, with all this confusion, there was maintained both something of a courtly pomp, and something of a learned and religious society. The King dined and supped in public, and walked in state in Christ Church meadow and Merton Gardens and the Grove of Trinity, which the wits called Daphne. A Parliament sat from day to day; service was sung daily in all the Chapels; books both of learning and poetry were printed in the city; and the distinctions which the colleges had to offer were conferred with pomp on the royal followers, as almost the only rewards the King had to bestow. Men of every opinion flocked to Oxford, and many foreigners came to visit the King. There existed in the country a large and highly intelligent body of moderate men, who hovered between the two parties, and numbers of these were constantly in Oxford,--Harrington, the philosopher, the King's friend, Hobbes, Lord Falkland, Lord Paget, the Lord Keeper, and many others.

Mixed up with these grave and studious persons, gay courtiers and gayer ladies jostled old and severe divines and college heads, and crusty tutors used the sarcasms they had been wont to hurl at their pupils to reprove ladies whose conduct appeared to them at least far from decorous. Christmas interludes were enacted in Hall, and Shakespeare's plays performed by the King's players, assisted by amateur performers; and it would have been difficult to say whether the play was performed before the curtain or behind it, or whether the actors left their parts behind them when the performance was over, or then in fact resumed them. The groves and walks of the colleges, and especially Christ Church meadow and the Grove at Trinity, were the resort of this gay and brilliant throng; the woods were vocal with song and music, and love and gallantry sported themselves along the pleasant river banks. The poets and wits vied with each other in classic conceits and parodies, wherein the events of the day and every individual incident were pourtrayed and satirized. Wit, learning, and religion joined hand in hand as in some grotesque and brilliant masque. The most admired poets and players and the most profound mathematicians became "Romancists" and monks, and exhausted all their wit and poetry and learning in furthering their divine mission, and finally, as the last scenes of this strange drama came on, fell fighting on some hardly-contested grassy slope, and were buried on the spot, or in the next village churchyard, in the dress in which they played Philaster, or the Court garb in which they wooed their mistress, or the doctor's gown in which they preached before the King, or read Greek in the schools.

This gaiety was much increased the next year, when the Queen came to Oxford, and the last happy days of the ill-fated monarch glided by. It was really no inapt hyberbole of the classic wits which compared this motley scene to the marriage of Jupiter and Juno of old, when all the Gods were invited to the feast, and many noble personages besides, but to which also came a motley company of mummers, maskers, fantastic phantoms, whifflers, thieves, rufflers, gulls, wizards, and monsters, and among the rest Crysalus, a Persian Prince, bravely attended, clad in rich and gay attire, and of majestic presence, but otherwise an ass; whom the Gods at first, seeing him enter in such pomp, rose and saluted, taking him for one worthy of honour and high place; and whom Jupiter, perceiving what he was, turned with his retinue into butterflies, who continued in pied coats roving about among the Gods and the wiser sort of men. Something of this kind here happened, when wisdom and folly, vice and piety, learning and gaiety, terribly earnest even to death and light frivolity, jostled each other in the stately precincts of Parnassus and Olympus.

With every variety and shade of this strange life Inglesant had some acquaintance; the philosophers knew him, the Papists confided in him; Cave, the writer of news-letters for the Papists, sought him for information; the Church party, who knew his connection with the Archbishop, and the services he had rendered him, sought his company; the ladies made use of his handsome person and talents for acting, as they did also that of his brother. He had the entree to the King at all times, and was supposed to be a favourite with Charles, though in reality the King's feelings towards him were of a mixed nature. No man certainly was better known at Oxford, and no man certainly knew more of what was going on in England than Inglesant did.

Among the chief beauties of the Court the Lady Isabella Thynne was the most conspicuous and the most enterprizing: the poet Waller sang her praise, music was played before her as she walked, and she affected the garb and manner of an angel. She was most beautiful, courteous, and charitable; but she allowed her gaiety and love of intrigue to lead her into very equivocal positions. She was intimately acquainted with Eustace Inglesant, who was one of her devoted servants, and assisted her in many of her gaieties and gallant festivals and sports; but she was shy of Johnny, and told Eustace that his brother was too much of a monk for her taste. She had a bevy of ladies, who were her intimate friends, and were generally with her, some of whom she did not improve by her friendship.

There was in Oxford a gentleman, a Mr. Richard Fentham, who was afterwards knighted, a member of the Prince's council, and a person of great trust with the King. This gentleman had been at school with Eustace Inglesant at that famous schoolmaster's, Mr. Farnabie, in Cripplegate Parish in London,--a school at one time frequented by more than three hundred young noblemen and gentlemen, for whose accommodation he had handsome houses and large gardens. One day Fentham took Eustace Inglesant to call on two young ladies, the daughters of Sir John Harris, who had lately come to Oxford to join their father, who had suffered heavy losses in the royal cause, and had been made a baronet. They found these two young ladies, to the eldest of whom Fentham was engaged, in a baker's house in an obscure street, ill-furnished and mean-looking. They were both, especially the eldest, extremely beautiful, and had been brought up in a way equal to any gentlemen's daughters in England, so that the gentlemen could not help condoling with them on this lamentable change of fortune, to which they were reduced by their father's devotion to the royal cause. The eldest young lady, Ann, a spirited, lively girl, confessed it was "a great change from a large well-furnished house to a very bad bed in a garret, and from a plentiful table to one dish of meat--and that not the best ordered,--with no money, for they were as poor as Job, and had no clothes," she said, "but what a man or two had brought in the cloak bags." Eustace Inglesant pursued the acquaintance thus begun; and both he and his brother were at Wolvercot Church some time afterwards, when Richard Fentham and Mistress Ann were married in the presence of Sir Edward Hyde, afterwards the Lord Chancellor, and Geoffry Palmer, the King's attorney. Lady Fentham was much admired and sought after, and became one of Lady Isabella's intimate friends. She was a lively, active girl, and fond of all kinds of stirring exercise and excitement, and was peculiarly liable to be led into scrapes in such society. Besides Lady Isabella, she was also exposed to other temptations from political ladies, who endeavoured to persuade her that a woman of her talent and energy should take some active part in public affairs, and get her husband to trust to her the secrets of the Prince's Council. They succeeded so far as to cause her to press her husband on this matter, and to cause some unpleasant feeling on her part, which, but for his kind and forgiving conduct, might have led to a serious breach. This danger passed over, but those springing from the acquaintance with Lady Isabella were much more serious. Sir Richard was much away at Bristol with the Prince, and during his absence Lady Isabella promoted an intimacy between Lord H----, afterwards the Duke of P----, and her young friend. In this she was assisted by Eustace Inglesant, who appeared to be actuated by some very strange personal motive, which Johnny, who saw a great deal of what was going on, could not penetrate.

Matters were in this state when one day Shakespeare's play of "The Comedy of Errors," or an adaptation of it, was given by the gentlemen of the Court, assisted by the King's players, in the Hall at Christ Church. The parts of the brothers Antipholus were taken by the two Inglesants, who were still said to be so exactly alike that mistakes were continually being made between them. The play was over early, and the brilliant company streamed out into the long walk at Christ Church, which was already occupied by a motley throng. The players mingled with the crowd, and solicited compliments on their several performances. The long avenue presented a singular and lively scene--ladies, courtiers, soldiers in buff coats, clergymen in their gowns and bands, doctors of law and medicine in their hoods, heads of houses, beggars, mountebanks, jugglers and musicians, popish priests, college servants, country gentlemen, Parliament men, and townspeople, all confusedly intermixed; with the afternoon sun shining across the broad meadow, under the rustling leaves, and lighting up the windows of the Colleges and the windings of the placid river beyond.

John Inglesant, in the modern Court dress in which, according to the fashion of the day, he had played Antipholus of Ephesus, was speaking to Lord Falkland, who had not been at the play, but who, grave and melancholy, with his dress neglected and in disorder, was speaking of the death of Hampden, which had just occurred, when a page spoke to Inglesant, telling him that Lady Isabella desired his presence instantly. Rather surprised, Inglesant followed him to where the lady was walking, a little apart from the crowd, in a path across the meadows leading from the main walk. She smiled as Inglesant came up.

"I see, Mr. Esquire Inglesant," she said, "that the play is not over. It was your brother I sent for, whom this stupid boy seemingly has sought in Ephesus and not in England."

"I am happy for once to have supplanted my brother, madam," said Johnny, adapting from his part. "I have run hither to your grace, whom only to see now gives me ample satisfaction for these deep shames and great indignities."

"I am afraid of you, Mr. Inglesant," said the lady; "you have so high a reputation with grave and religious people, and yet you are a better cavalier than your brother, when you condescend that way. That is how you please the Nuns of Gidding so well."

"Spare the poor Nuns of Gidding your raillery, madam," said Inglesant; "surely Venus Aphrodite is not jealous of the gentle dove."

"I will not talk with you, Mr. Inglesant," said the lady pettishly; "find your brother, I beseech you; his wit is duller than yours, but it is more to my taste."

Inglesant went to seek his brother, but before he found him his attention was arrested from behind, and turning round he found his scarf held by Lord H----, who said at once, "Is the day fixed, and the place? have you seen the lady?"

"My lord," said Inglesant, "the play really is over, though no one will believe it. 'I think you all have drunk of Circe's Cup.' I am afraid as many mishaps wait me here as at Ephesus."

Lord H---- saw his mistake. "I beg your pardon," he said; "I took you for your brother, who has some business of mine in hand. I wish you good day."

"I must get to the bottom of the mischief that is brewing," said Inglesant; "there is some mystery which I cannot fathom. The lady no doubt is pretty Lady Fentham, but Eustace surely can never mean to betray his friend in so foul a way as this."

That evening he sought his brother, and telling him all he had noticed, and what he had overheard, he begged him to tell him the plain facts of what was going on, lest he might add to the confusion in his ignorance. Eustace hesitated a little, but at last he told him all.

"There is no real harm intended, except by Lord H----," he said; "Lady Isabella simply wants to make mischief and confusion all around her. She has persuaded Ann Fentham to encourage Lord H---- a little, to lead him into a snare in which he is to be exposed to ridicule. There is a lady in Oxford, whom you no doubt know, Lady Cardiff, whom, if you know her, you know to be one of the most fantastic women now living, to bring whom into connection with Lord H---- Mrs. Fentham has conceived would be great sport; now, to tell you a secret, this lady, who entered into this affair merely for excitement and sport, is gradually becoming attached to me. I intend to marry her with Lady Isabella's help. She has an immense fortune and large parks and houses, and has connections on both sides in this war, so that her property is safe whatever befalls. This is a profound secret between me and the Lady Isabella, who is under obligations to me. Mrs. Fentham knows nothing of it, and is occupied solely with bringing Lord H---- and Lady Cardiff together. The ladies are going down to Newnham to-morrow. I meet them there, and Lord H---- is to be allowed to come. I intend to press my suit to Lady Cardiff, and certainly by this I shall spoil Lady Fentham's plot; but this is all the harm I intend. What will happen besides I really cannot say, but nothing beyond a little honest gallantry, doubtless."

"But is not such sport very dangerous?" said John. "Suppose this intimacy came to Richard Fentham's ears, what would he say to it? You told me there had already been some mischief made by some of the women between them."

"If he hears of it," said Eustace, carelessly, "it can be explained to him easily enough; he is no fool, and is not the man to misunderstand an innocent joke."

Inglesant was not satisfied, but he had nothing more to say, and changed the subject by inquiring about Lady Cardiff, of whom he knew little.

This lady was a peeress in her own right, having inherited the title and estates from her father. She had been carefully educated, and was learned in many languages. She had acted all her life from principles laid down by herself, and different from those which governed the actions of other people. She had bad health, suffering excruciating pain at frequent intervals from headache, which it is supposed unsettled her reason. At her principal seat, Oulton, in Dorsetshire, she collected around her celebrities and uncommon persons, "Excentrics" as they were called, principally great physicians and quacks, and religious persons and mystic theologians. Van Helmont, the great alchemist, spent much time there, attempting to cure her disorder or allay her sufferings, and Dr. Henry More of Cambridge condescended to reside some time at Oulton. It was a great freestone house, surrounded by gardens, and by a park or rather chase of great extent, enclosing large pieces of water, and surrounded by wooded and uncultivated country for many miles. At the time at which we are arrived, however, her health was better than it afterwards became, and she was chiefly ambitious of occupying an important position in politics, and of seeing every species of life. She was connected with some of the principal persons on both sides in the civil contention, and passed much time both in London and in Oxford. In both these places, but especially in the royal quarters, where greater license was possible, she endeavoured to be included in anything of an exciting and entertaining character that was going on. Whatever it was, it afforded her an insight into human nature and the manners of the world. Such a character does not seem a likely one to be willing to submit to the restraints of the married life, and indeed Lady Cardiff had hitherto rejected the most tempting offers, and, as she had attained the mature age of thirty-two, most people imagined that she would not at that time of life exchange her condition. It appeared, however, that her fate had at last met her in the handsome person of Eustace Inglesant, and the secret which Eustace had told his brother was already beginning to be whispered in Oxford, and opinions were divided as to whether the boldness of the young man or his good fortune were the most to be admired.

When Inglesant left his brother and walked under the starry sky to his lodgings at Wadham, his mind was ill at ease. He had taken a great interest in Lady Fentham and her husband; indeed, his feelings towards the former were those of an attached friend, attracted by her lively innocence and good nature. He was, as the reader will remember, still very young, being only in his twenty-second year. He was sincerely and vitally religious, though his religion might appear to be kept in subordination to his taste, and he had formed for himself, from various sources, an ideal of purity, which in his mind connected earth to heaven, and which, at this period of his life at any rate, he may have been said faultlessly to have carried out. The circumstances of his youth and early training, which we have endeavoured to trace, acting upon a constitution in which the mental power dominated, rendered self-restraint natural to him, or rather rendered self-restraint needless. It was one of the glories of that age that it produced such men as he was, and that not a few; men who combined qualities such as, perhaps, no after age ever saw united; men like George Herbert, Nicholas Ferrar, Falkland, the unusual combination of the courtier and the monk. Yet these men were naturally in the minority, and even while moulding their age, were still regarded by their age with wonder and a certain kind of awe. It is not meant that John Inglesant was altogether a good specimen of this high class of men, for he was more of a courtier than he was of a saint. He was a sincere believer in a holy life, and strongly desirous of pursuing it; he endeavoured conscientiously to listen for the utterances of the Divine Voice; and provided that Voice pointed out the path which his tastes and training had prepared him to expect, he would follow it even at a sacrifice to himself; but he was not capable of a sacrifice of his tastes or of his training. On the other hand, as a courtier and man of the world, he was profoundly tolerant of error and even of vice (provided the latter did not entail suffering on any innocent victim), looking upon it as a natural incident in human affairs. This quality had its good side, in making him equally tolerant of religious differences, so that, as has been seen, it was not difficult to him to recognize the Divine prompting in a Puritan and an opponent. He was acutely sensitive to ridicule, and would as soon have thought of going to Court in an improper dress as of speaking of religion in a mixed company, or of offering any advice or reproof to any one. In the case which was now disturbing his mind, his chief fear was of making himself ridiculous by interfering where no interference was necessary.

He passed a restless night, and the next morning went to Trinity Chapel, then much frequented for the high style of the music. He was scarcely here before Lady Isabella and young Lady Fentham, who lodged in that college, came in, as was their habit, dressed to resemble angels in loose and very inadequate attire. At another time he might not have thought much of it, but, his suspicions being aroused, he could not help, courtier as he was, contrasting the boldness of this behaviour with the chaste and holy life of the ladies at Little Gidding; and it made him still more restless and uncertain what to do. He avoided the ladies after Chapel, and returned to his own rooms quite uncertain how to act. It came at last into his mind to inquire of the Secretary Falkland whether Sir Richard Fentham was expected shortly in Oxford, as his journeys were very irregular, and generally kept a profound secret. He went to Lord Falkland and asked the question, telling him that he did so from private reasons unconnected with the State. Falkland declined at first to answer him; but on Inglesant's taking him a little more into his confidence, he confided to him, as a great secret, that Sir Richard was expected that very night, and further, that he would pass through Newnham in the afternoon, where he would meet a messenger with despatches. Upon learning this startling piece of news, Inglesant hastened to his brother's rooms, but found he was too late, Eustace having been gone more than two hours, and as he started considerably after the ladies' coach, there could be no doubt but that the party was already at Newnham. Inglesant went to the stables where his horses were kept, and having found one of his servants, he ordered his own horse to be saddled, as he was going to ride alone. While it was being prepared he attempted to form some plan upon which to act when he arrived at Newnham, but his ingenuity completely failed him. Merely to walk into a room where some ladies and gentlemen were at dinner, to which he was not invited, and inform one of the ladies that her husband was in the neighbourhood, appeared an action so absurd that he discarded the intention at once. When his horse was brought out and he mounted and rode out of Oxford towards the south, telling his servant he should be back at night, he probably did not know why he went. He rode quickly, and arrived in about an hour. The Plough at Newnham (it has long disappeared) stood upon the banks of the river, in a picturesque and retired situation, and was much frequented by parties of pleasure from Oxford. The gardens and bowling-greens lay upon the river bank, and the paths extended from them through the fields both up and down the river. It was apparent to Inglesant that a distinguished party was in the house, from the servants loitering about the doors, and coming in and out. More than one of these he recognized as belonging to Lord H----. The absurdity of suspecting any mischief from so public a rendezvous struck Inglesant as so great, that he was on the point of passing the house. He however alighted and inquired of one of the men whether any of his brother's servants were about. The man, who knew him, replied that Mr. Eustace Inglesant had dined there with his lordship and the ladies, but was then, he believed, either in the garden or the fields with Lady Cardiff; he had brought no servants with him. Having got thus into conversation with the man, Inglesant ventured to inquire, with as careless a manner as he could assume, if Lady Isabella were there.

Lady Isabella, the man said, had dined there, but after dinner had gone on a little farther in her coach, and attended by her servants, he believed to make some call in the neighbourhood.

Then Inglesant knew that he had done right to come.

"I have a message to Lady Ann Fentham," he said to the man, "but not being of the party, I would rather have sent it through my brother. As I suppose it is useless to attempt to find him, I shall be glad if you will tell me in which room the lady is, for I suppose his lordship is with her."