not visible. He was gone to seek for protection and justice under the law: and hence the haste to levy his rents and impair his property during his absence. The under-valued estate would be given away to some partizan who would pay ship-money, or a fine, or would lend a sum of money to the King; and such grants once made were never known to be revoked. Richard Knightley took note of the name and position of the gentleman who seemed to be so wronged, and doubted not that in him would be found an eager champion for law and a constitutional parliament, whenever the hour should come for reinstating both.
Further on, there was a rare old church standing on the green, near a village where the pride of the people was in the church, with its range of fine monuments of the ancient family of the Reresbys, the last of whose male heirs had died ten years before. There was a monument to him in the church, put up by his daughters in love and reverence, and preserved by all the neighbours from their pride in him, and gratitude for his deeds in the parish. From this church shouts of merriment came, and as Lady Carewe’s coach passed by, men were throwing out to the children in the churchyard bits of stone to play with. The pieces were carved. One was the curl of a periwig, one was a nose, and another a finger. A labourer gave information of what this meant. Some messengers had arrived to demand certain plate and arms from the ladies at the Grange. There was little plate and no arms; and the strangers forced the keys of the church from the sexton, and proceeded to search the monuments for concealed treasure and weapons.
“It is pure malice,” said a yeoman, who had ridden in on the first alarm, but too late. His countenance was very dark as he said that the monument of his old landlord had cost six hundred pounds; but that this was a trifle compared with the cost of breaking it up.
“You mean the grief to the ladies, his daughters?” Richard inquired.
“Why, yes,” the man replied. “It may, as like as not, break their hearts to see their father’s effigy so insulted; and their hearts are too good to break in such a way. But the wrong-doers may have to pay, too. Such a day’s work as this will help the score that the Malignants are running up in account with Old England.”
“How do you know but that you are speaking to Malignants?” Harry asked to which the farmer replied that he knew God-fearing gentry from Malignants, and the whole country was learning the distinction fast enough.
“Will you seek redress for this outrage, for the sake of these harassed daughters?” Richard inquired.
“No,” replied the yeoman, decidedly. “Neither I, nor any one under the rule of our sheriff will seek redress, in the ladies’ names, nor any other. To do so is only to draw on further loss and insult. We may see about taking satisfaction,—a full satisfaction,—when the fitting time comes: but we shall not ask it. At least, one will not,” he said, checking his rash speech. “I ought to speak only for myself and my household.”
Henrietta, who rode with Harry, prompted him to ask whether it was possible that the King could know of such doings, and whether messengers would not be sent to give him the information.
The yeoman had no doubt of the King’s general knowledge—that his own will about ship-money, and the Archbishop’s about church matters, was enforced with strong severity; and if he did not know much more than this, he ought to know it, and it would be the worse for him if he did not.
“Do stop him!” said Henrietta to her cavalier. “I cannot bear to listen to such an undutiful way of talking.”
Harry created a diversion by asking what the Archbishop had been doing; but the answer did not console Henrietta. The farmer told them that they would see, in a village seven miles forward on their road, the tokens of Archbishop Laud’s strong will in the ruined and deserted appearance of the place. In consequence of a priest having been sent there who was as bad as a papist, if not one outright, the people, rich and poor, provided for their own worship, while paying the church dues as readily as they had ever done. The Archbishop would be satisfied with nothing less than every man, woman and child attending every service in the church; whereas no man or woman could think it right to attend upon popish forms, or to let their children do so. When their own magistrates were unwilling to fine and imprison them for absenting themselves from church, other magistrates were found willing to go any lengths: and thus the people were all ruined, and scarcely any remained. The yeoman requested the party to look round, and take note of the state of things in that village, and they would see that he had not spoken anything but the truth. Seeing in Harry’s face a look of interest about his open zeal, he observed that he had been born in that village; but that his interest in it was from his wife’s having come from thence in the midst of the troubles.
“She, for one, has found a happy refuge,” Harry observed. His new acquaintance thanked him, but without a smile. Her parents were in a distant churchyard. Their hearts were broken in their own home; but they could not be buried there. As the church had become damp and dreary during the people’s lives, so the churchyard was all weedy and desolate now they were dead. There being nothing more to spoil there, the King’s messengers were beginning on the monuments of another church, where there was no complaint of neglect of the services.
Henrietta turned her horse when her companions had gone on, to assure the yeoman that the King certainly could not know all that was done in his name. Whenever he did, the country would see a noble redress. The farmer made his obeisance; but Henrietta began to dislike him, because he evidently put no faith in her promises on behalf of the royal power.
She was lost in thought all the way to the nettle-grown churchyard; and Harry respected her silence. He was rewarded for this by some confidence on her part.
“There is nothing that I would not do,—