The Governor of England. Bowen Marjorie

for a moment stand thereon—the important thing was to save oneself from the black, dangerous abysses beneath, and gain, somehow, the flower-crowned heights that the trees veiled and decked.

      Whether the plank be rough or smooth, narrow or wide, mattered not at all, if only one were enabled to tread thereon straightly. So it mattered not a jot to this gentleman what his station, chances, or fortunes might be in this world. Am I damned or saved? was the question that held the heart of his torment and mingled with it was another: Is there not that in me, unworthy as I am, which God might make use of to save these poor people in poor England now? Yea, though I am not bred to be a lawyer or a soldier, am I not conscious of something within me which might fit me for this work if God should call me to it?

      But the heavens were black and mute to his intense prayers and his humble endeavours to commune with God, and he went his obscure way in wretchedness of heart, never faltering from the stern composure of his belief that the Lord had preordained all things, and that no act of any man's could alter a jot what was to befall.

      The King and the bishops, poor puppets, believed in Freewill and such heresies of Arminianism and Popery, but this Calvinist, standing in the November vapour, knew that he was but a helpless weapon to be used as God might direct; knew he was saved or damned before his birth, and that no deed of his could alter the Divine fiat; knew he was but a machine into which the Holy Spirit might blow some sparks, but which at present was cold and empty.

      In this moment he felt hell very close beneath his feet, the earth seemed a mere crust over that awful region, a crust that might easily break and spew forth devils, while the over-arching heavens seemed lost, lost beyond mortal attainment.

      A long shudder shook his strong body, he covered the steadfast grey eyes with his rough hand, and leant heavily against the paling.

      A cousin of his, a man not unknown in Parliament, had recently defied the King; had refused, being armed and at the head of his tenantry, to pay the ship-money, that being a tax (one of many) levied by the King without the consent of the people of England, Parliament being in abeyance; and this country gentleman had appealed to the laws, asking, "By what authority?" and when they said, "the King,"—had answered, "that was not sufficient, for the laws and the nation were above the King, and alone he could enforce nothing."

      Which statement made men stare, for it was near treason, and the speaker of these words was now on his trial, and his cousin, fighting through his own tribulations, thought of him and of the issue that hung upon the verdict pronounced upon his case.

      If the judges found the ship-money tax illegal, then had civil liberty won indeed a victory! If they found that the King was above the laws and could by his sole authority do what he pleased in Church and State, why, where was England and those poor few within her borders who truly sought the Lord? Yet not so much even this tremendous issue touched the soul of the melancholy Calvinist as the thought—What he did, could not I do, ay, and more?

      If one, a gentleman of good repute, may thus challenge even the sacred authority of the King, may not another, of the same good blood and stalwart faith, the Lord bidding him, accomplish something?

      The thought was like a tiny ray of light penetrating his deep melancholy; he moved from his cramped position, shook his frieze cloak on which the drops of moisture hung thick, and looked about him.

      Something to do—something to labour for—something to save and guard for the Lord in this old realm where all had gone so crooked of late. …

      The fire that never lay very deep beneath the stagnation of his melancholies mounted clear and bright in his soul.

      He turned about to where he knew the church stood, and, stately Englishman as he was, he flung out his hands wide with the unconscious gesture of strong passion, and, looking upwards through the drizzling mist with that inner eye which perfectly beheld the choired rows of Paradise and the multitude about the Throne, he cried out aloud—

      "Lord, wilt thou not choose me also for this service?"

      The little light in his soul increased into a gleam of hope; he turned his back on the fens and Erith Bulwark, and retraced his steps towards St. Ives, crossing the lands of Slepe Hall, which he rented, and coming soon again in view of the quiet, sombre little town, and of the garden wall enclosing his own riverside house.

      The mist now began to waver and lift, and to be over-coloured with a play of light, and when he reached the church the day was almost normal fair.

      In his soul, too, was the struggle stilled; a curious apathy, a pause in spiritual experience, enveloped him. He stood motionless for a moment, for he felt physically weak and his legs trembled under him.

      As he halted so, not a yard from the entrance to the church, a solitary horseman disturbed the dulness of the street—a young yeoman farmer returning from market at Huntingdon town. On seeing the gentleman he reined in the stout grey he rode, and very respectfully raised his hat.

      "Why, sir," he said, "there is great news in Huntingdon. Why, Mr. Cromwell, the news of the verdict is abroad!"

      The other had no need to ask what verdict. In all England men spoke of "the trial"—the trial of John Hampton for refusing to pay the King's tax.

      "Well?" he asked, and his serious face was pale.

      "Mr. Cromwell," answered the young man dismally, "he is to pay the twenty shillings."

      For a moment Mr. Cromwell was silent, then he spoke slowly—

      "So we have no hope in those who administer the laws?"

      "They have put the laws beneath His Majesty," said the farmer eagerly. "All is to be as he wills, with no talk of a Parliament at all—so the lawyers in London say, sir—and Mr. Hampton is to pay the twenty shillings which goeth with many another honest man's money into the coffers of the bishops and the Papist Queen."

      "Ay, so the lawyers say," returned Mr. Cromwell, "but this is a matter which England"—he slightly stressed the word—"must decide."

      The young farmer, flushed and important with his great news, saluted again, and rode on to report all over the countryside how the protest of Mr. John Hampton to the laws of England against the tyranny of the King had failed.

      Mr. Cromwell remained standing by the church a moment, then he wandered off into one of his own fields near by and entered a great barn which stood there, and remained silent in the dimness of the interior, which was fragrant from the scent of last summer's hay stored in the lofts.

      So the Law had decided in favour of the King, who might now levy ship-money and whatever tax else he chose—and there would be the Tower and the pillory, the branding and the fine, for those who dared resist, as there had been for Prynne and Bastwick who had dared to criticise the ritual of Archbishop Laud.

      Mr. Cromwell felt a strange sparkle in his blood; he paced to and fro on the rough floor, strewn with the dried husks of the last harvest, and clasped his hands on his rough coat-breast and then dropped the left to his sword. As he clasped the plain hilt, a sudden exaltation shot into his heart, his spirit leapt suddenly to a greater height than any it had touched before. And then it happened.

      A dazzle of unbelievable light opened before his inner vision, he fell on his knees and, from a sword of fire, received the accolade of God. …

      "Lord, I am saved!" he cried. "I am in Grace! And I am chosen to be Thy servant in this work which is to be done in England. … "

      When the glamour faded he rose, staggering, and wept a little for joy.

      It was a tremendous moment of his life.

      Then he went home across the wet fields, outwardly an ordinary gentleman, inwardly a soul newly awake to salvation, bearing a burning light no more to be quenched until it returned to Heaven.

CHAPTER II

       THREE YEARS LATER