CHAPTER XLIX.

THE FOOL.

Christmas Day of that memorable year in which Cardinal Wolsey died, came with its usual festivities; which in every house were exercised in a greater or less degree, according to their means.

In De Freston's domain, it had ever been a day of the gathering of his tenantry into the great hall, when the bringing in the great log, the boar's head, and the largest buck which could be shot, as hereditary customs, were observed.

Upon the present occasion, it was, if possible, a more than common festivity, particularly on account of the great age of the proprietor, whose birthday was on Christmas Day, and he had now attained the great age of eighty-eight years.

The old Baron was as fine a specimen of an Englishman as ever walked into his hall. He retained the fire of his eye on that very day with the vigor of a man whose intellect was less impaired than his body.

It was a memorable Christmas Day for every one connected with the house of Freston--memorable, as will be seen, for its festive character; memorable for its local events, and for the destruction of the two most stately mansions which at that period graced the banks of the Orwell. But though it was a day of rejoicing to many, it was, as it ever will be, a day of woe to some.

All were happy in and around the hospitable mansion. Cavendish saw such a body of happy Suffolk yeomen meeting at the foot of Freston Tower, that he declared, if ever his fortunes enabled him to do so, he would become a Suffolk man.

From far and near all were assembled, and Ellen, more than usually happy and active, was here, there, and everywhere among her parent's tenants, interchanging, exchanging, and changing hands, words, and deeds, as became a lady of her distinction and qualities of head and heart.

What a pity that ever a cloud should have arisen to change the sunny smiles and cheerful welcomes of that happy Christmas Day.

It often happens in terrestrial things that at the very moment of our utmost felicity, when the cup of social enjoyment is at its highest point, touching the very lips of him who is ready to taste the draught, then an unforeseen blow prostrates, in a moment, all the excitement, pleasure, and enjoyment of that mortal delight in which we had been engaged.

This may be very beneficial to us all; but it is at the time confessedly severe, and it is only calm reflection, gradual wisdom, and gently sustained grace that lifts the broken-hearted to the calmer wisdom of acquiescence in the wisdom of the wise Disposer of all things.

Stoicism may harden a man's heart to such a degree, that his philosophical mind may become indifferent to almost everything; and a species of fatalism may usurp all tenderness, nature, affection, and every quality of enjoyment with which God has gifted our souls and bodies.

But stoicism, thank God, is not the Christian's creed, who looks to the law and the testimony, and the love of God for all his creatures, but most of all for man, for whom God has himself made a sacrifice, such as angels who are not partakers thereof can scarcely describe; such as souls, lost and found, can, indeed, only appreciate.

Oh, let me be the poorest fly of the sunbeam, thankful for the warmth of heavenly rays which expand my wings, rather than the chilly tenant of the gloomy, tomb-like monastery, which can only be made warm by artificial means, and then gives neither confidence nor comfort to the heart. One ray of love is worth twenty thousand torches, though they might cast a glare of light upon a murky night. One ray of love, of the daylight from on high, shall put into darkness all the candles of the altars of superstition, though they may burn with national devotion through the largest empires of the world.

So the heaviness of a sudden blow coming unexpectedly upon a Christian may cast him down for a night, but not for ever. God feels for him who can feel for others, and will lift him up from his fall, and restore him to the light.

These may be comforting words to some and foreboding ones to others, and they who read this narrative may be trembling on the breath of suspense, knowing what is coming in the course of the description, and may imagine this work is to end in the dismal sorrow of some dreadful catastrophe.

An unhappy, a designedly mischievous, and wicked act did transpire; but he whom it was meant to injure never knew the enemy that caused it; and, as we shall presently see, she whom it was hoped might be consumed, or overwhelmed with the terror of the conflagration, was so engrossed with a nobler, deeper, and more heartfelt grief, that even the destruction of all her houses would have been a cypher compared with it. The blow which divine wisdom gives carries along with it its own cure, it is to be healed by the word of wisdom; but the blow which enemies give us, wound only themselves.

The Christmas festivities of the park of De Freston were observed out of doors and in with all the usual demonstrations of temporal rejoicing. The landlord's presents were made on this day to his tenants.

New stuff gowns to good wives, new suits of liveries to all retainers, new swords to the defenders of the castle, new books to the learned, new hats, shoes, coats, jerkins, stockings, caps, woollens, and all the variety of household comforts, to the cottagers and peasantry of the domain.

All were invited to the baronial mansion, where the yule log burnt upon the open hearth, and such a blaze ascended, as lighted up every portion of the great hall without the aid of lamps.

Lord De Freston, with his faithful bloodhounds at his heels, and his loving daughter by his side, stood again, though for the last time, in the hall of his ancestors, a cheerful spectator of his tenantry and people.

The old man most devoutly blessed the fare which a bountiful Providence had supplied, and heartily wished all he saw to be good and happy.

It was not the fashion in that day to have riotous cheering in the company of the ladies, but vivid respect was not the less visible on every countenance as the party walked around the well-spread board, attentive to the wants of individuals as if they felt they were their own children.

'Abdil Foley,' said the Lady Ellen, as she happened to look him in the face, 'you do not seem happy to-day; has any misfortune come upon you or your family? I have observed you eating nothing, and you wear dejection in your countenance. Come Abdil, if you have any grief at heart, let your mistress share it with you.'

Abdil could give no answer; he was not a man of strong mind, or insensible to natural kindness, nor was he able to conceal the uncomfortable state of his heart, in the midst of the enjoyment, the festive mirth, he saw around him. He was a weak man, and a wicked one as well, as far as perpetrating a deed in prospective intention could make him wicked.

His position, at that moment, was by no means an enviable one. Conscious of the action he was fully determined to perform, and sworn to the most inviolate secrecy upon the occasion, nothing but the terrors of imposition could keep him silent, or resolute in his undertaking.

He had hoped to have managed to conceal, in the bustle of the festivities, his wicked designs, even from the torment of his own heart; but the excited spirit could not do otherwise than think of his absorbing action, which he was to perpetrate; and, until he had done it, the very hours, the very faces, the very dishes, the very exercises, all appeared to him insipid.

He could not rest; others laughed at the various oddities of the accomplished Reuben Styles, the buffoon of the day: but he, if he smiled, was so insensible to anything like merriment, that he looked as if he condemned whilst he permitted the frolic of the jester.

He answered not the Lady Ellen, but hung down his head in dogged silence, until she called Reuben Styles to her, and, with an air of pleasantry, said--

'Reuben, look at Abdil Foley, and tell me what is the matter with him.'

With vast pomposity and affected knowledge, Reuben sprang forward, seized the hand and beard of the patient, and at once exclaimed: 'Verily, lady, he hath a devil to contend with. He is a black one too--a fiery one also--and I would not be in the same house with him to-night for all the world!'

In another moment the fool fell prostrate on the floor, and struck his head, in falling, so forcibly against the column of the balcony which surrounded the hall, that he was stunned to stupefaction and sick, and was forced to be carried out of the merry company into the air.

Lord De Freston was angry, and justly accused Abdil of great cruelty to the tolerated and flattered buffoon, whose lot it was seldom to meet with such treatment, as all men took what he said with good-nature.

'Thou hast been severe, Abdil: my daughter will not readily forgive thee for this!'

'I don't care if she don't,' was the uncourteous reply.

'Why didst thou do it?'

'Because the fellow took me by the beard, and told me I had a devil.'

'Of which thou hast given abundant proof in thy devilish deed, in nearly knocking out his brains.'

'Then his brains should be in their proper place.'

There was a general dissatisfaction at the conduct of Abdil Foley, both towards the courteous Lady Ellen and her father, and many were the rebuffs which this unhappy man received upon that merry Christmas Day.

He took all these things as many infatuated people do--as sufferings for conscience' sake--a strange species of self-deception which a deluded creature, in every age, has called a conscientious suffering.

Nothing else, however, than the impious persuasion, and the false oath he had taken to destroy De Freston's mansion, could have worked upon his temper and disposition, so as literally to make him an object of disaffection in the hall of his master.

That good man, though he did not approve the behaviour of the mechanic, had he been indeed of a despotic disposition, would have banished him from his associates on that festive occasion, and not have borne with his surliness, and certainly not have begged of others to do the same.

He and his daughter left the hall to see after their poor man of wit, who was carried into the air, and was reviving from the blow he had received. There was a wonderful elasticity of character about Reuben Styles. He was not a privileged mischief-maker, and, though full of fun, he very seldom said anything to wound the feelings of any one.

Yet he was attached to Lord De Freston and Ellen, and he felt that Abdil's surliness, sullenness, and downcast manner at such a time, must result from ill-humor of mind or body. He looked at him therefore earnestly, to see if some bodily ailment might not afflict him; but, discovering no symptom for the skill of the leech, he easily concluded the man must have some ill-will rancoring in his heart, which prevented his enjoying the Christmas Day as others did.

When Lord De Freston inquired good-humoredly after him, saying: 'Reuben, Reuben! you have had a hard hit to-day.'

The man replied, 'And so will you, good lord, before night.'

'How so, Reuben?'

'Because when a man strikes master's fool, I'm sure it is not anything but hatred of his master which makes him hit so hard.'

'He can have no cause to hate me, Reuben; I never injured him.'

'So much the worse fellow he. He did not hate me. A few days ago I could say anything to him; but I suspect I spoke truth to him, good master, and the devil hates truth; he hath therefore a devil within him which knocked me down, and I wish that may be the worst mischief in him to-day. I feel better, good master, ready to return. I must join the sports within the hall.'

So the poor fellow came in again; but was observed to be very much shaken, and not so lively as he had been.

'Yet there rejoiced he many eyes,-- To see the fool still looking wise; And well it was that he could see With such a stunn'd capacity; And yet he saw, with open eyes,-- Enough to give them all surprise.'